What Should I Eat?

It's a serious question these days. I don't mean the simple “fries, rice, or mixed vegetable” sort of choice. I mean the more basic question of what should we eat to be healthy, happy people. That is, in essence, the whole point of eating.

It should be pretty simple, but we are confronted with a thousand choices at the local mega-mart. And while most of us eat the great American diet of mostly meat, a little veg, and lots of highly processed stuff with loads of simple carbohydrates, we all should know by now that it is not proving to be the healthiest way to live.

A few years ago I read Michael Pollan's excellent The Omnivore's Dilemma. It changed the way I think about food in America. I recently read and enjoyed his brief little manual, Food Rules.

Mr. Pollan says that when he was thinking about this subject he came up with a bit of advice that pretty much summed it all up. “Eat food, not too much, mostly plants.” This little manual is organized around the three parts of that sentence. Each section provides “rules,” pithy little thoughts to get us thinking about food and to help us remember some sound advice. Rule 1, “Eat food,” is, as the author says, “easier said than done.” Most of what passes for food in our supermarkets are products of food science. Highly processed chemical concoctions, that stuff in the jar, bag, or box is not really food but an “edible foodlike substance.” As Rule 19 puts it, “if it came from a plant, eat it; if it was made in a plant, don't” The second section, “Mostly Plants,” suggests what sorts of good food we should be eating. It mostly comes down to eating like an omnivore, choosing a wide range of good, wholesome food. The third part, “Not Too Much,” might just be the toughest. We Americans do love to super-size. We like to fill our plates (Rule 52: “Buy smaller plates and glasses”). We like to eat, as a recent fast-food chain ad suggested, until we feel full. And we eat when we are bored or upset. But when you consider what overeating is doing to us, you might agree that “food is a costly antidepressant.”

Not every rule in the book will work for everybody. That's okay. If it gets you thinking about food and making better decisions, that's all that matters. I found myself putting a bottle of goo back on the supermarket shelf because of this book. Who knows? This little volume might just make me healthier, happier, and may even keep me from eating myself to death. Not too bad for such a quick read.

As the Blogoshere Turns

Our official Picture O' the Week is at the Gunslinger, and it is . . . beguiling.

Our Video O' the Week is Jane Austen's Fight Club.  It's been all over the place but I think the first place I saw it was at Folderol.  If you haven't see it yet, you should.

The Cat O' the Week is another one from the Gunslinger.  He's just keeping Papa company.

Finally, the Book Review O' the Week was written by Jaquandor.  I'm not sure if I'll read the book, but I enjoyed reading the review.

Kitchen Science!

I recently did a bit of science in my very own kitchen. The purpose of the great experiment was to see if I could carbonate water at home. I pretty much live on soda water so the practical nature of this experiment is obvious. If I could introduce bubbles into my own filtered tap water I'd save money, save the planet by not using so many plastic bottles, and save my back from hauling all those liters home.

It's a simple procedure. All I needed was a couple of bottles and a tube with air-tight caps. One bottle was filled with ordinary water. The other bottle was where the science would happen. First I poured in white vinegar. The plan was that I would then introduce sodium bicarbonate to the vinegar. The mix of acid and base would produce carbon dioxide. I would seal the bottle with a tube running into the other bottle, forcing the gas into the water and making a lovely fizzy drink. What could possibly go wrong?

In my research on this subject it was suggested that the experimenter must be careful when initially mixing the chemicals. If they meet too quickly the experiment might not be successful. This was good advice, but it failed to take into account my butterfingered condition. The vial of of powder that I meant to gently place in the bottle somehow slipped from my hand and dropped into the bottle. The result was instantaneous and not at all what I intended.

The bottle I was standing over erupted into a small but spectacular geyser. My first reaction was to jump away, but as the geyser continued to spurt I grabbed the bottle and quickly maneuvered it into the sink. With the crisis over I took a moment to survey the result. I had managed to spray a vinegar and baking soda mixture over every surface of my kitchen, including counters, pots, pans, appliances, utensils, floor, and, of course, me. As vinegar dripped from my hair, over my glasses, and down my neck, I reflected on the harsh mistress that is science. All I had wanted was a refreshing beverage. Instead I had just douched my face.

