Thursday, October 23, 2014

Road to Recovery (Redux)


Originally Posted Saturday, August 30, 2014

That is over, I hope.  A week of excruciating misery, a month of agony, a summer of relentless work.  I stayed at the job late yesterday to help my boss.  Friday afternoon had slipped away, and since I had not been to the gym all week, when he asked "Who's up for a drink," I thought fuck it, I don't want to go to the gym late on a rainy Friday night, so I suggested a place I like that makes great cocktails, a small, wooden bar with a highly regarded restaurant whose entrees I do not adore but whose appetizers are wonderful, an unusually expensive place with classic bartenders and hipster servers and an eclectic music selection that you cannot predict.  Three of us went.  I had to tell the other fellow that it was a gay bar to get him to go, but it was only a joke for he had been there before.  I got there before either of them and ordered an old fashioned.  When my boss came in, I had him try it.  He took a sip and coughed just like in the movies.  No shit, I loved it.  "That's strong," he said, and I knew right away he didn't often drink cocktails.  He ordered a vodka and ginger ale with bitters.  The other fellow came in a bit later and ordered something red that should have had an umbrella in it.  No matter.  They seemed happy enough.  I ordered some tempura tacos for everyone as appetizers and and they liked them so I ordered more.  My boss and I have been a bit prickly with one another, he reminding me of my late arrivals and early departures, me trying to remind him that he wouldn't like it if he didn't keep me on his side.  Friday night cocktails in a Manhattan-style bar went a long way to repair that, I think. 

And so it goes. 


After a couple cocktails and appetizers, I was in no mood to cook, so I stopped and picked up a tray of sushi on my way home.  After a couple of scotches and some staring at the end of a bad movie with Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson (so sad what happens to people) and went to bed.  Slept long and woke up feeling like I'd played in an NFL game the night before.  Now it is time to start over, from the beginning, on the Road to Recovery.  How many times have I told you this before?  I know, but it is better to keep trying than to give up.  A little gym, a walk, some water and healthy food, a book, perhaps and surely a nap, then a drink on the veranda of the bar attached to the little indie movie theater with a girl I know and then the movie "Boyhood."  I may practice walking with my new little camera, too.  Beautiful music.  A cat that loves me.  Three days off.  Plans for future travel.  Maybe life could be fun again. 

Where many of you live, I hear, there is already a hint that fall is soon to come.  Here it is the dead of summer, but if you are observant, you will notice the change in light.  The sun has moved much further to the south so that shutters are no longer necessary while I sit at the dining room table to write.  The shadows are a pinch longer and sharper, but only a pinch.  The real shadows won't fall for another three weeks, but I am watching them with great anticipation.  It is this falling of shadows that keeps me in touch with you and the places you live.  I am thinking of leaving the tropics for a long weekend.  I want to go to Quebec City.  I hear it is already chilly there.  I have a trip to NYC booked for early October.  I've never been to NYC then.  I must be ready for something new and different, a city without summer tourists, without the visiting college students and hordes of Europeans, with shorter days. . . I almost anticipate it feeling a bit hollow and more lonely.  I confess. . . it almost frightens me. 

But today is a day of repair, not just for my body but for my abode.  I have at least three weeks mail piled up unopened on the floor.  It will take most of the morning to sort it and pay what I need to pay.  And so I go. . . to repair.  I'll let you know how that goes.

Another Day and Night


Originally Posted Friday, August 29, 2014

This is the last day, I hope, of the great oppressiveness and time pilfering of the factory.  A three day weekend approaches.  I plan on nothing but long walks and healthy food and naps, movies and books and, perhaps, sweet and milky teas.  Coffee and breakfasts and dinner with my mother.  Three days is not enough time to heal the damage just done, but perhaps a start over in the gym, some sun by the pool, a walk on the boulevard. 


Even the beauty parlor was a chore last night.  My little Russian Jew friend fit three other people into my time, one just running over half an hour into my appointment, one a friend who had her hair washed (what is up with that?), and then one booked during my time.  I was there for over three hours and got home exhausted.  Took some Sandman and dropped into bed.  Slept fitfully, perhaps close to apnea death, and woke far too late this morning.  I will be late and in more trouble than I already am for being the sort of fellow I can't help but be no matter how they beat me and try to make me otherwise.  Management is finding less and less value in me all the time, I think, and when that happens. . . .  I'd better find an outlet for my pictures, something monetary, I think.  I may have sudden motivation for that. 

