You will pleased to hear that the spirit of adventure is alive and well within my hardy, optimistic soul. At least it is now that warmer temperatures have finally arrived and the Calypso of Spring is singing her alluring song. Last weekend, for instance, armed only with a GPS equipped smartphone, protein bars and refillable water bottle, I cycled down an unfamiliar path towards an unknown destination. Who knew to what obscure Jurassic wildernesses such previously unexplored trails may lead? I could have pitched up, Lord preserve me, marooned at some godforsaken Java Shack table, rather than discovering the promised land of that independently-owned, fair trade cafe I had heard so much about. Nevertheless, I embarked upon my expedition with all the optimism of an Argonaut of old, assuming they also rolled up their pant legs to prevent oil stains from getting on them.
As I rode pluckily along the dusty, unmapped road, flanked by alien chain-link fences, unkempt hedges, padlocked warehouses and all sorts of strange urban detritus, I was inspired to recall the epic quest of Odysseus in Homer's poem, eventually concluding that there were absolutely no similarities between his heroic seafaring exploits and my leisurely afternoon jaunt. Except that I also found my progress blocked by a man-eating cyclops. Alas, nice weather apparently brings out these classical horrors from their wintry lairs as well.
This cyclops was really just a novice rollerblader, dangerously flailing around in a ludicrous outfit of over-sized protective pads and lurid spandex. I'm only assuming he was also the one-eyed monster of myth because his peripheral vision was obviously severely limited. In fact, the ungainly beast seemed completely ignorant of any other objects in his immediate vicinity, be they animal, vegetable or plastic bag full of illegally dumped household trash.
I was filled with dread and apprehension as I approached, lest I be knocked down by a savage whack from his windmilling arms or one of his wildly dangling, wheeled feet. Fortunately, right before I entered striking distance, his knees buckled, his legs locked, the rollerblades skidded and screeched, and the cyclops uttered a blood-curdling yelp before veering off into a ditch at terminal velocity. Thus are the imitation terrors of antiquity hoist by their own petard.
Since this particular nemesis destroyed himself, I can't claim any great feats of strength during the course of my adventure. I'm more Argonought than Argonaut. It is unlikely that tribes would huddle spellbound around their campfires to hear sonorous bards sing tales of my uninteresting deeds; nor would any lyric poets be moved to compose lengthy verses about my relatively uneventful journey, except maybe Philip Larkin. So perhaps it wasn't worth writing a blog about my travels, either? Oh well. Too late now.
Desert Island Discs
I've always considered the concept of "Desert Island Discs" to be profoundly flawed. Castaways usually base their musical choices on soundtracks for specific occasions or moods, rather than the harsh realities of being stuck on a desolate beach for decades, looking like a cross between Moses and the Last of the Mohicans. How can anyone possibly guess which songs or tunes they might draw comfort from when abandoned to such a barbarous fate?
Sitting safe at home, surrounded by all the conveniences of the developed world, you might idly decide that both Dubussy's La Mer and Bobby Darin singing Beyond the Sea would be ideal discs to bring to your desert island. Later, however, when you're actually squatting by the remorseless shore with only a single palm tree leaf to protect your head from the unbearable heat, with nothing to drink but briny water and stale coconut milk, when only endless wave after endless wave of an indifferent ocean can be seen upon the watery horizon, then you might find yourself growing a trifle weary of listening to La Mer and Beyond the Sea and wish you'd brought Johann Strauss' Tales From The Vienna Woods instead.
Most people's musical preferences can change with the weather too, quite literally. Eight tunes chosen on a rainy day might suddenly seem inadequate when sun finally breaks through the clouds, and vice versa. But anyone marooned on a desert island will probably experience a preponderance of sunny days, so logic might compel him to err on the side of cheerful songs (with one moody chanson set aside for the - hopefully brief - monsoon season).
Then there is the question of Man Friday's feelings: should we take his musical taste into account or just please ourselves? A knotty problem made even more Gordian by the fact that we would be obviously unaware of what type of music Man Friday liked when departing from the initial shipwreck. There are so many convoluted administrative issues requiring resolution before any actual disc choice is made that the sane castaway is tempted to choose no discs at all, and listen solely, as Robinson Crusoe must have done, to the songs of local seabirds while the wind strums across the sand.
Personal maturity also plays an important role in desert island disc selection. That pop song once thought so profound in teenage years, for example, gradually loses its appeal as the former fan drifts ever nearer to the coast of fifty; its place in the list of essential discs is usurped by the symphonies of composers who've been dead for centuries, live tapes of obscure jazz groups playing in long demolished basements, or possibly even ancient recordings of some grimy hobo playing the banjo in a cow field. Such highbrow discs as those are a guarantee of tropical sophistication, so I suppose we can excuse an item of pop juvenilia also, if you really want one, just for nostalgia's sake (even though pop music is clearly the bane of any cultured eardrum).
