The myth that you sleep worse as you get older is not true according to a study published in the journal "Sleep". (Talk about your niche publications. Is there a sister journal titled "Eat" and another titled "Breathe" all under the "How I Know I'm Alive" mast head?)
The study examined sleep quality in 150,000 Americans. People 80 and older reported the soundest slumber. Oh, really? In my experience at age 64, if it isn't the old enlarged prostate getting me up to urinate every four hours or so, it is the slipped disc causing agony when I flip over the wrong way or the dull throb from my shoulder that doesn't seem to go away. It is definitely lower quality sleep than those 10 to 12 hour slumber marathons that followed all-night study sessions or celebrations in my college days. "A healthy mind in a healthy body" can be extended to "Better sleep when your aged body is not disintegrating".
How can a validated scientific study have reached such a false conclusion? How could Al Gore have lost the 2000 election in Florida with those "hanging chads"? Old people, myself included, do not take well to technology. Surely, the Sleep Study did not invite 150,000 folks to sack out in a single controlled environment. Participants had to log on to their computers each morning and fill in a no-doubt confusing questionnaire on how they slept the night before. Computer literate young folks pointed and clicked on the proper little circles. Like the chads on the Florida ballot, we old-timers missed the mark repeatedly.
The end results were that G.W. Bush became president and old folks became known as champion sleepers. The benefits of technology stop as we age.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Oh, Canada
I have a love / hate relationship with Canada.
On the positive side, our neighbours (Canadian spelling) to the north gave us hockey, round bacon for our Egg McMuffins and two of my favourite (Canadian spelling) comedians in Dan Ackroyd and Mike Myers. Offsetting that, the Great White North sent us those pesky geese, winter chill, and the questionable musical talents of Celine Dion and Justin Bieber. One more chorus of "My Heart Must Go On" or "Baby, Baby, Baby" and I will join Leo beneath the frigid waters of the North Atlantic.
There is a new reason to respect those Canucks. To demonstrate the dangers of not having password protection on iPhones, Symantec (which surprisingly offers such a service) dropped ten phones in four US and one Canadian city. The iPhones contained accessible personal data including another phone number for the apparent owner. They also included tracking softwear. All fifty were picked up and used. Seven of the ten iPhones dropped in Ottawa were expeditiously returned to the apparent owner. Meanwhile, thirty of the forty American finders are still trying to crack the code. "Finders, keepers! I'll get into this clown's bank accounts and empty them. It's the American Way."
Canadians, we apologize for that unpleasantness in the War of 1812. If we had known how honest 70% of you are, we would never have invaded. Just take Celine and Justin back and all will be forgiven.
On the positive side, our neighbours (Canadian spelling) to the north gave us hockey, round bacon for our Egg McMuffins and two of my favourite (Canadian spelling) comedians in Dan Ackroyd and Mike Myers. Offsetting that, the Great White North sent us those pesky geese, winter chill, and the questionable musical talents of Celine Dion and Justin Bieber. One more chorus of "My Heart Must Go On" or "Baby, Baby, Baby" and I will join Leo beneath the frigid waters of the North Atlantic.
There is a new reason to respect those Canucks. To demonstrate the dangers of not having password protection on iPhones, Symantec (which surprisingly offers such a service) dropped ten phones in four US and one Canadian city. The iPhones contained accessible personal data including another phone number for the apparent owner. They also included tracking softwear. All fifty were picked up and used. Seven of the ten iPhones dropped in Ottawa were expeditiously returned to the apparent owner. Meanwhile, thirty of the forty American finders are still trying to crack the code. "Finders, keepers! I'll get into this clown's bank accounts and empty them. It's the American Way."
