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Monday, October 16, 2017

A Medical Doctor Explains Why He Will Always Eat Fruit

It is somewhat annoying having my younger brother Mark home when he doesn't have to get up early for work ─ he had last Thursday and Friday off due to repairs required on the transmission of his work truck; and he has also had today off. 

He will likely get his truck back tomorrow, but he won't be working that day either.

With him in no particular rush to get to bed last evening, I ended up having a second can of strong (8% alcohol) beer; but that was because of how early it was that we began watching T.V. ─ he was home from the bar no more than two minutes after 6:00 p.m.

I prefer not to be turning on the T.V. until around 8:00 p.m. Otherwise, it is just too difficult sitting there for the additional time without drinking while Mark is in full display of his prowess at  putting back the beers.

Of course, he had his pass-outs, and probably only watched one entire series' episode of the five series that I had tuned in.

He was watching a T.V. news programme when I bade him a good night; and it was 11:12 p.m. when I was securely under the covers in my bed.   

Both of my stepsons had gone to bed, so Mark was the last person up.

I probably had a more fractured sleep than usual, with lots of dreaming. I may have risen once during the night to use the bathroom.

It was 6:32 a.m. when I checked the time this morning and rose for the day. My eldest stepson Tho had gone to work, although initially I thought maybe he had not.

His younger brother Poté was still in bed.

I got busy with the edit of an old post that was originally published on January 13, 2012 at my hosted website My Retirement Dream ─ an edit I have worked on since October 7th.

I did not expect to be finishing it today, but I finally did mange to, even though it took me until a little after 1:00 p.m.: Bangkok Bangkok II Coral Gables Florida.   

If I am remembering correctly, I first heard Mark stirring in his bedroom at 9:12 a.m.; and Poté also had risen. I think Poté headed out the door at 9:30 a.m. to drive himself to work, but Mark had not yet emerged from his bedroom ─ he had just finished a quick shower. 

And very soon, Mark was watching T.V.

As I said earlier, I did not expect to finish that edit of the old post today, so I broke from it for a nap ─ it was just a very few minutes after 10:00 a.m. when I had settled into bed.

I was only down for about half an hour, yet I did nap.

Mark was to seek his own nap closer to noon.

After he finished, and I had then completed and published the edit to that old My Retirement Dream post, I went out to the backyard tool shed to do some pull-ups. The four-mile round-trip hike I made yesterday to the government liquor store was my sole exercise that day.

Today has been characterized by a rather steady drizzle of rain ─ quite the change from the flawlessly sunny day we had yesterday. 

It was probably around 2:00 p.m. when Mark headed away for the afternoon ─ probably straight to the bar, for someone had phoned him a little earlier, and I heard Mark say something like, "You're already there?"   

If it is so, then he'll  probably be in bad shape tonight. 

My wife Jack should be home this evening. Of late, she has been working Mondays and Tuesdays at Sabai Thai restaurant over in the Guildford area, and spending those two nights here at home instead of downtown in Vancouver where she spends most of her time.

But enough of my day thus far.

You must surely have heard or read that practically all carbohydrates are a food choice that we need to drastically reduce in our diets, and that even fruit causes blood sugar issues.

I think I have even seen it recommended that we should try and avoid most fruits.

Well, one medical doctor (who also happens to be a Doctor of Philosophy) has this to day:


That certainly bolsters my own resolve about guiltlessly including fruit in my diet...although I confess that I don't actually tend to eat much fruit for other reasons.

Okay, I have an old photo that I want to post now ─ the description beneath it is from the Google Plus album where I have the image filed:

The photo was taken sometime during the Christmas period in either 1974 or 1975.

I no longer know the identity of the girl at the extreme left, but the two other beautiful little girls are sisters Michelle Lee Gunther (centre) and her younger sister Pamela Susan Gunther.
And that is my lead-in for this old journal entry of mine that I am going to use to close today's post with.

On this date 41 years ago, I was 27 years old and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster. I was renting the unit in a private home located on Ninth Street, and no more than two houses up from Third Avenue. 

It was a Saturday, and I had just had the most torturous evening and night that only seemed to grow worse with each passing hour.

I was into a relationship that may have only been about seven weeks old with 20-year-old Melody St. Jean ─ a lass whose interest in me I had deflected for around three years until the fateful evening when she showed up at my room's door with a bottle of wine and a mickey of booze.

I was ill-suited for a romantic relationship because I was unemployed and with no prospects. 

I had no telephone, and relied heavily upon the telephone of my old friend William Alan Gill who was renting a bachelor suite that may have been around four blocks from my room. 

I didn't drive, so I could not take a girlfriend on anything like a date ─ I didn't have the money for cabs, let alone any date activity.

Fortunately, Bill was keen on driving, and he liked getting out and doing things. He was also very receptive to Melody. 

The night preceding this journal entry, the three of us had been drinking, and finally ended up at the home of my maternal Aunt Nell Halverson 'way out on 60th Avenue in Surrey ─ there was generally lots going on there on weekends, for she had a large household.

But even before we went there, Melody and I were having trouble. I had so little confidence in myself nor in our relationship that I had started off the evening in a retrospective mood, but Melody seemed to have interpreted my quiet as a sign that I was unhappy with her.

Everything just went straight downhill after that.

I have never been one who can bare my soul ─ rather, I clam up even more.

And Melody had a knack for making me feel unbelievably isolated ─ which was easy enough because of my depressive nature and low self-esteem.

The night had ended after Bill drove Melody to where she worked as a member of the live-in staff at a care facility that I now think was Pioneer House (220 Sherbrooke Street) in New Westminster.

I feigned being asleep in the back seat of the car, apparently determined to cause myself as much emotional pain as I could.

I wasn't even into communicating with Bill, and I had no intention of discussing my feelings with him. I was dour and dark, and feeling so hopeless that I felt damned, and didn't much care. 

I was even hurt and angry at God.