And there is another stress as well not yet public that will continue for awhile.  Not even the new camera has helped.  Perhaps I can make some pictures this weekend though.  Mostly, I think, I need to concentrate on getting back to that happy go lucky sweetest boy on earth person I still am.  I know it is true.  I can feel it in my broken, aching bones.

No Time


Originally Posted Thursday, August 28, 2014

No time today.  No time. 

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Creative Lockdown


Originally Posted Wednesday, August 27, 2014

There is much that I am not telling here.  I can't.  And it has me creatively constipated.  I am bound and chained.  I would have to abandon this blog and start another one.  But I need a history.  I'm getting too old to start over again. You. . . my peeps. 

I am in factory lockdown, but it will end soon.  And then. . . and then. . . I'm thinking NYC.  Museums and streets.  But I fear it is not what it used to be.   There is Brooklyn. . . which I read yesterday is not what it used to be.  Hoboken?  There is some town next to Hoboken the Times wrote about yesterday.  Manhattan, it seems, is becoming the city of absentee Arab and Chinese billionaires who use it as a business depot, their multimillion dollar condos mere upscale Sofitels.  Everyone else has been driven out of the bidding.  Now that museums are moving and Rizolli's is being forced to close. . . what is left?  Tourists coming to see broadway shows and sex tourists. 

I realized yesterday how long it has been since I was in London.  And Paris, too.  And I've never been to Amsterdam, Bruges, Prague, Budapest, or Istanbul.  It is a good time of year to go, I think. 

But everything takes planning now, and I am not good at planning.  I am spontaneous, and spontaneity is something that has been taken from us unless we are very wealthy.  I mean you can decide to get drunk spur of the moment, but travel has been made miserable.  Fuck it, though.  Maybe I'll act like the rich and just book a ticket last moment and go, damn the price. 

I say that until I look at the price.  Then I'm back to booking a month in advance and traveling by cattle car. 

Enough of that.  But really, I can't figure out how Q does it.  He's off on another vacation.  He has about twenty weeks a year somehow in a job he has been working for six or seven months.  I feel like Sad Sack or Pigpen by comparison.  But everything is better in the west.  Almost. 

I must get ready for my day job now.  Today is very dangerous for me.  I am in a power struggle argument with my boss.  I was caught by surprise.  It was unexpected.  Now I have to decide what to do.  He must understand it will not be fun for him not to have me on his side or else things will get very, very rough.  I must be quietly dangerous today.  Quiet.  And dangerous.  I'm pretty sure I can do that.

Oprah and Me


Originally Posted Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Life is ceaseless and changing, yet somehow we manage, adapt, and continue onward. 

Now there's a hell of an Oprah moment for you.  It sounds like the introduction to a self-help book.  Why are we given to making such statements?  Why are we given to thinking they mean anything.  Why do we lend them any credence? 

Well. . . what else is there to do? 

Psychological flux.  Emotional flux. 

The key is knowing when to run. 

"Make it new!"  Who said that?  I'll give you a clue.  He supported the fascists in Italy during WWII and spent the rest of his life in an asylum for the mad.  He was an anti-semite. 

Got it?  Ezra Pound.  I can't read his poetry.  That is what we get from a man with a slogan. 

"Keep it fresh!"  Who said that?  I'll give you a clue.  It wasn't a major bakery or food chain. 

Q survived the quake.  He will revisit Burning Man.  Life is ceaselessly changing yet somehow the same.  Even disaster can't keep you from the future past.  I should join him there, the goat-footed old balloon man.

Dull and Witless


Originally Posted Monday, August 25, 2014

Still practicing with the new camera.  Innovative shit like this picture of my deck through my kitchen window.  Maybe I don't like the camera.  Buyers remorse.  I thought I'd be a better photographer with it, but all I'm doing are test shots like some idiot camera store photographer.  We'll all be missing naked girls soon.  Anyone could have taken this picture with any camera.  I'm stupid. 


Maybe I should try wedding photography. 