Canadians, we apologize for that unpleasantness in the War of 1812. If we had known how honest 70% of you are, we would never have invaded. Just take Celine and Justin back and all will be forgiven.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Tourist Magnets
Pennsylvania has much to offer tourists. The Keystone State has historical sites (Valley Forge, Gettysburg), amusement parks (Dorney, Kennywood), outdoor recreation (Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail, Appalachian Trail), and fireworks stores aplenty, all well-marked at exits from I-78 or the PA Turnpike.
I discovered two additional tourist magnets during a drive across the state yesterday. They are a tad off-beat even in comparison to the inimitable Roadside America Miniature Village and PA Dutch Gift Shop with the ominous Giant Farmer Wielding a Pitchfork Statue alongside I-78 in Shartlesville. I still have nightmares about that statue coming to life and wreaking havoc like the Sta-Puf Marshmallow Man in "Ghostbusters".
The first is "World of Pigeons" west of Carlisle. This hidden gem does not rate a mention on the blue "Attractions This Exit" highway sign. In fact, "World of Pigeons, Exit Here" is rather crudely painted on a barn visible from the Turnpike. One's imagination staggers at the possibilities. Is WoP fully-staffed by pigeons? Pigeon cooks and wait staff serving tourists in the restaurant? Pigeon security maintaining order? Pigeon aerobats conducting coordinated fly-overs to the oohs and ahs of the crowd? Precision dropping of pigeon droppings? Pigeons dressed in various national costumes cooing "It's a Pigeon World After All" at the finale of each performance?
The second hidden tourist attraction has no signage, but is sadly familiar to those of us without a CD player or an iPod connection in our car. It is the Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die. We drive through the Turnpike tunnels west of Carlisle singing along to Classic or Soft Rock on our car radios when suddenly static then silence ensue. For 100 miles between the Kittanning and Tuscarora Tunnels, we fiddle with the "scan" feature to no avail. At the higher points on the road, we may catch a faint echo of Rush Limbaugh, but even El Rushmo cannot overcome the Mordor of Radio that is west-central PA.
This could be a tourist attraction for those seeking a return to a simpler time. "Tired of those irritating cell phone calls, text messages, and Tweets that interrupt your solitude? Hoping to entertain your kids the same way that Daniel Boone and the pioneers did in the pre-Electronic Age? Come to the Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die, and it is 1770 all over again!"
Pennsylvania may not have Disney World or Sea World, but Florida doesn't have World of Pigeons or The Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die.
I discovered two additional tourist magnets during a drive across the state yesterday. They are a tad off-beat even in comparison to the inimitable Roadside America Miniature Village and PA Dutch Gift Shop with the ominous Giant Farmer Wielding a Pitchfork Statue alongside I-78 in Shartlesville. I still have nightmares about that statue coming to life and wreaking havoc like the Sta-Puf Marshmallow Man in "Ghostbusters".
The first is "World of Pigeons" west of Carlisle. This hidden gem does not rate a mention on the blue "Attractions This Exit" highway sign. In fact, "World of Pigeons, Exit Here" is rather crudely painted on a barn visible from the Turnpike. One's imagination staggers at the possibilities. Is WoP fully-staffed by pigeons? Pigeon cooks and wait staff serving tourists in the restaurant? Pigeon security maintaining order? Pigeon aerobats conducting coordinated fly-overs to the oohs and ahs of the crowd? Precision dropping of pigeon droppings? Pigeons dressed in various national costumes cooing "It's a Pigeon World After All" at the finale of each performance?
The second hidden tourist attraction has no signage, but is sadly familiar to those of us without a CD player or an iPod connection in our car. It is the Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die. We drive through the Turnpike tunnels west of Carlisle singing along to Classic or Soft Rock on our car radios when suddenly static then silence ensue. For 100 miles between the Kittanning and Tuscarora Tunnels, we fiddle with the "scan" feature to no avail. At the higher points on the road, we may catch a faint echo of Rush Limbaugh, but even El Rushmo cannot overcome the Mordor of Radio that is west-central PA.
