Dogs Smell Poo

My friend Marion gave me a little news article about harnessing the power of the dog’s extraordinary nose.  We are all familiar with dogs that can sniff out bombs, cocaine and other contraband, but now there is a dog that can smell colon cancer in a human stool – and according to this article, the dog outperforms the standard test of looking for blood in the stool.

This article, published in the aptly named journal “Gut,” describes a single black Lab who was originally a water rescue dog, but has been repurposed as a stool sniffer.  The dog is rewarded with a tennis ball if he correctly smells the volatile chemicals produced by colon cancer.

This article was picked up by a lot of news services, but I don’t think its “newsworthiness” was related to a health care advance, but instead to the disturbing visual image.  I picture Rex, a beleaguered dog who is forced to spend his days sniffing umpteen stool samples as they move by on a relentless conveyer belt.  Behind him is a huge pile of tennis balls that he is allowed to play with for 10 minutes every 8 hours.  Hovering nearby is Steffen, the owner who has spent years creating this super breed of dog.  Rex is his stand out star.  However his venture capital financing is based on his ability to breed dogs that can smell lung cancer from the more convenient breath sample.  But the investors are worried.  Last week Rex’s progeny Ace and Primo failed miserably and even worse Rex has lost interest in tennis balls.  What’s worse is that PETA has targeted him, saying that forcing a dog to sniff poo all day is cruel.  Steffan pointed out to PETA that they are unjustly ascribing human sensibilities to dog.  While fecal odor induces a gag reflex in humans, anyone who visits a dog park know sthat dogs love smelling poo.  PETA is unmoved.

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Landmark Study for Dogs

Yesterday I saw an ad for Purina dog food that touted a “landmark” study claiming that Purina Dog Chow “extended dogs’ healthy life by 2 years.”  The word landmark  caught my eye since this term is well known in human medical research, generally reserved for a kick-ass randomized study trial reporting unassailable proof that immediately changes medical practice.  One example is the large MR FIT dietary study of 13,000 men demonstrating that lowering cholesterol reduces the risk of heart disease.  Cholesterol guidelines were built from that study, and a whole drug industry was born.  Then there is the study from the 1970s that showed that a lumpectomy is just as good as mastectomy, thus saving thousands of women from disfiguring surgery.  And of course study that established colonoscopy as a screening method for early detection of colon cancer, with results so compelling that it has convinced millions of 50 year olds to purge and submit themselves to the utmost humiliation at the hands of gleeful gastroenterologists.  Ooops, I’m exaggerating a bit on that last one, somehow nobody ever did the landmark study for colonoscopy screening.

What would a landmark study of dogs entail?  Purina provides a few workable facts on its web-page.  The study enrolled 48 labradors separated into two groups at birth and followed them until death.  Both groups were fed Purina, but one group got 25% less food.  Okay, a 14 year study would be considered quite a feat in the medical world particularly if you are trying to control the diet of free ranging humans.  But a mere 48 dogs, presumably in cages.  Wouldn’t meet my criteria for landmark.

The results of the study are perhaps not too surprising.   The dogs that got fed less had a leaner body and lower cholesterol, and showed fewer signs of aging.  It looks like they all died at the same time, but the leaner group compressed their morbidity into a shorter number of years.  Well that is an outcome that I can get enthusiastic about.  It did strike me as odd that Purina would use the study for marketing, since it did not try to prove that their dog food was any better than other brands, and the results suggested that you should just feed your dog less, i.e. buy less dog food.  It must have taken Purina a bit of time to figure out how to turn this dog of a study into an ad campaign.  The “landmark” results were published in 2002.

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American Idol as a Beacon for Democracy

American Idol announced that for the first time it will start accepting online votes, expanding the voting options from toll-free phone numbers and AT&T text messages.  The glitch has been creating a secure website, presumably to prevent some sort of automated voting virus what would spew out millions of rogue votes that would undermine the legitimacy of the contest.  American Idol was pleased to point out that, in partnership with Facebook, voters will now be able to cast 50 ballots on line.

American Idol is late to on-line voting.  An Arabic version called Super Star already accepted on line voting, and Katherine Meizel, who has authored a book on American Idol, implies that such voting in talent contests contributes to “the potential symbolic significance of voting in the Middle East.”

Wow, American Idol is going to grab some of the credit for the democracy movement in the Middle East – a democracy gateway drug that has opened numbed eyes to the possibility of revolution and democracy?  However, one of the fundamental tenets of democracy is one person/one vote, so allowing 50 votes a person might send the wrong message.  And how did American Idol choose the 50 vote maximum, why not 100, or 200?

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Oscars Worst Dressed

Okay I admit to getting People magazine and reading other similar rags in the check out aisle and I must say one of the sections that I enjoy is some sort of fashion maven who critiques red carpet fashions with creative cattiness.  This isn’t cruel since anyone standing on a red carpet is basically asking for it.  So I thought I would take a try at some red carpeteers at the 2011 Oscars.  Open Fire!

This starlet below is standing among the billowing smoke of a messy volcano eruption, a virtual Krakatoa spewing literally tons of ashes skyward, dimming the sun’s rays and creating weather havoc.  However, if you are able to look through the smoke into the gaping maw, you would see the hell on earth fiery cauldron as hot lava erupts from Penelope’s Cruz’ nether regions and drips down her legs.

