Have you ever noticed that the most nutritious part of any food is also the least desirable? The rind, the stem, the membrane, the organ -- the disgusting part of fruits, vegetables or meats is always the bit that contains the best vitamins. It's maddening to be reminded this by nutrition-conscious people. I believe that most of them really don't know for sure whether they are right. They just assume that a food is nutritious if it has a revolting part.
My friend Alan once went on safari in Africa. He met friendly cannibals who were willing to chat about the cannibal experience. This surprised and delighted Alan because he's a big contributor to public television. Their discussion ranged over a number of topics and inevitably arrived at food. The cannibals were very frank about their favorite parts and what sorts of recipes were most popular. Alan was interested to learn that the cannibals' only complaint about their diet was that the most nutritious part of the human body is the hiney-hole.
I guess deep down inside -- no matter how different cultures may appear from one another -- we all share similar concerns.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
Modern Medicine
Medical doctors lead double lives. Their profession is saturated with tradition; when graduating from medical school new doctors recite an oath created by the father of medicine, Hippocrates, who lived in Greece around 400 B.C. Yet at the same time medical technology roars forward as it creates newly synthesized medications and advanced therapies.
In this time of change it would seem that doctors might themselves suffer from a crisis of identity. That's why there are several growing movements demanding that medicine return to its roots. Many doctors and medical professionals believe that ancient healing methods such as acupuncture, herbal therapy and spinal manipulation are superior and more humane than modern methods.
My friend Alan went to an alternative care physician for his hernia. He wasn't sure what to expect but Alan always has been interested in this sort of thing; he was the first person I knew who stopped eating bacon. Anyway, the doctor recommended against surgery for the hernia and suggested Alan undergo a sacred therapy that had been practiced for centuries and was currently enjoying a renaissance in the East.
Alan was excited and agreed immediately but things didn't turn out as he planned. I don't know exactly what happened because Alan wont talk about it. But it turns out that this doctor was practicing something called the "Kiss and Make It Better" method. I suppose this practice is based on the centuries-old tradition of mothers kissing the wounds of their young children to stop their crying. Anyway, the doctor kissed Alan on his hernia and Alan punched the doctor in the mouth.
Later, after showering incessantly for two days, Alan joked that the doctor couldn't treat his punch in the mouth with the Kiss and Make It Better method since it's impossible to kiss your own mouth.
In this time of change it would seem that doctors might themselves suffer from a crisis of identity. That's why there are several growing movements demanding that medicine return to its roots. Many doctors and medical professionals believe that ancient healing methods such as acupuncture, herbal therapy and spinal manipulation are superior and more humane than modern methods.
My friend Alan went to an alternative care physician for his hernia. He wasn't sure what to expect but Alan always has been interested in this sort of thing; he was the first person I knew who stopped eating bacon. Anyway, the doctor recommended against surgery for the hernia and suggested Alan undergo a sacred therapy that had been practiced for centuries and was currently enjoying a renaissance in the East.
Alan was excited and agreed immediately but things didn't turn out as he planned. I don't know exactly what happened because Alan wont talk about it. But it turns out that this doctor was practicing something called the "Kiss and Make It Better" method. I suppose this practice is based on the centuries-old tradition of mothers kissing the wounds of their young children to stop their crying. Anyway, the doctor kissed Alan on his hernia and Alan punched the doctor in the mouth.
Later, after showering incessantly for two days, Alan joked that the doctor couldn't treat his punch in the mouth with the Kiss and Make It Better method since it's impossible to kiss your own mouth.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
I am no longer Pluto
My friend Alan and I went bowling one afternoon not long after his relationship with Lana was over and “I am Pluto” folded. It was my idea that doing something out of the ordinary – such as bowling – might shake loose Alan’s depression. I stood in the lane setting up to bowl as Alan sat doodling absent-mindedly on the score board thing that projects your scores onto a screen over the lane. Alan wrote Lana’s name into an empty player box.
“Watch this Alan,” I said brightly and bowled the ball down the lane. I knocked down a few pins and thrust my fist in the air in an exaggerated gesture of triumph. Turning back to see Alan’s reaction I noticed that a crowd of elderly men – all in matching bowling shirts – were lined up looking with faces of dismay at the screen over our lane. Alan had scrawled “bowling sucks” across our score card and it was projected for all to see.
It was suddenly and remarkably silent for a bowling alley. Another afternoon bowling leaguer joined the group staring at us before I managed to stammer, “Bowling doesn’t suck.” Thinking I was speaking to him and without looking up, Alan said, “Bowling does suck.” I hissed, “Alan. Alan!” He looked up to see me rooted to the spot and then turned around to see the assembly of white-haired men lined up looking more disappointed than anything. Three lanes away a ball stuck ten pins soundly.