This could be a tourist attraction for those seeking a return to a simpler time. "Tired of those irritating cell phone calls, text messages, and Tweets that interrupt your solitude? Hoping to entertain your kids the same way that Daniel Boone and the pioneers did in the pre-Electronic Age? Come to the Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die, and it is 1770 all over again!"
Pennsylvania may not have Disney World or Sea World, but Florida doesn't have World of Pigeons or The Place Where Radio Waves Go To Die.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Gateway Crustacean
The descent into a life of crime begins with a simple gateway.
Shoplifting seems innocent enough. "Wal Mart will never miss this pack of gum and they made plenty of money off me in the past." Then the criminal seeks bigger thrills.
So it was for Charles Shumanis of Allentown last week. Charles walked out of a supermarket without paying for $350 worth of lobster. Confronted by store employees, he fled on foot to a nearby restaurant parking lot. He noticed a 79 year old man getting into his car, leaped into the passenger seat, and ordered the victim to drive. The septuagenarian was having none of it. He tried to exit the vehicle. Charles slid behind the wheel, dragged the poor old man 50 feet before he fell off, and led the police on a merry chase. Charles and his lobsters were quickly apprehended though.
In a statement, police noted that "Many people charged with stealing high end food and health products are doing so to sell the products for cash. That money is then used to support a drug habit." There you have it. Marijuana has long been noted as the "gateway drug" leading to crack, cocaine, and heroin abuse. Apparently, lobster is the "gateway crustacean" leading to carjacking, assault, and even more heinous crimes. Is it now time to criminalize lobster possession? Will shady characters approach innocent schoolchildren with a cup of melted butter saying, "You know what goes great with this? Lobster! Have a sample. All the cool kids are doing it." Was this how Charles began his life of crime?
Even the police are not immune to gateway drug corruption. There are well-documented incidents of drugs seized during arrests "disappearing" from police evidence storage. Surely, evidentiary lobster must also be held pending trial of the accused. Imagine the temptation to sneak just a few succulent crustaceans home for that anniversary dinner. "Charles will be convicted for $300 worth of lobster just as easily as for $350 worth, and I forgot to get a gift for the wife."
Enjoy your lobster while you can. Crustacean Prohibition may be just around the corner.
Shoplifting seems innocent enough. "Wal Mart will never miss this pack of gum and they made plenty of money off me in the past." Then the criminal seeks bigger thrills.
So it was for Charles Shumanis of Allentown last week. Charles walked out of a supermarket without paying for $350 worth of lobster. Confronted by store employees, he fled on foot to a nearby restaurant parking lot. He noticed a 79 year old man getting into his car, leaped into the passenger seat, and ordered the victim to drive. The septuagenarian was having none of it. He tried to exit the vehicle. Charles slid behind the wheel, dragged the poor old man 50 feet before he fell off, and led the police on a merry chase. Charles and his lobsters were quickly apprehended though.
In a statement, police noted that "Many people charged with stealing high end food and health products are doing so to sell the products for cash. That money is then used to support a drug habit." There you have it. Marijuana has long been noted as the "gateway drug" leading to crack, cocaine, and heroin abuse. Apparently, lobster is the "gateway crustacean" leading to carjacking, assault, and even more heinous crimes. Is it now time to criminalize lobster possession? Will shady characters approach innocent schoolchildren with a cup of melted butter saying, "You know what goes great with this? Lobster! Have a sample. All the cool kids are doing it." Was this how Charles began his life of crime?
Even the police are not immune to gateway drug corruption. There are well-documented incidents of drugs seized during arrests "disappearing" from police evidence storage. Surely, evidentiary lobster must also be held pending trial of the accused. Imagine the temptation to sneak just a few succulent crustaceans home for that anniversary dinner. "Charles will be convicted for $300 worth of lobster just as easily as for $350 worth, and I forgot to get a gift for the wife."