Oprah Winfrey arrived to present the award for the best documentary, which might well have included the birthing of this overly long glitterly dress, which included enough tinfoil to jam the radar of overhead airplanes.  Oprah has long had an uneasy relationship with her physique, but seems comfortable and unapologetic in her full figured mode, most appropriate for her emerging image as America’s maternal sweetheart.  One could imagine a small child or animal getting lost within the friendly and cozy confines of her mega-mammaries.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kudos to Ms. Johansen for selecting something other than the basic red, black or white, but this choice looks like my grandmother’s lace tablecloth had an unfortunate encounter with a vat of red wine.  The casual tousled ‘do bears a striking resemblance to the bed head of thousands of dishwater blondes who look to Oscar fashions for inspiration not imitation.

OMG – this dress is bizarre enough from the front with the epaulets and bead work framing the blank canvas of her chest that just calls out for a full size cameo figure.  The yellow accents at the shoulders add a dash of welcome color, however expanding to a horrific creeping and pustular skin disease on her back.  Those with a penchant for picking scabs are just itching to take a turn.

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Clean Slate Club

The implications of the 50th birthday are hard to ignore and difficult to embrace.  One by one friends are starting to undergo joint replacements and drop out of my tennis and paddle tennis groups to pursue more forgiving sports like golf.  I have been lucky to avoid any obvious physical limitations as I chug my way through this decade, but my entire philosophy towards sports is incrementally changing.  Ten years ago, I looked forward to each new paddle tennis season with the promise of getting better, based not on improving my physical fitness, but mastering some basic mechanical skills, like learning how to put a spin on the ball or positioning myself correctly.  While I consider myself athletic, I do not consider myself an athlete in whom the effects of waning physical prowess would be immediately noticeable.  For me, a slowed reaction time could be more than compensated for by being in the right place at the right time, and huffing and puffing through a long point could be addressed by finishing the point with the deft placement of a spin in the corner.  However, this strategy may have run its course and my goals for each new season have become more realistic – I just wanted to maintain my level and not get worse, particularly since my social life is built around sports.  As my friend once said, “Lose your legs, lose your friends.”

Other health messages for 50 year olds come fast and furious with advice on how to maintain breast, prostate, heart and bone health and the marketing geniuses at the drug companies try to reposition aging as a disease.  For example, the inevitable loss of bone that comes with aging has been repositioned as the “disease” osteoporosis, and diseases, of course need treatment, and lucky for big pharma aging is a life long disease needing life long treatment.   Most ominously, age 50 triggers a multitude of  cancer screening recommendations.  While breast cancer screening is considered optional at age 40, at age 50 it is strongly recommended.  Millions of women make the yearly migration to the tit squisher and just keep their fingers crossed that they won’t hear the sound of the other shoe dropping, at least for this year.  Men have their blood test for prostate cancer, but of course colonoscopies are for everyone. 

For obvious reasons, I put off a colonoscopy for several years.  However I would have to say that this has been one of the more rewarding experiences of this transitional decade.  First of all, it was easy and the bowel prep that makes everyone cringe was no biggie.  I just did it and the next morning I felt clean, cleansed and purified.  I felt like I should waft through the house in a flowing virginal white gown singing that enduring Presbyterian hymn of renewal,

“When the morning wakens, then may I arise,

Pure and fresh and sinless, in thine holy eyes.” 

And the colonoscopy itself – also no biggie.  The nurse will just slip you an IV mickey and then next thing you know you are getting ready to go home.  When the doctor came in to tell me that everything looked fine he added, “I must say you did a wonderful job with your bowel prep.  It really made my life easier.”  I was giddy with pleasure over this compliment, because like most patients I wanted the doctor to really like me.  Plus this was one of the nicest things that anybody had said to me in a long time.  I blushed in response and mumbled, “thanks, no problem.” 

Based on my experience there are a lot of things worse than a colonoscopy and one of them is taking the dogs for a walk.  Now lest you think that I have developed an eccentric habit of pleasure purging, I want you to know that this comparison primarily reflects not my love for Fleet, but my distaste for walking the dogs.  I like a nice contemplative walk as much as the next guy, but the mood is seriously undermined by tugging dogs, winding leashes around trees and confronting other dogs.   And as long as we are talking about effluent, there is nothing more distasteful in my mind than walking around with a steaming pocket full of pooh.  One time a particularly distasteful pick-up job prompted such a strong spasmodic gag response that I pulled a muscle in my neck.  Furthermore, when I go for a walk, I would like to do some birdwatching, but I have found that these are totally incompatible activities.  Not only are the dogs apt to scare the birds away, but it is also very difficult to focus binoculars while the dugs are tugging on the leash.  One time I spotted a particularly captivating bird, and with the doody bag in hand, raised the binoculars to get a better look.  As I tried to focus, the dogs strained at the leash causing my hand to jerk around.  The warm and odorous bag started swaying and rhythmically tapped me in the nose.  Bring on the colonoscopy!

The missing words in the following poem are anagrams (like post, stop, spot) and the number of dashes indicates the number of letters.  One of the missing words will rhyme with either the preceding or following lines.  Your job is to solve the missing words based on context of the pome.  Scroll down for answers.

A colonoscopy is supposed to be the way you mark your 50th birthday,

 Recommended so that some evil polyp won’t —– your life away.

Yes the bowl prep is nasty, and I’ll spare you details that are graphic,

 But at —– I’ll say the old porcelain throne saw some heavy traffic.

 However, it’s not bad, and the grisly stories you hear are just scurrilous scuttlebutt,

 The truth is that I loved flushing out old —– food, and all the bacteria in my gut,

 And at the end I felt as clean as a newborn babe, in a purified and exalted state,

 As if starting life both fresh and anew with a momentarily clean colonic —–.

 Okay, I have overstated the case, and I put it off for more than three years for sure.

 But don’t end up among the cautionary —– of those who missed their chance for cure.