I met Alan's grandfather at one of his family reunions years before. Alan admired the man and when we arrived the old fellow was rocking in a chair on the porch telling his great grandchildren stories about his life. He described in graphic detail how his great grandfather was drawn and quartered by Indians. Of course, this story was inappropriate for the younger relatives and they were led away from the porch.
As the rest of the crowd went inside the house one by one, the old man tried to think of a good memory to tell as he looked around feebly. Soon he was left to sit alone with Alan and me in the fading afternoon light. I felt bad for him wanted to remain there.
We were quiet and Alan’s grandfather sat for a time and it seemed he was trying not to cry. Then slowly he began to stand up. I watched him transfixed. His thin arms quivered as he pushed up from the chair. A wisp of the old man's white hair lifted and fell in the breeze as his lips trembled and his eyes filled with determination and tears. The afghan draped over his legs slid to the floor as he stood and he wasn’t wearing any pants.
Another bowling ball rolled loudly down a lane. Alan’s response to the upset bowlers was similar to his reaction to the skinny white nakedness of his grandfather; he looked at me and murmured, “Wow.” Then he jumped up and said loudly, “You want to see why bowling sucks? I'll show you why bowling sucks!” Alan plunged his fingers into a ball and rolled it down the lane. Immediately it was a gutter-ball. He wheeled around and proclaimed, “It’s because I suck. That’s right, I suck.”
My friend Alan and I have been in a lot of scrapes, but this one was way too close. Finally, a few of the old men turned to look at each other bewildered and they filed away silently and shaking their heads. With a great sigh of relief I quickly moved to scribble over Alan's "bowling sucks" and sat down relieved.
After about a minute I said, "Alan, you know you don't suck." "I know," he said. We bowled two games, drank some beer and I could tell Alan was feeling better when he began considering whether he should steal the shoes.
“Watch this Alan,” I said brightly and bowled the ball down the lane. I knocked down a few pins and thrust my fist in the air in an exaggerated gesture of triumph. Turning back to see Alan’s reaction I noticed that a crowd of elderly men – all in matching bowling shirts – were lined up looking with faces of dismay at the screen over our lane. Alan had scrawled “bowling sucks” across our score card and it was projected for all to see.
It was suddenly and remarkably silent for a bowling alley. Another afternoon bowling leaguer joined the group staring at us before I managed to stammer, “Bowling doesn’t suck.” Thinking I was speaking to him and without looking up, Alan said, “Bowling does suck.” I hissed, “Alan. Alan!” He looked up to see me rooted to the spot and then turned around to see the assembly of white-haired men lined up looking more disappointed than anything. Three lanes away a ball stuck ten pins soundly.
I met Alan's grandfather at one of his family reunions years before. Alan admired the man and when we arrived the old fellow was rocking in a chair on the porch telling his great grandchildren stories about his life. He described in graphic detail how his great grandfather was drawn and quartered by Indians. Of course, this story was inappropriate for the younger relatives and they were led away from the porch.
As the rest of the crowd went inside the house one by one, the old man tried to think of a good memory to tell as he looked around feebly. Soon he was left to sit alone with Alan and me in the fading afternoon light. I felt bad for him wanted to remain there.
We were quiet and Alan’s grandfather sat for a time and it seemed he was trying not to cry. Then slowly he began to stand up. I watched him transfixed. His thin arms quivered as he pushed up from the chair. A wisp of the old man's white hair lifted and fell in the breeze as his lips trembled and his eyes filled with determination and tears. The afghan draped over his legs slid to the floor as he stood and he wasn’t wearing any pants.
Another bowling ball rolled loudly down a lane. Alan’s response to the upset bowlers was similar to his reaction to the skinny white nakedness of his grandfather; he looked at me and murmured, “Wow.” Then he jumped up and said loudly, “You want to see why bowling sucks? I'll show you why bowling sucks!” Alan plunged his fingers into a ball and rolled it down the lane. Immediately it was a gutter-ball. He wheeled around and proclaimed, “It’s because I suck. That’s right, I suck.”
My friend Alan and I have been in a lot of scrapes, but this one was way too close. Finally, a few of the old men turned to look at each other bewildered and they filed away silently and shaking their heads. With a great sigh of relief I quickly moved to scribble over Alan's "bowling sucks" and sat down relieved.
After about a minute I said, "Alan, you know you don't suck." "I know," he said. We bowled two games, drank some beer and I could tell Alan was feeling better when he began considering whether he should steal the shoes.
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