It was 4:00 a.m. when I got to bed back at my room after walking there from Bill's apartment.
SATURDAY, October 16, 1976

I arose about 9:00 a.m.

Nothing has changed.

If Bill comes over, it is highly possible I will never again answer his knock ─ or anyone else's.

I'm fed up with myself. Melody should have the best possible, not me; I'm useless trash.

But I'll love her right up to the near day I die. I intend never to burden anyone again.

No more will I mooch all day at mom's, nor use dad & Marie to advantage.

I just wish I didn't exist!

I was going to visit Manpower today, but I feel too bloody shattered. I'm just going to stay here all day long, and try to ignore any knocking.

Well, I spent a few hours lying down, but about 2:30 p.m. I settled on going to Manpower. 

Apparently the place must definitely be closed on Saturdays.

It's now after 5:00 p.m., and I've come down in my misery to the point where, if Bill & Melody came over, I would respond to their overtures and even go out; but only because I wish the opportunity to try and explain to Mel why I am as I am.

And now it's 7:00 p.m.; time lies heavily on my hands.

If no one comes tonight, I shall give up and concentrate during the week on getting work; no late week nights interfering with my ability to arise early each morning.

I love Melody so much; I hope I find something fast so that I can contact her and learn then if she'll give me another chance after I explain myself.

But after tonight I absolutely must find the strength to not answer my door some eve if she comes over; not till I'm employed.  

I feel like my living heart has been cut out of my body.

It's now past 9:00 p.m.; I wrote Melody an explanatory good-bye letter which I will deliver or mail Sunday night or possibly Monday morn...if I do not receive a visit from her yet tonight.

Bedtime is 9:30 p.m.
I was just figuring out that federal government departments like Manpower and Immigration are of course closed on the weekend. 

Its offices were where the unemployed would go to check the job opportunities, or to file for Unemployment Insurance if a person had worked long enough to qualify for any.

I don't have anything to offer by way of comment about how I was feeling ─ that is starkly evident, I think. 

I knew that I was emotionally unstable and even self-destructive, but I did not know how to cope with or remedy the condition.

The biggest factor that has kept me from taking my life has always been that there were members of my immediate family alive ─ I could not suicide and cause such excruciating hurt to either of my parents.

Now there is just my younger brother Mark.

There is also my wife Jack, but our marital intimacy came to an end ─ at least officially ─ in March 2013. 

Sunday, October 15, 2017

The Dangerous Germs in Our Reusable Shopping Bags

As I watched my shows by myself last evening, I had finished my rather Spartan supper and was mulling whether to brush my teeth, when I became aware that one of my stepsons ─ probably the youngest, Poté ─ had set a box of (Kentucky?) fried chicken on the kitchen counter.

That's generally the cue that anyone who is interested can help himself to some.

When I investigated, I saw that all of the pieces ─ eight or more ─ were the juiciest and meatiest pieces like the piece in the upper left that is shown in this photo.

So even though I had eaten, I could not resist helping myself to a piece...and then a second one after I had finished the first.

I know that the darned things are rather unhealthy, the crunchy coating undoubtedly containing MSG and probably even GMO ingredients ─ and deep-fried in harmful vegetable oil.

But they were so ridiculously delicious!

I held myself to just the usual one can of strong (8% alcohol) beer that evening, and I think that I was probably in bed not too long after 11:00 p.m., but memory fails.

My sleep overnight was as usual ─ quite fractured. And before it was yet daylight outside, I was having sufficient trouble finding sleep that I tried lying on my stomach.

After awhile when I had become quite uncomfortable in that position, believing that it had likely been futile anyway, I noticed with considerable surprise that it was light outside. A check of the time revealed that it was 7:22 a.m. ─ time to get up!

I hoped to be able to get out today and do the beer hike to the government liquor store about two miles away at 108th Avenue & King George Boulevard here in Whalley

I needed to try and get away before my younger brother Mark had gotten home ─ he had spent the night at the home of his girlfriend Bev. However, the liquor store opens fairly late on Sundays.

The kitchen light was on after I got up, but Poté was gone ─ he must have left for work exceptionally early.

Naturally the front door was unlocked.

I made my day's first hot beverage and was soon at work on the final stages of the edit I  have been performing since October 7 of an old post at my hosted website My Retirement Dream.

A little after 9:00 a.m. I broke from it to get myself ready for my outing, but that was just preparatory ─ I was not intending to leave that early for I correctly presumed that the liquor store likely would not open until 11:00 a.m.

Mark arrived home just ahead of 10:00 a.m. I knew that he would be having a shower, so when he went on upstairs to his bedroom, I hurriedly began dressing to make my hike.

It was 10:08 a.m. when I set off. The sky was absolutely cloudless.

I had to assume an exceptionally slow pace to avoid arriving at the liquor store too early.

Surrey Place (Central City) is roughly the halfway mark; after I had passed through it as is generally my wont, it was 10:36 a.m. ─ I was setting an exceptional slow pace.

I finally capped the stalling off by going a block out of my way, and that guaranteed that I would not be arriving too early.

It seems that lots of people like to get to that liquor store early in Sundays. I found two tills were open, and maybe 10 or more people lined up at each one.

When I made comment about it to the gal at my till, she laughed and said that lots of people must be thirsty this morning. And then she mockingly wondered why they were not instead going to church?

I considered buying more than the dozen cans that I did buy, half musing that it would be nice to have a few beers outdoors in that gorgeous sunshine ─ it was almost warm out there.

But I knew that I still had some editing work I wanted to do on that old post. Still, I ensured that I kept the slow pace so as to derive as much benefit from the sunshine as possible. 

It was no later than 11:57 a.m. by the time I was back here in the house. Mark was in his bedroom with the door closed, so I supposed that he was resting; but soon after I was home, he emerged.

And no later than 12:26 p.m. he headed out the front door to get away and enjoy some of the day himself, probably intending to have a few beers outdoors somewhere.

Had I not gone out today, I might have actually been able to be done with that old post's edit and so have been able to publish it. That will have to await tomorrow.