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Answers;  steal, least, stale, slate, tales

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They Suck

I have concluded that the first step in facing an irrational feel is to go to the internet.  You not only have immediate knowledge – the universal antidote to fear – but you will also have easy access to others who have embraced your fear, turned it into a sustaining passion and their life’s work.  Take for example, leeches, which to me signify what is rotten about a lake.  I can hardly put my toe into the water of the cold clear lakes that are the defining feature of my Midwestern environment.  There is that pervasive fear that some leech will rise up suck my blood.  The vivid leech scenes from the movies African Queen and Stand By Me don’t help. 

 But within 0.57 seconds of typing “leech and biology” into Google, I am knee deep into the 1999 diary of Mark Siddall, who is in the Andes prospecting for leeches.  Siddall says that he first became interested when he was “attacked” by one as a child, and his mother peeled it off with salt.  For many that might have been a life scarring experience, but he became besotted with them, and tries to kindle some spark in his readers by claiming that leeches are bespotted with beautiful colors, if you would only take the time to look closely at them before ripping the leech off in revulsion.  Other notes of interest are that the bite of many leeches is the example replica of the insignia of a Mercedes Benz, that leeches are related to worms, are hermaphroditic, and some even care for their young tadalafil tablets prices.  Siddal recognizes that despite all this, leeches are an acquired taste. 

Siddall is in the Andes collecting leeches as part of a biodiversity study to determine where leeches originated and their patterns of spread.  He is hiking up and over a pass and is absolutely giddy with excitement as he packs up his collecting equipment, which one can only imagine is some sort of scientific version of Tupperware.  As he stands atop the ridge and sees the mountain lakes below, he says, “Shoot me now, I thought. If I’m not in heaven, I’m awfully close.”  Clearly he is in a stunning location, but one gets the sense it is more the promise of leeches that is orbiting him heavenward. 

The lure of the unknown is a powerful force, but previous explorers and naturalists have taken all the easy visually exciting stuff, like condors, pumas and others animals of prey.  What are left are the parasites of frogs or subspecies of leech, but Siddall’s display of pure intellectual curiosity in the face of revulsion and ridicule is compelling.  You also get the sense that Siddall’s intellectual rush may be mixed in a bit with dollar signs.  Leeches produce blood thinners and maybe, just maybe, Siddall can find a leech that will produce some sort of blood thinner that is easily bioengineered and will set the world of hematology on its head. 

I once had the opportunity to interview the scientist who made one of the key discoveries that simplified the process of genetic testing.  To identify genetic mutations, tiny scraps of DNA typically need to be amplified to sufficient quantities.  While it was known how to do this, it was extremely labor intensive.  The process required multiple cycles of heating and cooling, and during the heating portion, the necessary enzymes would basically get cooked and congealed, much like a hard boiled egg.  The key to automating the process was to find some sort of enzyme that could stay intact during multiple cycles of heat.  Enter a geneticist I admire greatly, but whose name I have forgotten.  I will call him Dr. Fortuitous Goes to the Bank.  Dr. FGB liked to spend his vacations hiking in Yellowstone Park, and one day was lamenting the fact that he could not get any cool clear water from the murky hot spring where he had stopped to rest.  In a life-altering eureka moment, he scooped up the water and raced back to the lab and discovered a bacterium that had been sequestered in Yellowstone Park for millions of years.  Presumably out of a dogged desire to endure, the lowly Thermus aquaticus was forced to learn how to relish hot water.  From thence, an entire industry was borne.  One can only imagine Dr. F now sipping a tall cold one as he relaxes on the patio at one of his many stunning homes.  His 1993 Nobel Prize sits on the mantle.     

The medicinal properties of leeches offer both historical and current contexts to better appreciate this relative of the worm.  Leeches were used for blood-letting for any number of ailments for thousands of years, peaking in Europe between 1830 and 1850 in Europe.  In the past, leech farmers would just stand in a swamp to collect leeches on their exposed legs.  The species Hirudo medicinalis is now largely extinct in Europe, due to the twin effects of exploitation of both the leech and its wetland environment.  Contrary to my assumption, leeches do not symbolize the putrefaction of a lake, but are another of nature’s unassuming little canaries in a cage, an early warning sign of environmental destruction. 

Medicinal leeches are now commercially bred and have even received approval from the FDA as a novelty drug delivery device.  Placed at the suture line of reconstructive surgeries, say reattaching a severed finger or other appendage (think John Wayne Bobbitt here), leeches can delivery a steady stream of anticoagulant that keeps the blood moving and prevents the appendage from falling off again.  Leech saliva has other anti-inflammatory properties, and there have been studies of using leeches to treat knee osteoarthritis.  The authors claim the treatment is successful, but it seems to me that anyone who would agree to affix six leeches to their knee would want to believe that they worked so badly that it became a self fulfilling prophecy.  There is no better example of the placebo effect than the Scarecrow, Lion and Tinman, who had come so far that they really had no other choice but to believe the wizard.  But at $10.00 a pop these leeches are one of the last best medical bargains.  Of course, you could come full circle and stand out in a swamp up to your knees and perhaps get the same effect.

Leeches USA (www.leechesusa.com) provides other endearing factoids.  Leeches are low maintenance – they only need to be fed once a year after a blood meal, although the company is quick to note that the leeches are for single use only.  They typically fall off the body after about 70 minutes.  Planned obsolescence is an excellent strategy for the supplier, since treatment may last for several days.  At first glance the logo of the parent French company appears to be similar to the symbol of medicine – that thing that looks like a snake coiled around a stick.  However, on closer inspection you see that the logo is actually two entwined hermaphroditic leeches that are mating.  Leeches USA also provides all sorts of case histories complete with lurid pictures.  A search of the medical literature produces another case history that was probably published for the ick factor alone.  Some poor guy chomped down on his tongue in a car accident, and to help with the reattachment the doctor put leeches in the patient’s mouth (who was hopefully unconscious at this point).  The authors then described how they had to carefully monitor the patient to make sure that the leeches “did not migrate down the throat.”