Would this little setback stop me? If it did, then what would become of man's search for knowledge? I pressed on, using the remainder of my vinegar in a second attempt. This time I was considerably more careful mixing my chemicals. I am pleased to report that the second reaction was under control. I would call it a great success if it wasn't for the fact that the target water remained pretty much unchanged. It might have been a little bit bubbly with an almost undetectable carbonation, but for the most part it remained still.

I am, however, undaunted. I will make another attempt, just as soon as I finish cleaning the kitchen. And my girlfriend stops laughing.

Do Not Try This At Home

Amazing Colossal Man Myth?  Plausible.

This could totally happen.  The enraged Hyneman is nearly impossible to contain.

Via.

As the Blogoshere Turns

We've got a tie for Picture O' the Week, and both of them are from the same great blog, Popped Culture.  There's just so much to love in Monkey Knife Fight Club.  While I've got my money on Blip, I'm really worried about Jace.  I'm also loving this image of our old pal Woody.  Reach for the sky.

The Video O' the Week is from MobyLives.  It's terrific footage of Arthur Conan Doyle talking about Sherlock Holmes and psychic phenomena

Glenn's Book of Quotes Number Twenty-Two

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” – Henry David Thoreau

Most of us are enslaved in one way or another. We are enslaved by our jobs and the circumstances that force us onto the treadmill. We live out our lives, never really free, doing what is expected of us. While the master may be the boss or family or someone else, the real slave driver is us. We resign ourselves to our fate and “what is called resignation is confirmed desperation.” We distract ourselves with games and entertainments, but it is hollow. We waste our time, which is the most terrible thing we can do. The problem is that we cannot free ourselves from our self-image. We fit in our slot and dare not move out. There can be no Lincoln from without come to free us. We must raise the Spartacus from within to see ourselves anew, to cast off our own shackles. We must find our own freedom and use the limited time we have on this earth wisely. Thoreau's grim observation is a call to revolution. Not the revolution of mobs but a revolution of the spirit.

Stop Studying in a Cave

It must be true.  Eight out of five dentists agree.

Could Your Spare Fifty Cents?

There he was, on the subway platform, right where I remembered seeing him before. He walked up to each commuter, spoke a few words, then moved on. I knew what he was saying to them, even though he spoke quietly. He walked up to me and it was a trip down the seedy, back-alley called memory lane. “Could you spare fifty cents?”

He's a beggar. A mendicant, if you will. It's his job, his career. The first time he asked me this question was a quarter century ago. I was a poor student trying to get around the big city. He worked the cars and platforms of the subway, asking everyone if they could spare fifty cents. I couldn't, and I wouldn't if I could.

Being panhandled had become part of my daily routine. There was the lady who stood near the Park Street Church and said “spare a quarter?” to every passerby. There was the big guy with the fancy leather jacket who worked the suits in the financial district. The woman who did her begging, always, she claimed, for her kids, and always seated on a step, sometimes in Harvard Square, sometimes in Boston. And any number of people who were just another part of city life.

The “spare a quarter” lady was memorable simply because of her regular habits. My girlfriend and I both walked up that street daily as we went to class, and every day we walked by “spare a quarter.” Her thick Boston accent turned quarter into “quatah,” repeated over and over. When we graduated we no longer took that route, of course. About a year later we needed to pick up some papers at the old school. We had planned to park my heap of a car in Revere, a working class suburb of Boston, and take the train from there. There was a storm rolling in and my girlfriend was in some doubt about the wisdom of taking the trip that day. I tried to cheer her up. “Don't worry,” I said, “at least we'll get to see old “spare a quarter” again. She smiled politely, still worried about the weather. When we got to Revere I began to look for a parking spot. There were plenty, because no one else was so dumb as to try to get into town that day. The storm was starting to rage. I drove us past the seawall and the car was splashed with salt water. The waves were beginning to break over the wall. I finally figured out that this was not the best day to go walking about. I turned the car around to head home and there, walking along the soggy sidewalk, was “spare a quarter.” She was a commuter beggar. We realized then that she must live here in Revere and commuted to her begging spot in Boston on the train. Begging is a job, it seems, like fry cook and stockbroker.

