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Friday, August 11, 2017

Short 'Nitric Oxide Dump' Exercise Routine

My younger brother Mark's losing battle to remain conscious continued last evening.

After he got home from the bar and finally got around to joining me in the living room to watch an episode of America's Got Talent, he never even held onto his wits long enough to take in the act that was about to be performed. 

This cannot be a sign of a healthy brain that someone can lose consciousness so quickly as a result of drinking.

He remained passed out until nearly midway through the next show I tuned in ─ the premiere episode of Somewhere Between.

I must here say that it is rare for me to watch an episode of a series and ─ just from that one episode alone ─ determine that I will never watch a second episode.

The female lead character was so annoying to me that I found it impossible to care about her ─ heck, I couldn't even like her.

The actress overblew just about every emotional nuance she was trying to portray, and her character fast came to be far beyond annoying to me.

I also found myself supremely affronted that I am expected to accept that the Universe ─ or whatever Power is controlling it ─ would intervene and perform a miracle to spare this woman from her own suicide over the murder of her little girl, when there are untold numbers of us in the real world far more deserving who will never receive any sort of miracle of this magnitude.

Her life was not only returned to her, but she was given a full week to relive, and to try and save her daughter from being murdered.

How many of us would not give practically anything to have the chance to relive the final week of life of someone we loved, and who had died unexpectedly?   

If we could have that one last week with that person, knowing that this loved one was going to die, and we could bestow all of the love to him or her that we would never again have the chance to deliver?

But this overarching nitwit was not only brought back from her own death by suicide, she was even being given the chance to potentially stop the very death of her loved one.

No, the whole premise offended me, and I will not watch another episode.

I was in bed last evening at 11:15 p.m. And although I had broken sleep in the last half of my night, I believe that the first half was solidly slept. 

Towards my morning, I had a dream in which my younger brother Mark must have died. I recollect a scene in which I was with some of my maternal relatives the Halversons, and my senior cousin Randy Halverson actually took it upon himself to embrace me strongly, believing that I was probably experiencing more uncontrolled grief than I was.

Even his mother, my Aunt Nell, was present at the time ─ and she has been dead now for several years. 

It is very odd how out of context dreams can be.

I seem to have forgotten just when it was that I rose this morning, but it was definitely well ahead of 7:00 a.m. In fact, I had fixed up my morning's first hot beverage of the day and was up here working at my computer when my youngest stepson Poté hurriedly got himself up ─ and  headed out the front door around 7:00 a.m. to drive himself to work.

His older brother Tho had left for work before I was even aware in my bed, and my brother Mark even before Tho.

I busied myself adding further content to the post I am building at my hosted website Amatsu Okiya, but all the while I kept rallying myself towards the inspiration to get out and do a bit of local grocery shopping.

It was 9:39 a.m. when at last I was standing outside the locked front door of my home and about to make the four-block hike to Deepu's No Frills store in the Cedar Hills shopping centre (128th Street & 96th Avenue) here in Surrey

The hike was uneventful, but I knew that I had forsaken any hope of having exercise out in our backyard tool shed today ─ it was already so darned warm and muggy.

After I was back home, I decided to try something different by way of slight compensation for that lost exercise session ─ I had come across this article published today:

Mercola.com

It contains a video in which Dr. Joseph Mercola demonstrates four exercises that can supposedly be done within three minutes, and which are to be done a further one or two times during the day ─ always with at least a two-hour break between sessions.

The idea is that doing these four exercises as described will suffuse the body with a 'nitric oxide dump.' And that is of benefit:
NO (nitrous oxide) is an extremely important part of biochemical regulation, and understanding and controlling its formation has the potential for profound influences on your health. Most notably, NO:
  • Protects your heart by relaxing your blood vessels and lowering your blood pressure
  • Stimulates your brain
  • Kills bacteria and defends against tumor cells
  • Helps maintain homeostasis in your body
I've done two sessions so far today. Oddly, the most 'breath-taking' of the four exercises has been the second one where the participant is merely standing and ─ stiff-armed ─ alternately marching the arms up and down. 

So one arm will quickly be going up while the other is quickly coming down. Each of the fists are being elevated from the thighs until they are then at least shoulder height, and then they are brought back down to the thighs.

It is the seemingly simplest or easiest of the four exercises, but it was the one which had me breathing the hardest.

I still marvel at that.

I also did a session of 111 Hindu squats today, as well. Perhaps because I periodically do those, the Mercola squats weren't much of a bother. 

Something else that surprised me was how tiring to the arms it was for me to keep them elevated for the three exercises following the squats ─ returning to the fourth exercise, the squats, was actually something of a break.

I must credit Dr. Mercola ─ he performs the manoeuvres more ably that do I at present. My shoulder region is very tight. He is also straighter in performing his squats ─ I have a more pronounced bend at the waist.     