The missing words in the following poem are anagrama (like post, stop, post).  The number of dashes indicates the number of letters.  One of the missing words will rhyme with the preceding or following line.  Your job is to solve the missing words based on the context of the poem.  Scroll down for answers.

For blood brothers, it signifies a bond of both head and heart

And —- the pact that says “from death do us part.”

If you are blood thirsty, you have a taste for meat, and want to dig right in,

And rip away the tasty flesh and suck on the bones beneath the —-.

“Blood is thicker than water” means you value your —- more than your kith,

It also defines the people you have to share your holidays with.

But for the subversive leech, blood is just the stuff of each and every meal,

First they —- their teeth into your flesh and then suck with unbridled zeal.

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inks, skin, kins, sink

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Tick Season

We have now almost completed a full year at our new home on the Middlefork prairie.  One of the true pleasures is a greater appreciation of the year’s cycles.  The movement of the setting sun across the horizon and the waves of migrating birds were both anticipated and welcomed.  Our seasonal infestation of ticks, however, was not.  Starting in early May, the ticks will be tracked into our house in droves, clinging to our dogs.  The anti-tick goo keeps the ticks from lodging on the dogs, but currently there is no human version available, though I have been tempted to go canine and dab the stuff on the back of my neck.  Our poorly trained dogs jump onto the furniture and the bloodthirsty ticks drop off and search for new prospects, namely us mortgage payers.  We didn’t catch on to this until the ticks starting routinely showing up in our bed.  Nick would wake up in the morning and discover three ticks on his neck as he was brushing his teeth.  This led to frantic tick checks before getting into bed, carefully making the bed in the morning to keep the ticks out of the sheets, and diligently keeping the doors closed during the day to deny access to the dogs.  However, this belt and suspenders approach is not fool proof.  One night there was an old gummy tennis ball on the bed, a sure sign that there had been a break down.

This tick situation caused a crisis at bell choir rehearsal.  We were practicing a tricky piece that had a riff of competing doublets and triplets, and I requested that we drill on several problematic measures.  Just as we launched into the piece, I felt a tick marching across my forehead.  Since we were rehearsing for my sole benefit, and both hands held bells preventing any discrete removal of the tick, I tried to stay focused and ignore the patter of little feet.  However, when the tick turned northward and headed into my scalp, I snapped.  I dropped my bells with a clank, the music slid off the stand and I yelled, “it’s a tick!”  I threw the tick onto the floor, and when I looked up, now relaxed, I saw the horrified look on my musical mates, who looked at me like the epitome of pestilence.  At this point, I had grown used to peeling ticks off, but I can understand their disgust and intimation that it is a simple courtesy to delouse oneself before social events.  The very fastidious women next to me did not want to proceed until we had found the tick and killed it.  While the tick was easily found, killing it is another matter, since you simply cannot crush them.  I was then instructed to impale the tick with a pencil, and when I attempted to do this, the point of the pencil snapped and the tick flipped away out of sight.  We bravely continued on with our rehearsal, but I noticed everyone nervously fidgeting and looking at the floor.     

This morning I have enjoyed my sojourn on the internet, learning more about the life cycle of a tick, and am pleased to report that they all die by the end of June.  Those that have had the great good fortune of a blood meal die after laying millions of eggs, the others just die of starvation.  The life cycle includes egg, larva, nymph and adult.  The latter three stages all require blood meals, often from different hosts, which seems to be an inefficient and risky way to live.  The larva has six legs, but the nymph and adult have 8 legs.  What’s up with that?  You’ve just got to love the mysterious ways of Ma Nature.

The missing words in the following poems are all anagrams (like spot, stop, post) and the number of dashed indicatd the number of letters.  One of the missing words will rhyme with either the previous or following lines.  Your job is to solve the missing letters based on the context of the poem.  Scroll down for the answers.

Ticks await on the —- of grass blades just out of sight,

Then crawl up your pants, looking for soft flesh to bite.

Their hypostome pierces the skin, and they dig right in,

Using an anticoagulant in their —- to keep the blood thin.   

You certainly don’t want the diseases that a tick transmits,

So right now check your belly button, hair line and both arm—-.

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Answers;  tips, spit, pits

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As Lolita Lay Dying

As a child, I was a reader, voraciously consuming books like the Boxcar children, or the adventure series by Enid Blyton (Sea of Adventure, Circus of Adventure, etc.).  Once I had run through all of these, I would save up my allowance and go to the Surprise Shop and buy a new Hardy Boy mystery.  (My identity as a tomboy was so firmly established that it never occurred to me to buy Nancy Drew.)  Old family photos show me sitting at the beach quietly reading while the rest of the family went swimming.  On one vacation I had packed poorly and had to read the single book I brought over and over.  My mother gave me a book quiz, and when she asked how Ellen held the lion, I was able to give the correct verbatim reply of “fondly.” 

My love of reading was certainly not nurtured by my parents.  My mother hated bedtime rituals and felt that reading out loud was only a manipulative trick to prolong the process.  She wanted to snap her fingers and have us all march dutifully to bed.  In her defense, she was dealing with 6 children.  Besides I never cared, since I could read a book faster than anyone could read it out loud.  I adopted the same strategy as a parent, and thus have felt a bit guilty – maybe if I read more to my children, they would enjoy reading more themselves.  Oh well.