Anyway, that brings me up to date, for it is 2:00 p.m. at this very moment.

I remember a year or more ago that there were news reports about some research that had learned that those reusable shopping bags were subject to contamination by potentially dangerous microbes due to the various food products they constantly carry, as well as the unclean places upon which the bags are set.

Well, there is another study finding nothing has changed ─ this time, the research was done in the U.K.:




I know that ─ at least as far as I have noticed ─ my wife Jack has never washed any of the bags we use.

But we can't exactly live in a protective bubble, can we? After all, even our hands are touching things all the day through that are undoubtedly contaminating them ─ I certainly am not fastidious about hand-washing.

And here I am, 68 years old and somehow still alive.

I took that old frame of mine out into the backyard ahead of 2:30 p.m. to benefit from just a little more sunshine ─ it was either that, or submit to a lie-down in my bedroom.

I found it cooler than I expected as I sat in a chair on the lawn, but there was just enough warmth to keep me able to relax out there in a short-sleeved top. Otherwise, I was fully clothed ─ no shorts or bared feet.

I spent over a half-hour out there.

I want now to post an old photo of Earl Primrose, the man who was to finally marry my maternal Aunt Nell Halverson after the two of them spent years and years in a common-law relationship.

The photo was clearly taken in the Christmas season, probably during the years 1974 or 1975:

And with that done, I am going to close off now with an old journal entry of mine from 41 years ago when I was 27 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting in a private home located on Ninth Street, and not more than two houses up from Third Avenue.

It was a Friday, and I would probably be getting involved with my relatively new girlfriend, 20-year-old Melody St. Jean.

She was working, but I had been unemployed for seven or eight weeks. And even when I had been working, it had just been on a three-month contract I had with a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) as a truck swamper.

I tried to get the department of Manpower and Immigration ─ the entity where the public went to check for employment opportunities, and to also apply for Unemployment Insurance if they qualified ─ to set me up with some sort of sponsored vocational training, but they didn't seem interested in doing so.

I was frustrated, and couldn't understand why I was so disfavoured. I had so little self-confidence that I didn't have it in me to fight them.

I did not drive, so if I was to find work, it could not be far off. But I was hampered by being something of a social misfit and recluse. 

I had always thought that an ideal job for someone like me was off in a fire tower or lighthouse; or maybe a night watchman. 

But I had no talents, and never completed high school.

I was not able to afford to have a telephone in my room, so the numbers I gave for contacting me were either those of my old friend William Alan Gill ─ who was renting a bachelor suite that mightn't have been more than about four blocks from my room; or my mother Irene Dorosh, who lived out in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey.
FRIDAY, October 15, 1976

Up at 7:00 a.m., but awake earlier.

During the typing of a letter to Jean, which I later completed, the landlady came down and had me assist her tote a large boxed shower cubicle that is to be installed in the place of the rotten affair I now have; we brought it from her place to the basement, and for this she gave me 2 beers.

She said she hopes to get me a better couch too.

I hung around rather expecting the mailman to bring me a cheque, but it's 11:00 a.m. and he hasn't come, while the landlady has gone out.

I shall head over to Bill's to get some security agency addresses about 11:25 a.m., mailing my letter; then to Manpower this sunny day for newspaper ads.

But Bill wasn't home.

Proceeding downhill, a hail from the Unemployment Insurance attracted me to Took, waiting for Cheryl who was inside. We 3 then continued downhill till I turned off into Manpower.

Took hopes to be at the S.A.N.E. Hallowe'en dance November 5.

Coming home, I failed again to find Bill home. And since I must await my cheque, I decided to come home and nap.

However, at 2:00 p.m. I called it quits, for I couldn't pass beyond limbo-land. Besides, the landlady was home for some time. A check, though, revealed no mail for me.

Shortly before 3:00 p.m. I got in some exercises; still, it can't be denied I've wasted my day.

Last night Melody said Cyril drove Glenn to the Royal Columbian Hospital; he's got pneumonia, being first stricken with it last Sunday, I guess.

I mixed up some bread, but won't bake it till another day.

I'll be at Bill's by 7:00 p.m. at latest.

Just as I was ready to leave, he knocked.

I joined him in taking his mother home. Then we stopped off at Melody's work suite. She'd just gotten out of a bath.

She soon had me and Bill off for a 6-pack of beer, which I bought as Bill finally paid me off.

We sat about at Mel's till it was gone, then the 3 of us headed for the Dell Hotel.

And I suppose it developed from here.

Melody must have little tolerance for my silent moods, which actually arise from my lack of esteem for myself, not from any ill feeling for her. 

But instead of coming onto me with the affection I need to conquer such harmful, depressive states of mind, she gave me the silent treatment in turn, it seemed.

It was 11:00 p.m. or so when we left, discovering the Kennedy liquor store to have closed at that hour.

So we set off from there to Scottsdale, I buying 2 Big Macs while Mel & Bill went for 2 cases of beer; I squared up with Bill later.

Anyway, we got to Nell's to find little activity there, but Mel was for staying, so I brought in our beer.

The front room was full, so she & I didn't sit together.

And my gnawing loneliness grew.

Jock and some of the kids went to pick up Lil & Spud and more beer; I thought Melody went too (Bill's car was used), for she had left the living room and was gone for a long time.

Bill eventually clued me in that she was in the kitchen, and not gone at all.

This hurt; I began more than before to feel she was rejecting me. 

Being with her can sometimes be the loneliest experience I can imagine.

She only joined us in the living room when Jock returned with his carload. 

And then Wendy came in and began annoying me by viciously mussing my hair. 

I hurried off outside, and drank the last of my 2nd bottle of beer at Nell's; this totaled to 4 bottles and 2 glasses in all that evening.

It was to be my last beer.

I saw Bill & Mel get into the car and pull away; when I returned to the house, crushed with a hurting loneliness, Wendy said they'd gone for more beer ─ then she set to bugging me anew. Believe me, I was not in the mood.