It can also be a scam. This is another thing I learned during my college years. I was in Boston's busy downtown shopping district, killing time between classes (I probably should have been studying). My eyes were attracted by a pretty girl (as they often were). She was talking to a couple of guys I recognized as fairly regular area beggars. They were rough looking, with grimy clothes. Street people, as they were called, the homeless. People who beg because it is all they can do to survive. She was chatting amiably. How nice, I thought. Perhaps she is sociology student, trying to get to know the lives of these people. Or perhaps she is part of some sort of outreach program. They continued to talk. They laughed. She gave one of the men a friendly hip-check and he put his arm around her for a moment. That was a little more familiar than I would have expected for an outreach program. Curious, and still trying to kill time before my next class, I continued to observe. The pretty girl eventually walked away from her friends. A few feet away, on a busy sidewalk, she stopped. She took her gold earnings and put them in her shopping bag. She rolled the bag up, put it on the sidewalk, and then sat down with it. She reached into her dark, well groomed hair, pulled it in front of her face, slumped over, and formed a cup with her hands, ready to begin her business day.

I have no doubt that some of the people on the street are truly desperate. You just can't tell the grifters from the truly needy. “I have no sympathy,” one coworker once told me. I wondered why. She was well off, intelligent, she lived in a affluent suburb and was active in local politics. No sympathy? “I worked my way through college in New York City as a panhandler.”

Now, twenty-five years later, here's that subway beggar. I'd seen him from time to time after school, but I hadn't run across him in years. I don't usually take this train; he must prefer the busier stations. His hair is whiter and perhaps a little thinner, but nothing is changed. Same clean, non-nondescript clothing. Same face framed by the same glasses. Same line, spoken in exactly the same way, every time, to every commuter. Begging, I guess, is a steady profession.

Answer Thirteen – The Brothers

Congratulations to Melissa our newest Steely-Eyed Missile Woman. Melissa wins a big hoot for answering our last Trivial Hoot. She knew that the odd man out was Sheldon, because Leonard, Adolph, Julius, Milton, and Herbert are better known as Harpo, Groucho, Gummo, and Zeppo, the Marx Brothers. Hey, are there any Zeppo fans out there?

Stay tuned for Trivial Hoot Fourteen, which will be posted as soon as I come up with something.

You'll Laugh, You'll Cry, You'll Kiss Your Childhood Goodbye

Toy Story 3. You don't need me to tell you how good it is. Big time movie critics are calling it a masterpiece. That guy down at the store said he's already seen it twice. And a bunch of people you follow in Twitter said that they cried at the ending. So if you haven't seen it yet, you should go already.

And you probably already know why it is so good. It's not just the animation, which is dazzling. It's the well written characters and story. It doesn't take long before these cartoon toys are people you know and care about. There's adventure, there's comedy, there's good guys, bad guys, character development, joy, sadness, and redemption. Yeah, all that in a cartoon about toys.

It shouldn't be too much of a surprise. This is Pixar after all. But what's all this about grown-up people crying at the end? What's with all the men pretending they've got something in their eye? Well, not to give anything away, but what the grown-ups are weeping for is the passing of their own childhood and for the memory of that passage to adulthood. It is hard, after all, to put away our childish things.

Sometimes it is good to revisit them. Thank you Pixar. It's nice to be reminded.

Oh, by the way, I happened to see it in 3-D. I have no idea why it was produced in this format. The animators didn't use the capabilities of the process at all. See it in 2-D. It's just as good and you won't have to wear the funny glasses.

It's Not Dead Jim

Good news for people who read. Blogging isn't dead after all. This essay by Corey Doctorow makes the case quite well. If you're interested in this sort of thing, please read it.

I was going to post this link on my Twitter feed, but that seemed a bit self defeating.

As the Blogoshere Turns Episode 2

Our Post O' the Week come from Oz and Ends. It points out what happens when the mainstream media tries to cover science, and highlights the perfidy of a big drug company. All that and it's about my all-time favorite disease, diabetes!

Our Movie Review O' the Week comes from Calvin's Canadian Cave of Coolness. It's about Batman, which is plenty cool for me

Our Video O' the Week also comes from the Cave of Cool. It's called Key Lime Pie and you've just got to see it.

(edit: link fixed)

Happy Trails

There is something sad about the upcoming auction of Roy Rogers' stuff at Christie's. It seems to mark the final passing of a particular type of Americana, the singing cowboy. Seeing old Trigger, Buttermilk, and Bullet on the auction block is just plain wrong. They should be in the Smithsonian.