After grade school, “reading” was no longer a class and you were pretty much left to your own devices.  Certainly in college and medical school, there was limited time for anything other than textbooks where reading was purely a communication device.  But just as I had been eager to find out whether the Boxcar children ever found their kindly grandfather, I was just as eager to find out why Hitler did not invade England when he had the chance or how energy was transferred in the citric acid cycle.  I would situate myself in the library with a big textbook on my desk and a brand new yellow highlighter, which I would sniff in appreciation of its chemical odor, and then off I would go for several hours.  At one point in medical school, I had such an extraordinary volume of material to consume that I sat up in bed and arranged all the books around me in a tight fortress.  When I went to sleep at night, I simply lay back quietly without disturbing any of the books.  When I woke I just sat up, picked up a book and resumed where I had left off.  In the afternoon, I would move the operation outside to a lawn chair, occasionally napping off as I was surrounded by my books.  At the end of the study period, I was perfectly tanned only on one side of my body and I looked like the two disparate sides of a pancake.   

In the midst of this long non-fiction period, I did manage to read a few novels which generally occupied the comfortable middle ground of an engaging story, well told.  But I will never forget the two that taught me that in talented hands words can go beyond their meaning and that the plot line can be an incidental vehicle to showcase their beauty.  I encountered William Faulkner’s “As I Lay Dying” in high school, a shortish story told in multiple voices of the Bundren family from backwater Mississippi.  The family is making a rare trip to town to bury the family matriarch, Addie.  Each family member has a separate agenda, young daughter Dewey Dell wants an abortion, her father wants new teeth and a new wife (in that order), the youngest brother wants a train set.   Sometimes the punctuation and phonetic spelling are sketchy and the story line is garbled.  Unlike a linear narrative, you have to work at this story and reread passages.  At one point, Darl goes on this existential riff:

“In a strange room you must empty yourself for sleep.  And before you are emptied for sleep, what are you.  And when you are emptied of sleep you are not.  And when you are filled with sleep, you never were.  I don’t know what I am.  I don’t know if I am or not.  Jewel know he is, because he does not know that he does not know whether he is or not.”

The commentary that seeks to explain this passage far exceeds the length of the entire book, but to me Faulkner brilliantly describes the challenges of identity with simple unadorned language.  Come to think of it, just last night, I had trouble emptying myself for sleep to make room for a dreamy new identity.  In another chapter, Dewey Dell says, “I feel like a wet seed, wild in the hot blind earth,” a phrase that exquisitely captures the limitless possibilities of youth unencumbered by responsibilities or realities.   I have not reread As I Lay Dying in the last 40 years, but occasionally at the library I will go into the stacks, flip through the book and find that phrase, easily spotted at the end of a chapter.  I feel the same way when I happen to walk by my jewelry box, open it up and check up on a much loved bracelet.

I first encountered the novel Lolita in a bizarre way.  A friend was giving Nick and me an engagement party and unexpectedly showed the movie as after dinner entertainment.  This was in the pre-DVD days, so an at-home movie was a real novelty.  Somehow Rich had gotten hold of the actual film reels, a projector and had set up a sheet for a screen.  We all sat transfixed, watching the grainy movie that was slightly distorted by the undulations in the sheet.   Lolita tells the story of a middle aged man with the improbable name of Humbert Humbert* who has a consuming obsession for a nymphet, his namesake stepdaughter.  Deglamorized, Lolita details the chronic rape of a 12 year old, but the alliterative language and word play is so magnificent that you are not repulsed. In fact the novel is number 4 on the Modern Library list of 100 best books.  I rushed out to get the book the next day.  In most novels I riffle ahead, since the whole point of reading is to find out what happens.  With the author Nabokov, I can just sit back and let the lush prose and sly humor wash over me. 

“Once a perfect little beauty in a tartan frock, with a clatter put her heavily armed foot near me upon the bench to dip her slim brave arms into me and tighten the strap of her roller skate, and I dissolved in the sun, with my book for fig leaf, as her auburn ringlets fell all over her skinned knee, and the shadow of leaves I shared pulsated and melted on her radiant limb next to my chameleonic cheek.”

In contrast with Faulkner’s simple language, the Russian Nabokov finds obscure English words that would even escape the most diligent preparation for the SAT vocab.  Periodically, he lapses into his native French or even Latin.  I stumble across the phrase, “those puerile hips on which I had kissed the crenulated imprint left by the band of her shorts.”  I had never seen the word crenulated before or since, but I know immediately that this is the one perfect word to describe the little chain of pockmarks left by bunched up elastic.  And then there is the word “phocine,” as in  “[Lolita] retreated to her mat next to her phocine mamma.”  I initially thought that phocine was just a typo for porcine, a word that could easily convey Humbert’s disgust with the mamma who stood between him and his obsession.   But a word like porcine would be a pedestrian choice for a linguist like Nabokov, so I was intrigued enough to look it up.  Phocine: seal like.  Of  course, the single perfect word to describe a well-oiled, sleek, but overweight woman beached and basking in a nearby lawn chair.  I should expect no less from Nabokov.