I went outside again, and wondered how Melody could be so consistently and easily bear to be separated from me. 

And the answer I came up with was the natural conclusion that she couldn't possible love and depend on me as I do her. She's too young, and had far too much experience with guys to care for one more with the intensity I know ─ I who have never had a girl, nor even sex, before her.

And she's got so many alternatives available to her right now; I have none, and want none, but she. Plainly and simply, she doesn't need me.

Burning painfully, I set off for a walk to the King George in the hope they went to get their beer at the Newton Inn and would return to find me walking down the highway, obviously upset.

But I chose badly, for they didn't pass me.

It was 1:20 a.m. when I left, and I walked as far as Newton Road.

I was in a turmoil over what to do. 

I wanted to continue home and be forever done with everyone I've ever known, and just quietly go to Hell entirely on my own; I was even prepared to wholly forsake God ─ especially God, He who was responsible for my plight through His lack of benefiting action when it comes to helping me; He's never given an evident damn.

But I couldn't pass Newton Road; I couldn't break off everything entirely on my own.

So I turned and headed back, leaving Melody's conduct upon my return to form the basis of any further action on my part.

Several times my eyes filled with tears. I was filled with a determination to have things as tragic for me as possible, relishing the pain my masochism was causing me; I wouldn't have cared much right then if I had to die.

I got back to discover Bill & Mel in the car, about to leave.

So I took off back down the road to wait until they pulled out onto the road so that I could just stroll into view like I was just returning.

And I waited and waited; they were obviously in no big rush to leave.

If they turned toward the King George, they'd see me; if they went for Scott Road, well, I was prepared to foot it home and just forget everyone I've ever known.

But they came my way.

Bill asked if I was ready to go home, and I agreed.

Melody asked if I was getting into the back seat (she was in the front), so I took this to mean she preferred I did, and responded that I would.

Bill probed me with blunt questions attempting to uncover what was amiss, but I didn't disclose all the facts.

I finally just ignored his questions.

As Melody neared her destination ─ her natural home ─ I shut my eyes, and let her act as if she believed I were asleep.

She said her good-byes, telling Bill she would speak to me the next day if I was at his place and willing to talk to her.

How could she know I had determined not to see her again, being so eaten up with the acceptance that I was sick, and far too sensitive and worthless to make her a proper boyfriend ─ I love her more than she or anyone else could possibly love me in return.

I love her so much I'm actually sick ─ mentally!

She can do better than me ─ find someone with status, someone with a good job, money, and good wholesome looks.

I'm a loser.

I said a silent good-bye to her, my friends & family, and God. Now I'm truly on my own.

I told Bill to take me to his place so I could get the security addresses I've wanted.

He didn't bother me with any questions, and let me have 2 cold pieces of Kentucky chicken.

I left him, leaving Melody's keys and cigarettes, and telling him I wouldn't be over the next afternoon, leaving him to conclude I would not be going to Blaine with Mel, Allan & Marie Saturday night either.

I walked home, and cried.

I retired at 4:00 a.m., wishing I were able to forever die.

What a bloody long entry ─ I had no idea this was coming up.

Well, let's start at the beginning ─ the letter I typed in the morning was to an American pen-pal, Jean M. Martin (née Black).  

The replacement shower cubicle I wrote about ─ I don't recall that incident. All I remember is that my shower was outside of my room and in a cubicle within the basement proper. And it had gotten to be in extremely bad shape from constant water damage. 

"Took" was an Indigenous Canadian who was middle-aged, and who had been a co-worker of mine at S.A.N.E. ─ I had a lengthy part-time history with S.A.N.E. that went back to 1973, I think.

I am wondering if I made a mistake in saying that he hailed me from the Unemployment Insurance offices, for I was most likely walking down Sixth Street towards Manpower on Columbia Street

I rather think that the Unemployment Insurance offices were Manpower; so I may have meant that he and whomever Cheryl was were instead at the social services (welfare) offices on Sixth Street.  

The chap ─ "Glenn" ─ who had to go to the hospital because of pneumonia was Melody's brother-in-law, if I remember correctly. And the guy who drove him was Melody's boss ─ Cyril.

Even Cyril was apparently interested in Melody.

At the time, Melody was part of the live-in staff at a care facility that I now believe was Pioneer House (220 Sherbrooke Street) in behind the Royal Columbian Hospital. 

After Bill and I visited her ─ drinking a half-dozen beers where she was staying at Pioneer House (Melody's family home was elsewhere in New Westminster) ─ the three of us spent most of the evening in the Dell Hotel beer parlour (or pub) out in Whalley.

The Dell Hotel no longer exists, but it was next to the Dell Shopping Centre (whose official address is apparently 10604 King George Boulevard), and near to Canada Post.

I'm unsure why we went all the way over to the government liquor store in Kennedy Heights (roughly Scott Road & 88th Avenue) after that, but the liquor store was closed.

So we continued on to the Scottsdale Inn, I expect, which was approximately at Scott Road & 64th Avenue.

My maternal Aunt Nell Halverson generally had a large household, and the weekends tended to be one long party. I am quite certain that at this time, she was renting a house located on 60th Avenue. I no longer recall just where it was, but let's just use 60th Avenue & 132nd Street as a focal point. 

The pest there named Wendy was Nell's youngest daughter who was probably around 14 years old.

When I made that most emotional walk, it was right up to 72nd Avenue & King George Boulevard ─ Newton Road is the old name for 72nd Avenue.

I was prepared to hike all the way to my room in New Westminster, but it was not the distance that halted me ─ rather, I could not quite pull the plug on absolutely everyone and everything and just go home.

I had to return to Nell's in the hope that somehow something might get salvaged with Melody.

But I have never been able to talk about what has ever had me greatly upset, and it was no different that night. I clammed up.

There is the self-destructive in me, and I have been plagued with suicidal thoughts since I was in my late teens unto this very day in 2017.