Action!  Thrills!  Adventure!  Romance!  Singing!  What's not to love?

Roy and Gene Autry and Tex Ritter and a whole bunkhouse full of minor players rode off into the sunset a long time ago. The place they made in American pop-cultural history should be remembered and honored. I'm glad that Roy's old group, the Sons of the Pioneers, still performs regularly, as do such fun western swing acts as Riders in the Sky. It's nostalgia, it's hokey, it's cornball, but I'm mighty glad that someone is keeping those campfire embers glowing.

As the Blogoshere Turns

Post O' the Week:
I commend to you this post on Culture Kills, possibly because I find the topic, fear, to be quite interesting, but mostly because of this line: “(clowns have testicles for a reason)”

Highly Illogical

Leonard Nimoy posted this on Twitter today. Something about it makes me happy. Maybe it's Shatner flipping a burger. Maybe it's the laughing Vulcan. Mostly though it's the image of DeForest Kelley doubled over.

Yes, I'm a happy, Trekkie fanboy.

Trivial Hoot Thirteen

Greetings you brilliant puzzlers you. I think I've got a pretty good one for you this time. I'm going to give you a list of names. You need to tell me which one does not belong, and why. Simple, no?

As always the first person to get it right will receive a free, if entirely ephemeral hoot, and join our illustrious honor roll of Steely-Eyed Missile Men. Okay, ready for the names?

Leonard, Adolph, Sheldon, Julius, Milton, and Herbert.

There you are you smarty-pantses. Have at it.

Independence

This version of events is, I believe, not strictly accurate. Still, it is worth noting that America began with the word.

Pretty Little Tyrants

I was waiting for a train. I do that a lot. The tracks are elevated and the platform gives the riders a panoramic view of the parking lot below, as seen through advertising placards. To the left is tree, somehow surviving on a little patch of earth surrounded by concrete and asphalt. A flicker of movement caught my eye; a pair of birds. I lowered my book and stared at them. Perched on branches a few feet apart, they had dark backs and wings, with white chests. Each of their tails ended in a bright, white tip, as if they had been dipped in paint. I smiled slightly and watched them, my book forgotten.

To my left a woman, who had also lowered her book, asked me a question. “Do you know what they are?” “No idea,” I said, sorry that I couldn't help her. I had misunderstood; she didn't need help, she was offering. I am, you may know, The World's Worst Birdwatcher ™. She, it seems, was the real thing.

“They're eastern kingbirds,” she told me. “They feed by taking off, catching a fly, and then going back to the same perch. It's called hawking.” Right on cue, as she said the world “hawking,” one of the birds launched, flew a few feet from the tree, turned sharply, then looped back to the same branch.

I thanked her. I've learned over the years that birders, the real ones, not the “World's Worst” style like me, are kind and generous people, always willing to share their knowledge. I wished I had been more effusive in my thanks, but I just couldn't take my attention away from the birds. One of them flew out, turned around, and then hovered in the same spot for several seconds. It was quietly spectacular. My view was blocked when the train arrived. I briefly considered letting it pass, but I had flies of my own to catch. A pity, I thought, as I was unlikely to see them there again.

I was, of course wrong. A few days later I stood in the same spot and there, on the same tree, were my little friends. Next time I take that train I'll pack my binoculars. They'll probably have moved on by then, but who knows? Not me, certainly.

Glenn's Book of Quotes Number Twenty-One

“It's a man's business to be what he is, and to be it in style.” – Lazarus Long

I guess I should point out that Lazarus Long is a fictional character. He is a long-lived creation of Robert A. Heinlein and was known for his aphorisms, among other things.

There's something about this quote that I find encouraging. Be you, with your own distinctive dash, with every step you take. That, in a nutshell, is your life's work. Go forth.

Trust Us

Don't you worry about a thing. This blog is protected by a high-tech blowout preventer. Go ahead, click the link. It will provide us with clean, reliable blogging, free us from our dependence on foreign bloggers, and it's perfectly safe. Besides, even in the million to one event that something should go wrong, we are prepared. Go ahead. Click the link. What's wrong? Don't you like America? Click it. You know you want to.

DRILL BABY DRILL!!!