6:30 and there is no sun.  I've been up for a long while.  Sleeping past four seems impossible.  I'll just have to embrace that and the general fatigue I will feel all the working day.  I am dull and witless.  C'est la vie.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

A New Camera on the Road to Health and Beauty


Originally Posted Sunday, August 24, 2014


I have a new camera to work with, a Sony a7s.  It is a strange little camera, and I won't bother you with too many nerdy details.  I'll just say what I like about it.  It is small, light, easy to hold, and it has a full-frame sensor.  Oh. . . and it takes pictures in the dark.  Oh, again. . . and it can shoot in silent mode which means people don't hear the click of the shutter which means I can be really, really stealthy (sleazy) about taking pictures in public.  I tried it out just briefly yesterday, first around the house, then at the greasy diner, then in the mirror, around the house again, then in the parking lot of Fresh Market in the dark.  I will need to learn to work with it the way it needs to be worked with, but I'm already in love.  I took a picture in the mirror in a dark, windowless bathroom with no lights on at seven o'clock this morning--and got a picture.  It is crazy.

There are some drawbacks to it, too, but let me work out the kinks before I talk about that. 

Oh. . . one more thing. . . I bought a converter for it that allows it to use my Leica M lenses.  I haven't really tried much of that yet, but will today. 

What this means for you, my friends, is that I will post a different kind of picture here for the foreseeable future, little snapshots of things I see in my life, things that will remind you of the times.  I don't know yet.  It has a tilt screen on the back, so I can use it in the same way one would shoot with a medium format camera like a Hasselblad or a Rollei, looking down at the camera rather than at the subject through the eyepiece.  It makes a difference in the pictures, I promise.  Now I just have to get the balls to start asking people in the street to stand for a portrait.  I don't know if I can do it any more, but I will try.  The camera is going with me everywhere I go.  We shall see. 




But let's talk about me.  Last week was miserable and now I look like shit.  The stress and the bad diet and the lack of exercise aged me ten years.  I woke up yesterday and shook my head.  My face felt like bad putty.  The image in the mirror confirmed that it had, indeed, been transformed.  I wanted to start afresh.  I wanted to start anew.  I put on the coffee to brew and took my secret liquids and pills to start the healing process.  I sat at the computer to bring up the news and wait for the coffee maker to beep.  When it did, I got up to a mess.  The coffee never made it into the pot.  It had run all over the countertop and kitchen cabinets.  Fuck.  But I have gotten better and more zen about cleaning up messes since I've had the studio to work in.  I make messes there all the time on purpose.  So paper towels, water, and some cleanser.  Finally done, I realized that I had forgotten to put in a filter.  I put a filter in and set the coffee to grinding and brewing and went back to the news.  When the coffee maker beeped to tell me it was finished doing what it does--the same fucking thing.  Coffee and grounds all over the place.  I wasn't so zen the second time. 

I decided to go to the diner for breakfast.  I would drink the terrible coffee there.  Bacon, three eggs, toast, and hash browns. 

Later in the day, I went to the gym.  Afterwards, I called my mother to see if she needed anything from Costco since I was going to have a tire that was leaking air checked.  She said she would go with me.  I knew it would make her happy, so I said we might have to get a hot dog while we waited for the tire repair. She was down for that.  But Costco on a Saturday afternoon is a mess, and the tire guy said it would be a two hour wait.   I said I'd come back another time.  I wanted him to put air in the tire, and I planned on leaving, but my mother was like a shark that sensed blood.  She was in a real hot dog frenzy.  I've never seen her quite like that.  She was not going to do anything until she had a hot dog. 

I was already regretting it.  It was my first time eating at a Costco.  I haven't had a hot dog for years, at least not from a vendor.  Have you been to a Costco?  Jesus.  The hot dog bun was a yellow color.  Yellow bread?  Why?  We sat down at a rigid plastic table and bench that was bolted to the cement floor.  There was something vaguely crunchy in my first regretful bite.  Jesus Christ.  But no matter what, you don't stop eating a hot dog.  Salt and fat. . . the taste buds crave it.  And so we sat surrounded by other "diners" eating sausages and pizzas, all for less than two dollars a serving.  That's the genius of it, I guess.  Genuine Kirkland Hot Dogs.  Among the throng.  Of the throng.

I regretted having eaten it before we got to the car.

Just to top it off, just to make sure my salt and cholesterol were off the charts. . . I got take out baby back ribs for dinner.  Yup.  I could feel my heart seizing up as I ate.  I through plenty of good liquor on top to cut the fat, of course.  By bedtime, I was puffed up like a the cliched toad.  Sausage fingers, sausage toes. 

And that, my friends, is the way to. . . whatever.  I will start over today on my road to. . . whatever. 

O.K.  O.K.  I'm screwed.  Whatever.