Puttering through the library, I was thrilled to find an audio version of Lolita to entertain me during my 7 hour drive through the upper peninsula of Michigan.  When I popped in the cassette, I realized that Jeremy Irons was Humbert Humbert, reading the book in one of those cultured English accents that Americans always fall for.  His sonorous tones were simultaneously reptilian and thoroughly compelling and the hours flew by as I reveled in the language.  I would heartily recommend Lolita for your next long distance journey, but would caution you to pay attention lest you get distracted and carelessly swerve into oncoming traffic.  When I first saw the Michigan squad car tailing me, I felt sorry for the poor sap ahead of me who was about to get arrested.  And then I realized that I was the target.  What had I done?  I was stunned when the policeman said, “Ma’am did you realize that you were doing 85 in a 55 mile zone?  I explained that I had just been caught up in a book, but wisely decided not to educate him on the charms of Lolita.

Forty five minutes later, I was arrested again, this time in Wisconsin.  

*Humbert Humbert joins Sirhan Sirhan and Boutros Boutros Gali in the elite group of people with repetitive names. 
The missing words in the following poem are anagrams (i.e. spot, stop, post) and the number of dashes indicate the number of letters.  One of the missing words will rhyme with the preceding or following lines.  Your job is to solve the missing words based on the context of the poem.  Scroll down for answers.

Ah my nymphet, with languid limbs and dewy —-,

 Your bare necked tawny nape, and puerile hips,

 Your feckless sibilant —- is the essence of pure bliss,

 And beckons me forward to proffer a clandestine kiss.

 I lie helpless and bewitched in your tremulous thrall

 Into your voluptuous abyss, I —-, tumble and fall.

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Answer: lips, lisp, slip

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Riverview Ramble

When I was a teenager in the 1960s, an invitation to the Riverview Ramble was most coveted.  This was some sort of charity fundraiser, and a ticket allowed you unlimited access to all of the attractions at the Riverview Amusement Park, located along the Chicago River.  A group of hardy parents would load the kids in the back and way back seats of the car, and take a picnic down to Riverview.  The first thing that you saw as you entered was the enormous billboard cut out of Aladdin looming over his castle, which was some sort of fun house with misshapen mirrors and hidden passageways.  By today’s standards, Aladdin would be considered offensively politically incorrect.  He was drawn to look suspiciously middle eastern, with a jaundiced skin tone, long black hair and a big single gold earring.  And then the piece de resistance were his almond shaped and heavily lidded eyes, which mechanically moved back and forth to create a shiftless and menacing impression.

My recollection was that the parents would set up a central meeting place at picnic table caked with decades of greasy grime.  A gingham plastic tablecloth was snapped into place and the parents settled into an evening of drinking and smoking.  We had to sit there fidgeting until we had eaten some forgettable dinner and were given permission to  take off.  I distinctly remember one mother who wore brilliantly bright red lipstick at all times.  The lipstick was everywhere, on her teeth, the butt of her cigarette, the end of her sandwich and most unpleasantly smeared on the glistening white of a half eaten hard boiled egg.  I think my aversion to lipstick dates to that time. 

Once freed, we raced off to stand in line for such rides as the Bobs, the Flying Turns, the Wild Mouse, the Rotor, the Pair-O-Chutes and some sort of splash ride.  I avoided the splash ride because it looked like you would be splashing down in to a pool of rancid and dank water, filled with the debris of a summer’s worth of garbage.  The Bobs and Flying Turns were rollercoasters that my mother referred to as puke machines.  You got into a little train of cars that would inch up the first big hill, and your anxiety intensified as you heard the chains ratcheting you up higher and higher.  And then with a whoosh you went careening down in a tumble of confused gravity.  In contrast the Wild Mouse was a neck snapper, which produced its thrills with rapid-fire sharp turns that would fling you around your car and give you one of those hot things in your neck.

 In looking back on it, I cannot imagine that parents ever let their kids run wild at Riverview.  The Ramble was definitely in the days before amusement parks embraced wholesome family values, staffed by dozens of fresh scrubbed and cheerful teenagers looking for their break into show business.  Riverview was a classic and relentlessly seedy carnival, staffed by a cadre of heavily tattooed, gap toothed, stringy haired, malodorous, pants shiny with grease, cracked lips, cigarettes dangling, fingers yellowed with nicotine, leering and dissolute down-on-their luck parolees.  I also bet that amongst the throngs of kids at Riverview there lurked an ecstatic population of pedophiles and other perverts, who couldn’t believe their good luck.  I am surprised that nobody was groped, accosted or snatched.  The Tunnel of Love (which I was never asked to go on) could possibly have been the most dangerous place on earth, followed by Aladdin’s castle, which featured poorly lit mazes with dead ends.  And if that wasn’t scary enough, there was the safety issue.  Was there any sort of safety inspection policy for the rollercoasters, all made from turn-of-the-century wooden planks?   As you walked by the contraptions, you could feel them shudder and hear little squeaks and winces.   

Aside from the rides, there were also sorts of carnival games like Skee ball, throwing balls at milk bottles, one of those hammer things where you could show off your strength by trying to ring the bell.  You would see sailors carrying around big stuffed animals that they had won trying to impress their dates.  I remember spending almost $5, my bonus allowance for being on the school honor roll, trying to win a red and white teddy bear.   Somehow, I couldn’t seem to get the last milk bottle to tip over, and I finally asked the carny if I could just buy the damned thing, and then immediately had buyer’s remorse. 

And then in the true spirit of a classic carnival, there was the freak show, which featured a group of unfortunate souls with weird skin diseases, like elastic man, or leopard lady.  This was in an adult only tent, but one year I was able to slip in through a crack in the flap.  There was some sort of announcer who would describe the “freak” in hushed tones, “Lady Leona was raised by leopards in Africa, and is now here at Riverview!!”  A curtain would then open to reveal the poor woman with horribly mottled skin, who would awkwardly stand in some sort of ecru bathing suit while everyone gaped. 