It is extremely interesting ─ if admittedly hurtful ─ for me to read those words trying to express and explain my torment back then.

Saturday, October 14, 2017

The Value of REM Sleep

Last evening saw me go through two cans of strong (8% alcohol) beer as well as a shot of at least two ounces of spiced rum.

As he typically does, my younger brother Mark had come home from the bar quite well-oiled.

And since he showed up ahead of 8:00 a.m., I managed to tune in four episodes of as many different series, plus a comedy.

Three of the series' episodes we watched were premiere or pilot episodes: Ghost Wars, Mr. Mercedes, and The Gifted. Of those, I might give The Gifted an edge, but Mr. Mercedes was a close second.

One reason I probably enjoyed The Gifted more was because there were three beautiful young lasses figuring largely into the episode, whereas Mr. Mercedes' main character is an unfit and overweight retired detective.

If the latter show is only going to be about the young killer always keeping just out of reach, then it is going to start ranking low in my estimation. Although I admit to watching The Following, the killers disgusted me, and I hated that I was hooked into continually tuning in to see if any were being put out of commission.

So despite being a repeat viewer of The Following, I would never have raised my hand if I was being polled as to being a fan of the show. I most definitely was not.

It was not popular to me in my definition of that term.

So Mr. Mercedes had better not follow that revolting and frustrating path. I need to see evil wholly extirpated ─ not witness it triumphing week after bloody week.

By the time I had tuned in the final of the four series episodes (the season premiere of Supergirl), I doubt Mark would even be able to tell me anything about it today ─ he was too plastered. So the same would go for the episode of The Ranch that I next tuned in.

When that last show was done, he announced that he was ready to call it a night. But instead of going on upstairs to his bedroom, he was soon passed out in his chair in the living room.

I left him there shortly after midnight and went to my own bed for the night.

I had probably poured myself the spiced rum more out of a need for something to help me tolerate Mark's annoying irrelevant commentary, than because I was enjoying my evening's entertainment.

I didn't sleep particularly well overnight, likely partly due to the excess alcohol in my system ─ I am not accustomed to having more than a can of strong beer an evening.

Overindulgence in alcohol seems to give me a 'burned out' feeling during the night. That is, my innards feel almost seared, but not in the same way that indigestion would make one feel.

I think that it was 6:28 a.m. when I checked the time out of discomfort ─ the hangover effect? Sleep was not easily achieved any longer, so I rose for the day.

Soon enough, I was at work adding further content into the old post that I have been editing at my hosted website My Retirement Dream since October 7.

It was unusually slow going. I had hoped to be done today's workload assignment as soon after 9:00 a.m. as possible so that I cold return to bed for some restorative napping, but that sure never happened.

Mark rose somewhere around 9:30 a.m., I would estimate. It developed that he had an appointment of some sort that he soon left to keep.

I never finished today's assigned content supply at that old post until well after 11:00 a.m., and then I stalled around waiting for Mark to return before seeking my nap.

It was actually about 12:03 p.m. by the time I was back in bed, and I remained there for just over an hour. Mark must never have bothered seeking a nap of his own.

I think it was slightly before 2:00 p.m. when he headed away for the day. Provided he and his girlfriend Bev get along this evening, he will be sleeping at her home and leave me here alone to watch T.V. by myself.

My youngest stepson Poté evidently has today off work; and his older brother Tho must not have slept here overnight, for I have seen nothing of him.

Of course, Tho can be very efficient at remaining in bed, as can Poté who did not get up until a short while before Mark left.

The day has been solidly overcast.

It is nearing 3:00 p.m. at this moment, and I have yet to do my pull-ups out in the backyard shed ─ I deem them to be my minimum exercise requirement for any specific day.

I actually had a small meal before taking my nap because I was very hungry by then, and concerned that taking a nap on an empty stomach would make me feel weak for that strenuous exercise.

I am now awaiting a little further settlement of that meal, and also my day's second hot beverage which I have just recently finished drinking. I cannot perform pull-ups if I feel myself to have any symptoms of a distended stomach due to something I have earlier consumed. 

To that end, I am now going to lie down for a spell to rest my ill eyes, and to ease the aches out of my frame ─ a consequence of sitting here on a metal chair, and hunched over a low keyboard that is barely above my knees.

...Well, it is now 3:57 p.m., and I have performed those pull-ups.

I want to mention a Google notification that I saw today ─ another collage of photos has been created from those I have in Google Plus albums. This latest one commemorates this date exactly six years ago:

Now I'm going to track down the original photos ─ this happens to be an event at which I was not present, so I fully expect that they are photos taken by my wife Jack.

And now I see that I was there!

It was a belated birthday party Jack's friend Fanta threw for her husband Scott, whose actual birthday is October 11. That year (i.e., 2011), October 11 was on a Tuesday, so the party had to wait until Friday the 14th.

Let's start with the first column.

Peeking around and grinning beautifully at the extreme left is my wife Jack; I cannot identify the second woman wearing the scarf; Ui is standing next to her; then Jina; I cannot identify the seated woman; and the woman at the extreme right is Chu Chu:

In the second photo, my wife Jack is at the extreme left; then hostess Fanta; I cannot identify the lass whose head is missing; Bee is in the upper right corner; and Ui just beneath Bee:

In the third photo, I can only identify hostess Fanta in the centre:

Now in the second column, the top photo only has three people I can identify. Bee is at the extreme left in the top row; Ui is the gal in the centre who is lowest in the photo; and hostess Fanta is just above and a bit to the right of Ui:

In the final photo, I am only certain of the identity of Trent, the fellow at the right with the bared forearms:

I was figured into the celebration when it was realized that it was also my birthday on October 11.

It took far too long locating those original photos, for there are actually two albums containing them, and Google was very random at choosing the five photos that it used.

Together, those two albums totaled 1,301 images to scroll through!