But I will fault him for squatting so quickly that he appears to me to be rebounding from the bottom ─ that can be disastrous to some people's knees.

I was slower at the squats.

Gosh, and now I see that I am already into my evening. I had a couple of other health-related topics I had thought I might touch upon, but I am going to have to drop them.

Before I close with an old journal entry of mine, I want to post this old photo for no particular reason. The description beneath will tell you nothing at all about the photo that you cannot see for yourself, but I am lifting it from the description I gave the photo at the Google album where I have the scanned image filed:

This photo from the collection of my mother Irene Dorosh is impossible for me to offer anything about.

I do not know who the child ─ a little girl ─ is; nor can I venture anything at all as to when the photo may have been taken.

I cannot even interpret just what this orange 'tube' is ─ it looks too simple to be nothing more than a slide.

But is not the child standing in water? I did not initially notice this ─ I thought it was just rather barren ground.  

So I do not even know where this photo was taken.

Who? - What? - Where? - When? 

All questions unanswerable by me.
And now here is that journal entry of mine from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting in a private home located on Ninth Street, and about two houses up from Third Avenue.

I feel that I was over halfway through a three-month contract of full-time employment with a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today called Fraserside Community Services Society.  

I was working as a swamper on their blue pick-up truck which was usually driven by Esther St. Jean ─ she was a dear lady in her early 40s.

I had some previous part-time experience with S.A.N.E. that may have stretched back as much as 1½ years, but it was also rather irregular.

S.A.N.E.'s old location no longer exists, for the building was torn down years ago. But it was on Carnarvon Street, right about where today we have the New Westminster SkyTrain Station access.
WEDNESDAY, August 11, 1976

I arose nigh 6:30 a.m. 

Laundry day, and a lovely morning if I didn't have to work; Mike Schutz saw me in the Bluebird and stopped to say hello; I bought Defenders #40 (featuring the Assassin), and Defenders Annual #1

A bad day! It was sunny, and light enough (Esther went home for good at noon), but near 3:00 p.m. I allowed myself to be persuaded to go to the Dunsmuir with Took.

I bought myself 2, and he got me about 4 more, while a friend (Jim?) of his later bought me another. I never got back to S.A.N.E. I left when Pat (Myrna's ex) joined us twain; I saw dad's Bill McMillan there.

I got home by 6:00 p.m. So, I leave for mom's about 7:05 p.m.

It was rough. I had energy enough at first, but ended about dragged out, and sleepy-tired.

I dined on sugar cookies with my 2 cups of tea, and lots of Japanese plums.

No mail, but mom lent me the August Prevention.

Again coming home, as yesterday, I thought of sex; I've been dwelling alot [sic] on it of late.

Bed at 11:40 p.m.        
I no longer remember what time my days started at S.A.N.E., but I always seemed to have a fair bit of time beforehand in the morning to get chores done ─ such as my hike this day up to Sixth Avenue to use the laundromat very near to the public library.

I now do not know, but I am wondering if it was the Bluebird Dairy where I would go to buy things like my Marvel comics that I loved so much. That Bluebird was located at 402 Eighth Street. Heck, the Better Business Bureau says that the store started up on January 1, 1953: Blue Bird Dairy Ltd

Mike Schutz may have been a part-timer at S.A.N.E., but I knew him through other means. I liked the guy ─ he was my age, for one thing. A year or so previously, he, I, and two other chaps were sharing a table in one of the hotels while drinking beer when the subject of our ages came up, and we were all almost astonished to learn that each of us were 25 years old.

I wish I knew what happened to Mike. If he was still around, I would love to get in touch with him.  

"Took" was an Indigenous Canadian who worked at S.A.N.E. ─ maybe on a contract like I was on. He was possibly middle-aged ─ I no longer clearly remember. But he liked his beer too much ─ he often failed to show up at S.A.N.E. for that reason.

I no doubt knew better than to go to the Dunsmuir Hotel beer parlour or pub with him, but I was always a pushover ─ it was so hard for me to say, "No." The Dunsmuir was virtually within sight of S.A.N.E., for it was sitting at the corner of Carnarvon Street and Eighth Avenue.

I suppose "Pat" was also Indigenous Canadian ─ his 'ex "Myrna" certainly was. She was a part-timer at S.A.N.E. I have no idea about the Jim I mentioned.

Bill McMillan seemed to be a fairly good friend of my father Hector, but that likely wasn't reason enough for me to attract his notice. I undoubtedly wanted to get on back to my room.

My mother Irene Dorosh's home was my main mailing address, so I would hike out there to the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey two or three times a week ─ the hike was 1½ hours of fast walking from my room.

The little home she shared with her husband Alex no longer exists, but its address was 12106 - 90th Avenue.

That long walk on a hot, long day ─ and following at least seven glasses of beer ─ would have taken a toll on me.

A short visit with my mother...and then the long walk back to my room in New Westminster.
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