 I was standing in the corner next to the side stage, where a magician was doing an act.  This must have been a really bad magician if the only gig he could get was performing as an afterthought at a freak show.  He was wearing some sort of tattered tuxedo and had a top hat.  He said, “As a finale, I will need a volunteer from the audience.”  When nobody was forthcoming, he turned to me and said, “I would like this young lady to be my assistant,” and suddenly there I was sharing the stage with Lady Leona at the Riverview freak show.  “Now I would like you to close your eyes, and concentrate very hard on what you really, really want, and I will pull it out of my hat,” said the magician.  Being the obedient girl that I was and an absolute sap, I closed my eyes so tightly and thought to myself, “I really want a Brownie camera, I really want a Brownie camera, oh please a Brownie camera.”   

“Yes, I am getting your signals, now open your eyes and see what I have for you in my hat,” said the magician.  I think that I still harbored some foolish hope that I would end up with a Brownie camera.  The magician reached into his hat and with a dramatic flourish removed a pair of red lace crotchless underwear, waved them in front of the audience and then handed them to me.

The missing words in the following poem are all anagrams (like post, stop, spot) and the number of dashes indicates the number of letters.  One missing word will rhyme with either the preceding or following line.  Your job is to solve the missing words using the context of the poem.  Scroll down for answers. 

As you ascend up the hill, your face turns ashen and —–,

Your knuckles turn white as you grip the hand rails,

 Around you, you hear muttered —– of “Please don’t let me die.”

And you begin to wonder, who talked me into this and why oh why.

Your heart —– into your throat in that moment of stillness at the top of the hill,

You know there is no turning back, so you might as well enjoy the thrill

As you tip over the edge, you feel like puking as your stomach churns

But you hear shrieks and —– of laughter as you make breakneck turns,

You stagger off the coaster, nauseous, trembling and weak with fear,

But with good luck and an amnesiac memory —–, you’ll be back next year. 

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Answers:  pales, pleas, leaps, peals, lapse

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The Bra Strap

I remember the day distinctly, it was the mid sixties and I was standing in the girls locker room with my shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal (to anyone who might want to notice) that I was wearing my first training bra.  The gleeful shouts of my classmates echoed amongst the metallic clanking of the locker doors, and Kit Spaulding jostled me to get at her locker beneath mine.  The training bra was little more than a glorified undershirt, whose only bralike feature was the clasp in the back.  It was also unclear what I was in training for, since there was clearly nothing to “lift and separate” as advertised by Maidenform.  Perhaps the advertising geniuses wanted to take a page out the cigarette industry and get pubescents hooked on their trainers early on and create a life long devotion to the Maidenform brand.  Personally, the only thing that I was in training for was a slowly emerging pubescence that seemed to lag behind the other boy-crazy girls in my class, like Debbie Brown or Gail Chandler. 

I remember looking down and noticing that the bra was adorned with a demur pink ribbon and feeling very conflicted.  On the one hand, I certainly wanted to join my peer group and announce my anticipated puberty, but I wanted to do it quietly and discreetly without someone coming up from behind and snapping the strap and yelling, “snap, snap you are a turtle now!”  I tried to figure out how I could somehow simultaneously whip off my school shirt and slip into my gym uniform, and then of course I would have to repeat the performance at the end of the day.  I stood there quietly as the voices died down and my classmates skipped off to field hockey practice oblivious to my tense rite of passage.  When no one was left in my locker row, I achieved my goal of anonymity, but then was disappointed that nobody had noticed.

I certainly did not realize that I was also entering into the confusing roles of the bra as function, fashion and sexuality.  The word bra did not even come into existence until the early 1900s, when some one came up with the clever idea to support the breast from above (i.e. the “over the shoulder boulder holder”), rather than a corset that pushed up the breasts from below.  Until the 1940s when the “life and separate” era began, breasts were generally not considered individually, but rather were referred to collectively as the bosom.  The late 1940s also saw the introduction of the bikini, and the blurring of the distinction between outerwear and underwear began. 

My concept at the time was that bra was most definitely underwear, but even so the rules were very confusing.  The standard school outfit was a white cotton shirt, and the back of the bra was clearly visible beneath the shirt, particularly if you bent over or extended your arms.   This was perfectly acceptable, and in fact this was one way of advertising that you were wearing a bra if your diminutive breasts were not apparent from the front or sides.  Sometimes you could get a glimpse of the front of the bra – this was not optimal, but within the realm of acceptability.  However, if you were wearing a sleeveless shirt and the bra strap wandered off your shoulder and was directly visible – well that was borderline trampy.  Acquaintances might titter or feel sorry for you, but true friends would take you aside and would say with whispered urgency, “Your bra strap is showing!”  The only thing that could be more embarrassing was pubic hair peeking out of a bathing suit.  Panicked reparations would then ensue, which sometimes involved pinning the strap to the shirt.   But then of course you could not let the pin show or pucker the shirt.  Therefore you had to carefully fix the strap to the shoulder seam.  There were certain recalcitrant bra straps that always slipped down the shoulder, and it was just safer to just throw them away.   (In fact I do the same thing for underwear that habitually wedges or socks that fall into my shoes.)

The other acknowledged function of the bra was to address the visible nipple.  Lightweight bras could certainly be very comfortable, but might not be up to the task if the weather turned nippy.  In the 1970s Farrah Fawcett rose to fame based on a poster showcasing her tousled hair and gleaming smile.  But I think that the unspoken appeal was the novelty of one very visible nipple beneath a clinging red bathing suit.  I am still startled to see the sturdy nipples of both of the Williams sisters as they hustle around the tennis court. I just want to reach into the TV set, tap them on the shoulder and save them from embarrassment in front of millions, “Girls, your nipples are showing.”