I now want to post a link to an article concerned with the value of REM sleep ─ research indicates that this is the most valuable sleep for the preservation of one's mental faculties as we grow older:


If I remember to, anytime I get to bed exceptionally late, I take a melatonin supplement. I think my brother Mark takes one nightly.

I don't know what the potency of his supplements are, but mine are the recommended three milligrammes.

I have read that the key hours for the best natural production of melatonin are those hours preceding midnight, and for maybe a couple or so hours thereafter. Thus, if I am getting to bed at midnight or later, then I will take a supplement if I remember to.

I feel that I dream prolifically as a norm, but I just cannot seem to retain memory of my dreams.

Okay, I am going to close today's post now with an old journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 27 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.  

The private home I was renting the unit in was located on Ninth Street, and not more than two houses up from Third Avenue.

My main mailing address was my mother Irene Dorosh's home, so I tried to visit there two or three times a week. I didn't drive, so I walked ─ and it was about 1½ hours just to get there, even at a fast pace.

She and her husband Alex lived in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey. Their little home no longer exists, but its address was 12106 - 90th Avenue.

I was unemployed as of at least seven weeks earlier, and even then had only been working on a three-month contract with a New Westminster charitable organization as a truck swamper.

I had been doing what I could to convince the responsible federal government department that was then called Manpower and Immigration to put me into some sort of vocation training course, but they only seemed interested in fobbing me off on getting further education ─ something they did not provide financial support for.

Manpower was also the department that provided Unemployment Insurance to folks who qualified.  

If I had to work, I felt that something like a night watchman would have been ideal. I was socially inhibited; I did not drive; and I didn't even have a functioning telephone in my room ─ I could not afford one.

My old friend William Alan Gill was renting a bachelor suite that was maybe four blocks from my room, so I often used his telephone, and even used it as my contact number.  

But Bill had a job involving shift work, so he was not always home or even available ─ he might be sleeping during the day if he was on a night shift.

Compounding my miseries was the fact that I had allowed myself to fall in love with 20-year-old Melody St. Jean about seven or so weeks earlier. She worked as part of the live-in staff at a care facility that I think was Pioneer House (220 Sherbrooke Street) in New Westminster.

She had been interested in me for perhaps three years, but I had successfully ignored her until one Friday evening when she showed up at my room with a bottle of wine and a mickey of liquor.

I never stood a chance after she spent the next seven or so hours with me, even though we did not have sex at that time ─ I was too inhibited.
THURSDAY, October 14, 1976

Up at 7:00 a.m.

On my way to mom's, I'll stop in at Manpower if it's open (today is a day of general labour shut-down); I should be leaving about 8:35 a.m.

It was a foggy trek.

I should have expected it, but I was surprised to see Alex at home puttering around in the garden.

All I had for mail was a card acknowledging my last philatelic order from Ottawa.

After the fog, the day became sunny.

Bill phoned me about 12:20 p.m. to say Ellen Olson of Manpower called re a course; I failed to reach her before her 12:30 p.m. lunch break.

Mom & Alex went shopping, so after 1:30 p.m. I tried again; she was busy with someone, but took my number and promised to call when free.

All she turned out to have was that rotten BJRT course I wasted 2 months on 2 years ago; she couldn't help me with any suitable night work. 

I left for home afoot at 2:45 p.m.

I exercised fairly vigorously once home.

The Unemployment Insurance cheque I was rather expecting did not appear.

I'll leave for Bill's about 6:40 p.m.

The jerk wasn't there again, and he promised to be. I guess his promises to me are as worthless as those he makes his mother.

I waited there till 7:00 p.m. ─ almost 15 minutes!

He finally came for me around 8:20 p.m.; I believe I'd been partially asleep earlier. Seems he was at Nell's again, drinking.

We'd only been at his place a short while when Melody phoned from home. She asked us to come over.

We did, and went for a drive in Surrey.

Returning, her influence directed us into the Dell Hotel, and I carried the tune, spending at least $4.40.

Poor Melody got back to her work suite late past midnight, and I didn't retire till 1:00 a.m.
I was so furious at Bill because due to his infernal need to be out visiting my maternal Aunt Nell Halverson's home the evening before, I had missed Melody's promised call from where she worked.

My Aunt Nell was renting a home on 60th Avenue off in Surrey.

He had contritely invited me back on this evening, falsely promising that he would be there. 

But let's return to earlier in that journal entry, and why I was surprised to find Alex home ─ you see, I preferred visiting my mother when he was not around because I generally felt uncomfortable or awkward by him.

Maybe I felt too much like a freeloader.

Anyway, he was home because there was some sort of general provincial labour strike happening, and for some reason I did not associate that it would include him, a union member.

But Manpower was open because it was federal, not provincial.

The useless Basic Job Readiness Training (BJRT) that Manpower's Ellen Olsen had for me was one that I had already attended full-time throughout November and December 1974, and it had led to absolutely nothing.

Anyway, after visiting at my mother's home, I hiked the 1½ hours back to my room in New Westminster.

Failing to find Bill home and spending nigh on 15 minutes at his apartment building hoping he would show up, I returned to my room.

He was to come knocking some time later.

But at least Melody caught me this time ─ she was at her family home elsewhere in New Westminster.

Bill was very obliging, but he had a knack of consistently disappointing me sometimes. He graciously drove over so that we could pick up Melody; and then we toured around in Surrey. 

The Dell Hotel no longer exists, but it was in Whalley and had an unpretentious beer parlour. It was within the scope of the Dell Shopping Centre, which is roughly at 10604 King George Boulevard

The Dell Hotel was nearer to the Canada Post office building.

For a guy with a job, Bill was often flat broke, so I footed the tab that night. Beer was fairly cheap back then, so I suppose the $4.40 (or a little more) that I spent got us nicely oiled. 

Melody would most likely be tired at work the next morning.

But so much for this day back in 1976.

Friday, October 13, 2017

U.S. Government Paranormal Activity Research

Last evening while I was eating for supper some of the fare that my wife Jack had prepared the day before, I felt myself to be biting down on a small stone.