Enjoy your lobster while you can. Crustacean Prohibition may be just around the corner.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Side Effects
Daytime TV has plenty of commercials aimed at us seniors. They range from the practical (Cell phones with giant illuminated number keys and none of those trendy options that only kids go for like programmable ring tones) to the dainty (Never again suffer the embarrassment of running into friends in the Adult Incontinence Aisle. We ship your needed items to you in unmarked packages!).
The preeminent product advertised is drugs. "Ask your doctor about our brand name drug before its patent expires and we have to reduce its price by half to match that of generics that are just as good."
That darned over-regulating, job-killing government requires that the commercials mention drug side effects. Everyone knows the classic "For erections lasting more than four hours, seek immediate medical assistance." Everyone tunes out "Side effects include dizziness, drowsiness, and constipation." Hey, I get those from eating rutabaga.
Only Abilify, a drug for schizophrenia, states "Side effects may include death." Now, there's a side effect. Its website notes that elderly patients on Abilify suffered nearly two times the death rate of those on a placebo, 4.5% versus 2.6%.
I will risk a four hour erection. I will take a chance on dizziness, drowsiness, and constipation. I will think twice before taking a pill that doubles my chance of death. Maybe that over-regulating, job-killing government is doing us all a favor by requiring mention of side effects.
The preeminent product advertised is drugs. "Ask your doctor about our brand name drug before its patent expires and we have to reduce its price by half to match that of generics that are just as good."
That darned over-regulating, job-killing government requires that the commercials mention drug side effects. Everyone knows the classic "For erections lasting more than four hours, seek immediate medical assistance." Everyone tunes out "Side effects include dizziness, drowsiness, and constipation." Hey, I get those from eating rutabaga.
Only Abilify, a drug for schizophrenia, states "Side effects may include death." Now, there's a side effect. Its website notes that elderly patients on Abilify suffered nearly two times the death rate of those on a placebo, 4.5% versus 2.6%.
I will risk a four hour erection. I will take a chance on dizziness, drowsiness, and constipation. I will think twice before taking a pill that doubles my chance of death. Maybe that over-regulating, job-killing government is doing us all a favor by requiring mention of side effects.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Musical Snob
Call me a musical snob, but I've always felt that pop music has gone straight downhill since 1967, not unlike my waistline and my hairline. Motown had not yet descended into Jackson 5 bubble gum pseudo-soul. Aretha Franklin and Otis Redding were the vanguard of the Memphis sound. The Rolling Stones were brilliant. And the Beatles gave us "Sgt Pepper".
Still, America prefers its music a bit less threatening than "Midnight Hour", "Time Has Come Today", or "A Day In The Life". During the remembrances on the passing of Davy Jones today, it was mentioned that Davy had the best-selling album of 1967 - "More Monkees". I couldn't believe it. Everyone that I knew back in '67 had "Sgt Pepper" and no one admitted to possessing "More Monkees". Sure enough, an Internet search showed that more people bought an LP featuring "Last Train to Clarksville" than with "Lucy In The Sky". Never underestimate the taste of the American public.
1967 was not an aberration. The best-selling album of 1966 was Herb Alpert's "Whipped Cream", a trumpet-led instrumental. Of course, it outsold such trivialities as the Beatles "Revolver" and the Beach Boys "Pet Sounds". Don't we all go around whistling Herb's "Tijuana Taxi" 45 years later as opposed to "Help Me Rhonda"?
Actually, even a "Music went straight downhill ever since Otis died" snob like me can still recite every word of that catchy "Monkees" theme. RIP, Davy Jones.
Still, America prefers its music a bit less threatening than "Midnight Hour", "Time Has Come Today", or "A Day In The Life". During the remembrances on the passing of Davy Jones today, it was mentioned that Davy had the best-selling album of 1967 - "More Monkees". I couldn't believe it. Everyone that I knew back in '67 had "Sgt Pepper" and no one admitted to possessing "More Monkees". Sure enough, an Internet search showed that more people bought an LP featuring "Last Train to Clarksville" than with "Lucy In The Sky". Never underestimate the taste of the American public.