Then of course there were rules governing bikinis, which were only considered outerwear when worn near water.  I remember the movie Lolita where the young minx was lounging in the back yard in a tease of a white bikini top.  However, the sprinkler was on and so what looked like a bra became acceptable outerwear.  While bathing suits can be worn with impunity near the pool, sea or streamside, getting to and from the water requires a transitional outfit – the beach cover up, which is strictly limited to short errands such as pumping gas or returning a movie, particularly if the cover up is see through.  For example, I have never seen anyone in a gossamer cover up in the public library or at a waitressed restaurant.   We had a back yard swimming pool, and my mother would spend most of the summer in a bathing suit, which was far from a bikini, but more like a one piece romper.  However, every time that she needed to go on an errand, she would dutifully change into a top and shorts (which were not that different from her romper), and then change back when she returned. 

As confusing as this situation was, there was further upheaval a mere five years later when bras became the symbol of sexual repression and plumes of acrid smoke from burning rubber became the stuff of the nightly news.  At this point I was in the college, and by the time the sexual revolution filtered down to my apolitical level, the only message that I got were that bras were now optional.  Sounded good to me from a purely practical point of view – less clothes to buy and less laundry to wash.  I did not have big breasts sloshing around that needed support and therefore bras seemed totally unnecessary.  The visible nipple was still an issue, but that was solved by wearing thicker cotton shirts.  Those Mexican wedding shirts were quite ideal – my favorite one was an otherwise light weight see-through cotton shirt but with two columns of embroidery positioned directly over the nipples. 

After college I went to medical school and then onto motherhood, so I was completely distracted and unaware of the changing cultural mores.  When I finally came up for air, I was appalled to notice teenagers walking around with visible bra straps – where were their friends to give them the heads up?  But with careful scrutiny, I discovered that the bra strap taboo was over – in fact visible bra straps were everywhere, underneath camisoles, or criss cross straps beneath a tank top, where the visible straps could only have been intentional.  But mentally I was still stuck in front of my grade school locker thinking, “Hey, your underwear is showing!”  I interviewed a teenager who educated me on the different classifications of bras.  Your underwear drawer now included bras with “cute” straps that were intentionally visible and color coordinated with the camisole or tee shirt.  However, these were distinct from your everyday bras – ratty cotton bras with white elastic straps and yellowed out armpits were still worn, but only when there was no possibility that they would be seen.  It reminded me of the old adage to always wear clean underpants to bed in case your house burned down and you were forced to flee into the streets with nothing but your underwear on.  

Then there was the emergence of the bra as fashionable and sexy lingerie – seems our culture was finally catching up to the French here.  While past Sears’ catalogs featured disembodied photographs of sedate bras with a dash of frill, Victoria’s Secret created a buzz by featuring full frontal photos of models wearing nothing but elaborate come-hither underwear and high heels.  Now when I get dressed, the shoes are the last thing that I put on, and the first thing that I take off at the end of the day, so the combination of underwear and heels made no sense.  Furthermore, instead of being a second tier tawdry underwear model, the top Victoria’s Secret model was touted with the same breathless admiration and celebrity as a swimsuit model.  There was an episode of Seinfeld that captured this dilemma of bra as outwear vs. underwear.  Elaine had a big-breasted childhood friend named Ellen Mishki who irked her by always going braless.  Elaine decided to give her a white bra for her birthday, which Ellen then preceded to wear as outwear beneath an unbuttoned blazer.  As she nonchalantly walked down the street, Elaine was even more peeved to realize that she got more stares and whistles than when she jiggled braless down the street.    

Into this confusing mix came the sports bra, which by its very name suggested its ambivalence as under vs. outer wear.  Ostensibly the sports bra was not designed to be sexy but engineered to tamp down the heavage of the cleavage, although Serena Williams seems to outheave even the best efforts of the Nike engineers.  The convention seems to be that the sports bra can be worn as outerwear while jogging, extending its range beyond water limits of a swimsuit, but similarly, a sports bra is considered underwear in other venues.  Recall the performance of Brandi Chastain, the US soccer player who scored the winning goal in the dramatic gold medal game against China in the 1999 world cup.  She ran halfway across the field then took her shirt off and waved it over her head, revealing her black sports bra.  Cultural anthropologists could probably create a thesis focusing on the demographics of those who regarded this performance as a strip tease versus a simple celebration.  I was in the startled strip tease camp, while my daughter said, “Its no biggie, it’s just a sports bra, mom.”  While it may have been a sports bra, the key fact seemed to be that she had taken off her shirt to reveal it, and that was stripping, regardless of what lay beneath. 

 Forty five years have passed since my first steps into the world of bradom, and like many other fashion trends, I have chosen to be a bystander.  To me the everyday bra is still resolutely underwear, and an exposed bra strap still makes me anxious.  I’m an old dog averse to new tricks and I like of the comfort of the bra as nothing more than a functional piece of clothing.  It’s simpler that way.

The missing words in the following poem are all anagrams (i.e. post, stop, spot) and the number of dashes indicates the number of letters.  One of the missing words will rhyme with the preceding or following line.  Your job is to solve the missing word using the context of the poem.  Scroll down for the answers. 

Thoughts on Bras

 1.  Puberty is a complicated transition with many different —–

 But a simple training bra is one common way it starts.

 2.  A visible bra —– used to make you want to cringe and die,

 But what was underwear is now outerwear seen by every naked eye.

 3.  When a large breasted athlete has a problem with her cleavage

She wears a sports bra that  —– her breasts to diminish any heavage.

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Answers;  parts, strap, traps

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