MODERN DAY MEDICINE MAN

WebMD aside, self-diagnosis is not a good thing. After watching a recent PBS special on brain functions I discovered I'm afflicted with a prefrontal cortex abnormality.

For the life of me I can't remember the medical term so I turned to my wife, a former registered nurse, sure she would have the proper terminology at her finger tips. Unfortunately its been too many years, too many career changes for her to recall the proper medical term so she reverted to the more familiar wifely term "Youactlikeajerkosis."

Not one to stand by and see my brain atrophy I began my research in earnest, eventually discovering the modern day elixir, fish oil, to be just what the doctor ordered. I read the typical dose was 1 mg but a "friend" suggested a more appropriate dose for my condition would be 3 mg. I think I heard her mumble something under her breath that sounded like "Youareabigfatjerkosis." - apparently a more advanced stage of the disease.

Just as I was about to head down to the local GNC store to seek out the required capsules I recalled my early childhood experience with cod liver oil, Castor oil, and that dreaded Dr. John's Tonic. That recollection stopped me in my tracks. There was no way I wanted to relive the thrill of feeling the contents of my stomach leave my body by way of my mouth or any other orifice.

What to do? Seek out a modern day medicine man! My friend Bruce referred me to Dr. Ron, his personal shaman. Dr. Ron claims to be a bonafide medical doctor but I have never seen any sign of a degree or other credentials. He combines modern medical science with the natural healing powers of herbs and "weeds" (he does still sport a pony tail) and mixes in a modicum of spirituality and the mysticism of all things natural for good measure.

Like most traditional doctors Dr. Ron does not make house calls so we met in a restaurant. Well, actually our first encounter was at a bar sharing a Belvedere Vodka - straight up, thank you!, followed by a bottle of Pouilly-Fume. Needless to say, I liked this guy's bedside manner.

After describing my predicament and self-diagnosis Dr. Ron had to agree with my wife's assessment: my prefrontal cortex was the root of all evil. But he held out hope - no need for fish oil capsules. He could accomplish the same results with this version of brain food based on the weed purslane, probably growing wild in my garden. Considered a weed in the US, it has more Omega-3 fatty acids than any other leafy plant. Taking out his prescription pad, the back of an envelope, he jotted down this formula.

Whole milk yogurt

Purslane

Cucumber

Black pepper

Garlic

Chopped tomatoes

Gorgonzola cheese

Mix thoroughly and refrigerate. Eat as much and as often as you like.

When I asked about weights and measures Dr. Ron said, "That sounds like a good idea! Lets have another glass of wine!"

Well, it's been three weeks now and three containers of his yogurt/purslane concoction and I'm feeling just fine, a little more gassy than usual but I chalk that up to the jerk in me passing from my body. At my next appointment with the good Doctor I'm going to ask him about erectile dysfunction. I wonder if he knows the formula for Plaster of Paris?

STRAY SHOPPING CARTS REDUX

E.F. Schumacker put it best by saying, "Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius - and a lot of courage - to move in the opposite direction."

Well it seems the book I reviewed in a previous blog post, "Stray Shopping Carts of America", has gotten wide attention. More so now that we are in the middle of a recession. With the republication of "A Simple Life" and everyone seeking a simpler, less expensive, close to home experience, the backyard BBQ has taken on new meaning.

My friends Peter and Dianne have taken the phrase "Back to Nature" to new heights with their custom built BBQ grill, direct from Walmart.

I admit I was a little jealous when they moved from "Taxachusetts" to find freedom in New Hampshire but I never expected them to get this deep into the back to the land movement.

YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME I'M BEAUTIFUL, I KNOW I AM, BUT THANKS ANYWAY.

It's mating season in south Florida, that odd ritual when old men with wrinkled skin dance in the sun in a vain attempt to attract a female partner.

Tennessee Williams said it best in The Night of the Iguana when he penned these words:

"And intercourse not well designed

For beings of a golden kind

Whose native green must arch above

The earth's obscene corrupting love"

Love is like that, or maybe its just passion but it seems a great deal of energy comes into play selecting a desirable partner. I always assumed, as a male in hot pursuit (formally so after 40 years of marriage) the male of the species was exerting all of the energy in the mating ritual but recent research has shown the mating "dance" is energetically costly for females as well, surprising because this runs counter to conventional scientific wisdom.

Until recently researchers assumed choosiness demands comparatively little exertion from females while males put a great deal of effort into courtship. Just watch any male on the beach as he sidles up to a female, hunches his back and begins to rock back and forth – one would think all that is left for the female is to amble into the males' territory, watch this flamboyant behavior and choose the male they want, while simply avoiding other suitors. Easier said than done!