My Friends


Originally Posted Saturday, August 23, 2014

I'll take a chance and put up an image of a black man in a green shirt.  You think he stole that shit? 

I grew up with racial prejudice of the kind you are seeing in Missouri.  I can't even tell you about it.  You would think I'm making it up.

The darker you are, the worse you are treated just about everywhere in the world.  You'd have to get tired of that sooner or later.  I would.  I'd do the worst things you can imagine. 

When Obama got elected, I told my friend that racism was a thing of the past, that kids today hadn't grown up that way.  My friend was the first black kid in her county to be integrated into a white school.  She has an axe to grind.  I told her those times were over. 

She looked at me like I was a stupid white boy. 

As we are all so often given to saying, what the fuck did I know?  You don't know what you don't know, right? 

I am not a liberal apologist.  That is why I have black friends, I think.  They trust me.  I'm not lying to them, I'm just stupid sometimes.  It is easier to forgive the uninformed than the liars.  It would be better if people said what they really believe, what they really mean. 

There are people who have it bad, I know, O.K.  I know.  I have it easy, but it doesn't mean I don't want to whine and complain.  Let's talk about me for awhile.  Let's talk about my meltdown and subsequent meanness and depression.  Let's talk about my lack of sleep and how hard I have to work to keep myself in my middle-class home with sprinklers and hedgerows and maids and a yardman and a repairman.  Let's talk about these middle-class blues and my lack of vacation and how much the new shutters cost and my bluetooth speakers and how I don't have enough money for everything I want. 

Just for the record, my friend, the black woman who calls my bullshit. . . she makes more money than I.  As a matter of fact, so do most of "my black friends."  Don't you love that?  It's a hell of a category.  I'm sure I'm one of their white friends, too.  I don't care.  We all want the same thing, or mostly.  They are for peace and justice and a certain hipness that isn't too dangerous or disruptive.  They are the first or maybe in some cases the second generation to have money to pass on to the next generation.  There hasn't been a lot of black inheritance.  And "my black friends" are much more generous than I.  They give more money to help people than I do.  I've seen them do it.  They give to causes and to individuals.  They will set up a college scholarship in an instant.  They will buy someone's schoolbooks or pay for them to go on a school field trip.  I am not quite as quick as they are, but they are teaching me about my egocentricity.  They are my friends.  They teach me a lot.  And I won't stand by while someone fucks with them. 

I'm just saying.

Lost


Originally Posted Friday, August 22, 2014

This week is just a bad blur.  Where the fuck am I, I wonder, and how did I end up here?  I couldn't provide you with details.  Suddenly life is just what happens when I am not paying attention.  It is a job. 

I have woken at four or five every morning for a while now.  I don't even need to open my eyes to know that time.  I lay in bed and do not fall back to sleep, but somehow, I have crazy dreams. 

These have been professionally dangerous days, days on point when I must prove myself again and again.  Stress and work that I cannot finish.  When I go home, there is as much to do tomorrow and the next day, and the next. 

I forget to put on music.  I get into bed.  I drink too much.  I pass out. 

Wash, rinse, spin. . . repeat. 

I am unwell this morning.  My face is putty.  Nowhere does my body bend or move normally or naturally.  My fingers and toes are like sausages.  I haven't had a decent meal since I cooked for my mother on Sunday.  I haven't exercised, haven't gone to the market.  There have been quick stops at the liquor store and for takeout Thai.  The cat is depressed.  My house is a mess.  I have a dying Canary Island palm that needs treatment, treatment I was going to give it. . . how many days ago?  The repairman is calling.  I was going to have him come when?  There was a woman I knew. . . I haven't heard from friends. 

The camera I loaded with film for my new project sits untouched.  The mail has piled up for weeks again, bills unpaid.  I've not been to the studio, have not worked on images, have not run the printer which I paid so much to have fixed.  Special papers, special coatings, color experiments, film magic. . . I can't remember what I was planning. 

I get mad at people for having fun.  How can they have fun?  I'm tired of making the world a better place for them.  I turn vile. . . evil.  How is it that everyone goes on vacation?  People are bettering their lives, making changes, getting ahead.  I resent them. 

I must hurry again to the factory.  Someone has to shovel the coal.  It won't let up for a while yet.  I feel like I'll drop with a spade in my hand. 

Here are a couple songs from the same album that sound the way I feel.  The lyrics are not quite right, but they are good ones and they will do.  They are good workingman songs. 