I was able to extricate it from the small mouthful I was masticating, and added it to a few bits of chicken bones I had accumulated upon a knee as I sat in the living room watching an episode of Preacher

Anon, a lick of my tongue to the outside lower left quadrant of my choppers revealed what initially I thought to be some probable vegetable matter wedged between a couple of teeth ─ it felt like a bit of leaf or something adhering flatly against a tooth.

I couldn't do aught with my tongue to dislodge it, so I reached in with a fingernail, and then quickly realized what was amiss.

The outer half of that side of the tooth was missing, and what I had thought was something wedged against the tooth was actually the remaining half of the outside wall of the tooth..

A look at this dental chart indicates that the tooth in question is number 19, and according to the DayoDental.com article Teeth Numbers and Names: A First Step in Understanding Your Treatment Plan, the tooth is a second molar.

Initially for some while, I felt a degree of consternation, for I do not frequent dentists. The truth is that I have not been seen by a dentist since possibly 1976, and maybe even as far back as 1974.

I have all 32 of my teeth at the age of 68, although I know that I have a cavity or two. But I think that all of my molars were filled with that silver / mercury amalgam back when I was a kid.

As I continued carefully eating thereafter, I expected some trouble ─ sensitivity or even pain when the juices of my meal reached the open tooth.

But there was no sign of anything like that. I could even chew as if nothing was any different.

Only this morning did I finally take a look at the tooth.

The half of the missing outer wall has revealed a core filling ─ there doesn't seem to be any natural interior of the tooth remaining, unless some exists beneath that filling in the core.

Consequently, there is no apparent change in the tooth's sensitivity to juices from anything I am chewing, nor have I noticed any reaction to my daily hot beverages.

My main thought last evening was that this is just another unwanted indicator that I have less and less relevance for existing, and I am undeniably deteriorating physically.

And if this is truly what God is making starkly clear, then why fight it? 

Perhaps I really am correct in considering that I should not ever see that 70th birthday of mine that is supposed to arrive in October 2019.

Anyway, by the time I went to bed, I had settled into a more accepting mindset where the tooth was concerned. 

If the tooth wall is only an inert shell, and the top core of the tooth naught but an amalgam filling, then the loss of that part of the outer tooth wall has no real significance, and there is nothing to be too concerned about.   

If I am remembering right, it was 11:06 p.m. by the time I was settled into bed. My younger brother Mark had kept me up by not going to his bedroom himself until nearly 11:00 p.m.

He hadn't worked yesterday because his work truck's transmission failed to some degree late in his workday the previous day. All he did yesterday morning was get the truck to a shop where that same transmission had supposedly been doctored a year or two before.

I think Mark claims that "only" something like 56,000 kilometres have been driven since that repair work, so he is expecting the shop ought to give him some consideration in their billing this time.

However, Mark was told that due to a backlog ─ and a manpower shortage at the shop ─ they could only say that they "might" get around to disassembling the transmission this afternoon.

He was told that it takes anywhere from four to six hours just to get the entire transmission assemblage removed from his truck due to its construction. 

Once that is done, it of course has to be diagnosed to determine just what is wrong.

And then once it has been remedied, it will take another four to six hours to get the transmission assembled and reinstalled into the truck.

So he not only did not have to work today, but he figures that he will be lucky to be able to be working again by as soon as next Tuesday.

I had planned to get out today on one of my four-mile round-trip beer replenishment hikes. These are ventures that are quite personal to me, and I prefer no one in the household be aware when I undertake one ─ I am the only person here who does not drive, and it is a sore spot to me that anyone become aware of what I am about to subject myself to.

I do not want anyone to pity me so very much as to have him or her offer to give 'the old man' a ride because of  my lack of means to do anything but walk to get a chore accomplished.       

It is something of a shame to me that this is my lot, so I wish no one to be privy to these forays.

I had the usual night of fractured sleep ─ perhaps somewhat worse than usual. When sleep became so elusive that I restlessly checked the time in the dark, it was 6:44 a.m.

I chose to rise, and was soon at work on the day's assignment of content supply at  one of my six hosted websites ─ currently, I am editing an old post at My Retirement Dream

My eldest stepson Tho had already gone to work. His younger brother Poté was to rise awhile after 7:00 a.m., and at 7:39 a.m. had headed out the front door to drive himself to work.

It was just Mark and I home.

And he began stirring in his room around 9:00 a.m., clearly getting himself up for the day. 

By then, I was already feeling overcome by the physical and mental assault that sitting here at my computer has on my well-being after a few hours. 

I was feeling in need of a nap, but I opted to stay the course and complete the day's assigned editing workload at My Retirement Dream.  

Mark was soon out of his bedroom and downstairs watching T.V. in the living room.

I finishing today's edit work, and less than five minutes past 10:00 a.m. I was back in bed for that needed nap.

I was down for just about an hour.

I knew that it was not going to be possible for me to make the beer hike ─ one which was not essential, in that I have quite enough beer to last me much more than a week. But I had felt in need of the outing, for the day was a blend of sunny periods and cloud.

I went downstairs in resignation and fixed up my day's second hot beverage, and joined Mark to watch an old episode of The Twilight Zone that he had on: "The Man in the Bottle." 

When it was done, he handed the remote and asked me to find something else, so I selected the first episode of the new series The Emerald City.

We weren't sure if it was going to be somewhat on the childish or tame side, but it's looking to be much better than we had hoped.

Adria Arjona's Dorothy is intriguing and extremely likable, and the actress rather reminds me of Jessica Alba, and I loved her in her T.V. series Dark Angel.

Once the pilot episode of The Emerald City was done, I thought Mark was going upstairs for a nap, so I took the opportunity to get out to the backyard tool shed for some pull-ups.

When I returned to the house, I found him back downstairs. He had only gone upstairs to change clothes to go out for the afternoon.

And so he did before it was yet 2:00 p.m.