1967 was not an aberration. The best-selling album of 1966 was Herb Alpert's "Whipped Cream", a trumpet-led instrumental. Of course, it outsold such trivialities as the Beatles "Revolver" and the Beach Boys "Pet Sounds". Don't we all go around whistling Herb's "Tijuana Taxi" 45 years later as opposed to "Help Me Rhonda"?
Actually, even a "Music went straight downhill ever since Otis died" snob like me can still recite every word of that catchy "Monkees" theme. RIP, Davy Jones.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Indoctrination
Striking a blow for the Common Man, Rick Santorum stated, "President Obama once said that he wants everyone to go to college. What a snob. There are good, decent men and women who go out and work hard every day and put their skills to test that aren't taught by some liberal college professor trying to indoctrinate them."
Thanks for setting us straight, Rick. I was unaware that shipping off to college in America is not all keg parties and co-ed dorms but political indoctrination not unlike Chinese youth being sent to the countryside during Mao's Cultural Revolution. They must have edited the political indoctrination scenes out of "Animal House" and "Old School".
Actually, my decision to go to college was not a slam dunk. Fear of being brainwashed by a pointy-headed liberal professor really didn't enter into the equation. My choices as a high school grad in the summer of 1965 were:
Get a draft-deferred job at the artillery shell plant in town. Make more money than my Dad. Get my own car. Live at home with free room, board, and laundry service. Have a rip-roaring social life since few girls went away to college in those days.
2. Go to college. Have no money, no transportation, and at an all-male college with no fraternity rush until second semester, zero social life.
Taking a page from that education-loving snob Obama, my parents pushed me toward the groves of academia by getting me a summer job in the local meat packing plant. The "good, decent men who put their skills to the test" there made sure that the "college boy" got a snoot-ful of working life. Lifting and hauling 250 pound sides of beef? Let Joe College do it. Loading 400 pound barrels of beef onto the truck at the end of the day? I have a softball game at 5. The College Kid can work a little later. Somebody has to spend a couple of hours sorting 80 pound boxes in the -10° freezer? Young blood is warm blood. See you at lunch, kid.
Sudddenly, I could tolerate delaying a paycheck, a car, and a social life until after college especially if it meant that I wouldn't smell like a dead cow every day after work. Even the liberal political indoctrination was a small price to pay.
Thanks for setting us straight, Rick. I was unaware that shipping off to college in America is not all keg parties and co-ed dorms but political indoctrination not unlike Chinese youth being sent to the countryside during Mao's Cultural Revolution. They must have edited the political indoctrination scenes out of "Animal House" and "Old School".
Actually, my decision to go to college was not a slam dunk. Fear of being brainwashed by a pointy-headed liberal professor really didn't enter into the equation. My choices as a high school grad in the summer of 1965 were:
Get a draft-deferred job at the artillery shell plant in town. Make more money than my Dad. Get my own car. Live at home with free room, board, and laundry service. Have a rip-roaring social life since few girls went away to college in those days.
2. Go to college. Have no money, no transportation, and at an all-male college with no fraternity rush until second semester, zero social life.
Taking a page from that education-loving snob Obama, my parents pushed me toward the groves of academia by getting me a summer job in the local meat packing plant. The "good, decent men who put their skills to the test" there made sure that the "college boy" got a snoot-ful of working life. Lifting and hauling 250 pound sides of beef? Let Joe College do it. Loading 400 pound barrels of beef onto the truck at the end of the day? I have a softball game at 5. The College Kid can work a little later. Somebody has to spend a couple of hours sorting 80 pound boxes in the -10° freezer? Young blood is warm blood. See you at lunch, kid.
Sudddenly, I could tolerate delaying a paycheck, a car, and a social life until after college especially if it meant that I wouldn't smell like a dead cow every day after work. Even the liberal political indoctrination was a small price to pay.
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