*   *    *   

Oh. . . no. . . this one. . . I forgot about this one.  "You Don't Know You're Born."


Monday, October 20, 2014

Morning Entertainment


Originally Posted Thursday, August 21, 2014


Modern humans migrated out of Africa at least 60,000 years ago, and anthropologists have been trying to figure out what happened when the two groups encountered each other. 
A recent analysis of Neanderthal DNA shows that Neanderthals and modern humans not only crossed paths, but interbred. For non-African people living today, 1 to 4 percent of their genome has Neanderthal origins (source).
 "REALLY!  You find HER attractive?  SHE'S a Neanderthal." 

I have to be to the factory in mere moments and didn't think I'd have time to write, but there are so many news stories today that got my attention.  Suicide tourists in Switzerland was one.  They have doubled.  Average age is 69.  Done with sodium pentobarbital.  Easiest, most painless way to go. 

Girl got beat.  I'm talking about Little League World Series.  Ratings for that game were through the roof. 

But this is the real reason I'm writing.  Bill Murray.  He's my favorite actor.  And he's back. 


Perhaps it reminds me of something.

Except for Paris Hilton


Originally Posted Wednesday, August 20, 2014

I have to be at the factory earlier than usual tomorrow, so I will write my "whatever" tonight.  What can I tell you?  It seems I've said it all before.  But we all have, haven't we?  Life is mostly a repetition beyond a certain point.  Youth. . . they are unaware, so they feel. . . something.  Special?  They don't know that what they do is what was done before.  Everything is a first for them, so they feel prototypical.  They are. 

And then. . . and then. . . .

Lying alone in bed awake at three or four o'clock, I think about the people I know.  Who is married?  Who is divorced?  Who is widowed?  Who is remarried?  Who has kids?  How happy are any of them? 

There are few, if any, I would trade places with.  It is not that their lives are awful--they simply are not enviable. 

When you are feeling awful, just think about those you envy.  It is a short list, no? 

I'll confess to you that I often envy only the very privileged and the very rich. There is no dignity in poverty, I think, especially in old age.  It is an awful confession, I know, but I've told you my true love is Paris Hilton.  The privileged and wealthy are all Houdinis.  They are untroubled by. . . trouble.  Even death seems somehow softer and less awful for them.  No, we who are not wealthy or powerful. . . we'll die as we lived, barely noticed, given average succor, average care. 

The girl in the picture is young.  She is getting married to a boy her own age.  They are excited to start their life together.  Someday she will get pregnant, perhaps, have a child or children, raise them in some expected way.  The world will be rougher and the place she grew up will be less privileged for her children than for her.  Their life expectancy will be shorter than their parents'.  Such things, however, cannot stop them. 

You must live and all of living lies ahead.  Having lived lies behind.  I am living and mostly without envy. 

If it just weren't for that fucking Paris Hilton.  Her and her ilk.  I'll think of them early as I rush to the factory.

Zzzzzz


Originally Posted Tuesday, August 19, 2014

I'm under a ton of stress at the factory, and it seems to be affecting me.  Huh.  I fall asleep around nine o'clock at night, just drift off, then I wake at three or four o'clock, of course.  Then I lie in bed and think/dream until the sun comes up.  At work, I am tired.  I look it.  I haven't taken a vacation for two years now, only a day or two off here and there.  I think, "There are people all over the world who have never heard of a vacation.  Why are you whining?"  But I think those people should have a vacation.  Lots of them.  It is the difference between being creative and being an automaton. 

That is what a privileged person like myself would say. 

Still. . . this lack of sleep is getting to me.  Perhaps some melatonin would work.  I mean short term.  I've taken it before.  It doesn't help for long. 

Or maybe I should drop a hit of LSD. 

The British at least gave the coolies opium.  And the upper classes had their injectable cocaine.  Freud was a big promoter. 

The thing that befuddles me most is why I can't find someone to teach me hypnotism.  I don't mean that wimpy-assed form of suggestion that "certified" hypnotists use to help you lose weight or quit smoking.  I mean the deep, dark kind that I know is out there somewhere, the kind that can make you believe things that were never really true.  I want to learn that.  I'll sleep then like a dead man.  And so will a lot of other people, too. 

I guess I could just go back and read my blog at night.  Zzzz.  But I'd still wake up at three. 