I am home to stay. It is too late for me to go anywhere. The rush hour of commuters will be building; and in addition, soon all the students will be flooding the streets.

If I do not get away before noon during the week, then my day is done.

I have so little control over my own life, it feels.

Let's talk about something else.

How much do you believe in the potential power of the human mind? And by that, I am intending power that might otherwise be considered supernatural?

The following article is quite interesting, even if it does not in any way reveal how to do what the title implies that the article is going to be about:


Or maybe the author is implying that the steps to do what the title declares are in one of the three books he helped write and is flogging?

I confess that I did not check out the descriptions of any of them to see.

However, I did check out the reference he gave but did not link to:


I never saw the movie the article speaks of ─ I am unsure if I ever even heard of it; but I think I would enjoy it, for it looks quite comical.

According to Wikipedia, The Men Who Stare at Goats was released in 2009, and is a fictionalized version ("parody comedy") of the non-fiction book of the same title.

Yeah, I think that I would like to see the movie.

Alright, I want to post the following old family photo ─ the description beneath it is from the Google album where I have the image filed:

That is my mother Irene Dorosh at the left and wearing the dark sunglasses.

I cannot identify the other woman with her.

I suppose that the photo could have been taken during the decade of the 1980s ─ certainly no earlier.

But the location? I found the photo in a stack of miscellaneous images, but one of the four nearest it was taken at Yellowstone National Park.

I have never been there, but does it have such canyon-like terrain?
I am going to close shop now with this old journal entry of mine from 41 years ago when I was 27 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting in a private home located on Ninth Street and not more than two houses up from Third Avenue.

I had hoped to be visiting my father Hector on this day ─ a Wednesday, two days after Thanksgiving Monday. He had asked me to try and come around over at some point during the Thanksgiving period to have supper with him and his girlfriend Maria Fadden, but I had been too otherwise involved.

I was into a new relationship that may have been nearing the seven-week mark with 20-year-old Melody St. Jean. 

I had no telephone in my room, so she had said that she would phone me early in the evening on this day at the rented bachelor suite of my nearby old friend, William Alan Gill ─ his suite was maybe four or so blocks from my room.

Since I normally walked anywhere that was within reasonable reach, I would have walked to the apartment where my father and Maria were living ─ which was almost to where Metrotown is today. 

And I would have walked home later.

It was a considerable distance for anyone who does not know.

With that being so, it was improbable that I could have paid the familial visit to my father and been back in time to visit Bill in time for Melody's call. He was to be expecting me.

So what did I do?

I have no idea ─ it was too long ago to remember. I am going to be finding out for the first time after all of these years as I type out that old journal entry here.

Be aware that I often wrote in my journal at several setting over any one day, so expect me to be indicating that I am about to head out and do something; and then in the very next sentence, I will be explaining what took place once I had returned from the outing.
WEDNESDAY, October 13, 1976

I awoke close to 7:15 a.m., tired as blazes.

I did my laundry late this foggy morning, buying 2 Marvels; as I was leaving, I saw that strange gal who walks all over (I hadn't seen her for several months); then I saw the S.A.N.E. truck heading down the street.

Next I shall check the newspapers at Manpower, and likely then head straight for dad's. 

I arrived soon after 11:00 a.m., I guess. All was well.

I supped there, and as I hoped, I got in on a huge turkey drumstick; the rest of the filling meal was carbohydrate.

I left for home soon after 4:30 p.m.; I wanted to get home, exercise a bit, then clean up and make it to Bill's by 7:00 p.m. so I won't miss out on sweet Melody's phone call.

It's been cloudy all day.

The screwball wasn't home; and I waited around there for about 25 minutes. He can seem pretty false sometimes.

It was almost 8:15 p.m. when he came knocking; he'd been at Nell's.

Though I contained it, I was as mad at him as Melody must have been at me.

I didn't call her; I still haven't enough faith in myself to understand that she might really have wanted to hear from me.

Instead I watched TV, hoping she'd call.

She didn't, and I left Bill at 11:00 p.m.; he asked me over for tomorrow eve, promising to be home.

Bed at 11:25 p.m.
I should mention that Melody was part of the live-in staff at some manner of care facility that was likely Pioneer House (220 Sherbrooke Street) in New Westminster, so phoning her  had to be done at a house phone that anyone might answer ─ it was always a hassle having to tell whoever took the call that I was phoning for Melody.

I started that day off doing my laundry at the laundromat that I believe was on Sixth Avenue, and near to the public library. There was a store somewhere in the reasonable vicinity called something like the Bluebird Dairy, and I think that it was there that I often bought some comics, magazines, or paperbacks.

Once I was back from laundering, I hiked downtown to Columbia Street to visit the offices of the department of Manpower and Immigration ─ that was where people usually went who were job-seeking, or wanting to apply for Unemployment Insurance.

And from there I then must have hiked out to Burnaby. (Naturally it is possible that I bused, but that would have been most exceptional of me.)

By the way, I haven't a clue who the "strange gal" was that I saw during my laundering outing ─ someone I said that apparently was constantly seen by me out walking. I remember no such person now.

The S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) truck belonged to a New Westminster charitable organization that I had  part-time history with stretching back about three years ─ I usually swamped on the truck.  

In fact, Melody's mother Esther usually drove that truck, and it was how I got to know Melody. Melody had pursued me for just about all of those three years, but I resisted her overtures until recently succumbing when she actually appeared at my door with some wine and a mickey of booze.

I am glad to read that I visited my father that day, and had a nice meal with him and Maria.

Bill could be an utter scatterbrain. Even though he knew that I was to be coming over, he instead was away visiting my maternal Aunt Nell Halverson who lived on 60th Avenue way out in Surrey

For all of his loyalty and goodness where I was concerned, he could sometimes be infernally unreliable when counted or depended upon.

I most likely missed Melody's call, for she had an evening work break in which she would have tried to reach me.

Well, maybe she would call the next evening if I went back to visit Bill, just as he had invited.

We shall see.