As it turns out avoiding energetic but unwanted males is in itself exhausting, and often causes the choosiest females to loose as much as 25 %of their body weight. What’s more the longer they spend in the company of the attractive males, the more weight they lose. This new research by Princeton University could be bad news for Jenny Craig.

Take my friend Bruce for example. Bruce is not a Reverend but had he been he surely would have been defrocked like the Reverend Dr. T. Lawrence Shannon from the pages of The Night of the Iguana. Bruce is one of those sun baked guys with a very young and very attractive wife. I often wondered what exactly constituted his power of attraction and how his wife maintained such a girlish figure. During a recent visit I spotted the answer, an elegant coffee table book that contained all one needs to know about attracting the opposite sex while exerting the least amount of effort. A combination adventure story, drink compendium, cookbook, and all around how-to-book on all things related to attracting the opposite sex The Iguana Cookbook was a complete surprise.

It seems Iguana meat is considered an aphrodisiac and can be prepared in a variety of interesting ways. If you doubt me check it out yourself at http://www.iguanacookbook.com/

Like any good cookbook The Iguana Cookbook starts with the basics - prepare a drink paired to the dish at hand. In my unscientific test the collection of drink recipes were each tried and determined to be more than suitable to accompany any of the recipes. In fact your humble correspondent would prefer to paraphrase Ogden Nash - “Iguana meat is neat, but liquor is quicker”. For the inexperienced cook the recipes are meticulously explained beginning with the most basic instruction – “First catch the Iguana”. For that you might have to enlist George Cera, the author and renowned Iguana hunter. Seems he has captured over 16,000 in his illustrious career. Then there is the great debate, “Is it a fish?” Great news for Catholics, the Church considers Iguana meat a fish (go figure) so Friday night date night is sanctioned by the Church.

But back to Bruce. Not one to take any chances Bruce has covered all his bases. Not only did he purchase the book, he decided he needed a ready supply of Iguana meat close at hand and like the male of every species he is obsessed with size.

As Bruce would say, "There are worse things than chastity, Reverend Dr. Shannon".

MY REAL AGE

Another birthday come and gone and I got to thinking, how old am I? I mean, I know how old I am, but how old am I really. Someone once asked “Would you know how old you are if you didn’t know how old you were?” My answer has always been "29" but my wife constantly disabuses of me of that delusion. I have gone through life whistling past the grave yard thinking I will beat the odds. So I finally found the courage to take the Real Age Test. Harking back to my college days I thought it might be a good idea to use Cliff Notes to bone up for the exam. Back then I was the master of pulling “all niters”. I foolishly thought a quick review would make up for all these years of decadence. After all, the site promised to help me live life to the youngest. No such luck.

I promised myself I would be honest, no cheating, at least not anything I could be held accountable for if I was compelled to share the results with my wife. We don’t see eye to eye on anything related to diet and exercise. She is a nutrition-nazi who would gladly trade me for a new treadmill. I pointed my browser to the real age site, kept my fingers crossed, and proceeded to take THE TEST.

After a false start, (there goes the no cheating promise) I clicked away. The folks at Real Age were not impressed, deciding I was leading a challenging life and was sure to expire sooner rather than later. Always one to look for the silver lining in any cloud I proceeded to experiment with some of the questions. With the interactive features of the test I was able to “manage” my answers, but could I squeeze out a few more years? With fingers crossed, to absolve me of the no cheating promise I had foolishly made, I “adjusted” some of my answers to see how many extra years I could con out of the mad scientists who devised this monstrosity.

My first adjustment was a failure; eating less doesn’t seem to be an option, at least not a very rewarding one, a pick up of only five months; hardly worth it. After a few more poor results I finally hit pay dirt - I discovered I don’t drink enough. Lo and behold, drinking more, much more in my case, would only cost me three months! I will gladly give up those three months for a few more bottles of cabernet.

Not wanting to waste another day I poured a tumbler of just what the doctor ordered and tried to find another site, one that would be more friendly, one whose results I could share with my wife. The folks at the search engine poodwaddle came up with just the place I was looking for. I’m not including the link as I need to keep this to myself for confidentiality purposes, I can’t chance a digital trail, but I can report this website’s results were just what I was searching for – 22 years better to be exact. Not wanting to gloat, I decided to take a subtle approach and taped the printed results to the aforementioned treadmill.

I would love to be a fly on the wall when my wife sees that note but I won’t be around, I’m heading out to the store to meet my friends, Ben & Jerry. I’ll save the rest of the cab bottle for later. I might need it.