Actually, I used to meditate before bed and that always gave me the best rest.  I could actually get that sensation of leaving my body, of floating above the room.  I had a "girlfriend" once who said her sister could levitate.  I'd met her sister.  She was a weird one, but pretty.  The money had family, or vice versa.  She told me I could live with her and she would support me while I wrote.  Oh, no, I said.  It is a good thing.  The girl went on to become a big time attorney and got into trouble later on.  I think it all went back to the levitating sister. 

But I drift.  My mind is a mess.  It is a lot of trouble--meditating.  I mean it takes effort to relax like that. It doesn't make sense, I know, but it is so much easier to skip it than to do it.  No, given the results (relaxation), it makes no sense at all.  But then again, if it were easy, everyone would do it. 

I've decided my cat is not a writer's cat.  She bumps my leg for attention the whole while I do this.  She doesn't seem to understand what it takes to be a writer. 

I guess neither of us does. 

Microbes Made Me Do It


Originally Posted Monday, August 18, 2014

Just in case you have forgotten your high school biology lesson:

Microbes are single-cell organisms so tiny that millions can fit into the eye of a needle.

They are the oldest form of life on earth. Microbe fossils date back more than 3.5 billion years to a time when the Earth was covered with oceans that regularly reached the boiling point, hundreds of millions of years before dinosaurs roamed the earth.

Without microbes, we couldn’t eat or breathe.

Without us, they’d probably be just fine.

Understanding microbes is vital to understanding the past and the future of ourselves and our planet.

Microbes are everywhere. There are more of them on a person's hand than there are people on the entire planet!

Microbes are in the air we breathe, the ground we walk on, the food we eat—they're even inside us!

We couldn't digest food without them—animals couldn't, either. Without microbes, plants couldn't grow, garbage wouldn't decay and there would be a lot less oxygen to breathe.

In fact, without these invisible companions, our planet wouldn't survive as we know it!  (source)


Not all microbes are bacteria, but they all interact with them.  Antibiotics work almost solely on bacteria.  Around 50 million pounds of antibiotics are produced every year.  Half of these are used to fight human infections.  Much of the rest is used to treat farm animals though more and more antibiotics are being sprayed on crops to increase production.  A growing source of antibiotic waste is coming from antibacterial products for the home.  Recently antibacterial products have been introduced into everything from athletic socks to toothpaste.  The result has been a growing presence of antibiotics in the environment.  

Here's a shocker.  Your body is made up of ten times more microorganisms than human cells.  These microbes have evolved along with humans and are passed from mother to fetus generation after generation.  There is a symbiotic relationship at work which benefits both humans and microbes.  We may be changing that relationship, however.  We may be threatening the safe environment which sustains the microbes that inhabit us.  

Some scientists now feel that the overuse of antibiotics haver resulted in many of the health issues humans currently face today including childhood obesity, food allergies, ADDS, and forms of autism.  There is growing evidence that giving infants antibiotics causes adult obesity which increases the chances of diabetes, heart attack, and cancer.  The coming generation may be the first to have a shorter life expectancy than their parents.  

O.K.  There's the lead-in.  Here's the point--a new theory with which I am enthralled.  I came across this article in the New York Times yesterday.  The takeaway--"Perhapsour menagerie of germs is also influencing our behavior in order to advance its own evolutionary success. . . ."  

Goodbye postmodern master narratives.  Goodbye psychoanalysis.  Goodbye to all of that.  Whatever I did. . . whatever it was, I have only one thing to say. 

Microbes made me do it!  There are ten trillion of them in and on each of you.  They have the will to survive.  And you know. . . we can't beat them.  They've been around much longer than we.  They know how to survive.  

I don't take anti-biotics.  I majored in zoology as an undergraduate and learned enough to scare the shit out of me about such things.  But when I got a life-threatening infection that oral antibiotics didn't cure, I had a three day stay in the hospital with an I.V. drip of the second strongest antibiotic known to humans.  I didn't want it, but I was still fond of life at the time.  After that, I put on a lot of weight.  I can't say that it was cause and effect, but I give you all I have--anecdotal evidence.  Industrial farmers use antibiotics to fatten up cows and pigs.  Why wouldn't it work on me?  I am no longer organic.  I am no more than industrial grade meat now.  But in truth, so are you.  What have we done?  I am not certain.  But I am going to keep a weather eye out for developments of this new theory.  It's a good one.  

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O.K.  Tomorrow I'll post one of my own images and a goofy, lyrical vignette, too.  I don't want to become the Scientific American.