Of course, the most depressing aspect of making any musical selection is discovering how mundane and conventional your final choices actually are. You may regard yourself as an exceptionally progressive intellectual who enjoys the works of Stockhausen and Anton Webern, but when the last lifeboat is leaving and decisions need to be made, well, few sane listeners would wish to be stuck with that challenging pair on a desert island for eternity. So at the eleventh hour, like every other castaway, you will surely seize upon run-of-the-mill classics such as Jupiter, Bringer of Joy and The Lark Ascending instead.
The best desert island discs, then, would appear to be a broad selection of refined yet still humdrum genre melodies that lack any semblance of an aquatic theme. The aim should be to conjure inspirational memories of a previous, more congenial and civilized lifestyle, and also attempts to relieve the endless tedium while not provoking hostilities with Man Friday or whatever ravenous wildlife might be sniffing around your makeshift camp. I would offer some suggestions here, but I don't wish to boast of my own exquisite taste and culturally advanced sensibility. Suffice it say, many of my favorites require an ancient 78 RPM phonograph with a cranking handle; Edwardian technology that I'm certain Man Friday would love to learn how to operate for me.
Sitting safe at home, surrounded by all the conveniences of the developed world, you might idly decide that both Dubussy's La Mer and Bobby Darin singing Beyond the Sea would be ideal discs to bring to your desert island. Later, however, when you're actually squatting by the remorseless shore with only a single palm tree leaf to protect your head from the unbearable heat, with nothing to drink but briny water and stale coconut milk, when only endless wave after endless wave of an indifferent ocean can be seen upon the watery horizon, then you might find yourself growing a trifle weary of listening to La Mer and Beyond the Sea and wish you'd brought Johann Strauss' Tales From The Vienna Woods instead.
Most people's musical preferences can change with the weather too, quite literally. Eight tunes chosen on a rainy day might suddenly seem inadequate when sun finally breaks through the clouds, and vice versa. But anyone marooned on a desert island will probably experience a preponderance of sunny days, so logic might compel him to err on the side of cheerful songs (with one moody chanson set aside for the - hopefully brief - monsoon season).
Then there is the question of Man Friday's feelings: should we take his musical taste into account or just please ourselves? A knotty problem made even more Gordian by the fact that we would be obviously unaware of what type of music Man Friday liked when departing from the initial shipwreck. There are so many convoluted administrative issues requiring resolution before any actual disc choice is made that the sane castaway is tempted to choose no discs at all, and listen solely, as Robinson Crusoe must have done, to the songs of local seabirds while the wind strums across the sand.
Personal maturity also plays an important role in desert island disc selection. That pop song once thought so profound in teenage years, for example, gradually loses its appeal as the former fan drifts ever nearer to the coast of fifty; its place in the list of essential discs is usurped by the symphonies of composers who've been dead for centuries, live tapes of obscure jazz groups playing in long demolished basements, or possibly even ancient recordings of some grimy hobo playing the banjo in a cow field. Such highbrow discs as those are a guarantee of tropical sophistication, so I suppose we can excuse an item of pop juvenilia also, if you really want one, just for nostalgia's sake (even though pop music is clearly the bane of any cultured eardrum).
Of course, the most depressing aspect of making any musical selection is discovering how mundane and conventional your final choices actually are. You may regard yourself as an exceptionally progressive intellectual who enjoys the works of Stockhausen and Anton Webern, but when the last lifeboat is leaving and decisions need to be made, well, few sane listeners would wish to be stuck with that challenging pair on a desert island for eternity. So at the eleventh hour, like every other castaway, you will surely seize upon run-of-the-mill classics such as Jupiter, Bringer of Joy and The Lark Ascending instead.
The best desert island discs, then, would appear to be a broad selection of refined yet still humdrum genre melodies that lack any semblance of an aquatic theme. The aim should be to conjure inspirational memories of a previous, more congenial and civilized lifestyle, and also attempts to relieve the endless tedium while not provoking hostilities with Man Friday or whatever ravenous wildlife might be sniffing around your makeshift camp. I would offer some suggestions here, but I don't wish to boast of my own exquisite taste and culturally advanced sensibility. Suffice it say, many of my favorites require an ancient 78 RPM phonograph with a cranking handle; Edwardian technology that I'm certain Man Friday would love to learn how to operate for me.
The Zeitgeist and Me
For quite some time I believed that the surgical scar running vertically down my chest was just an unsightly blemish on an otherwise pristine torso; a post-operative skid mark between two nipples, rather like a smudge of screeching tires bisecting a pair of traffic cones in a failed driving test. As spring approaches, however, I realize that scar tissue can be quite the social boon; a conversation piece for the gruesomely inclined; a fibrous bond between disfigured individuals who share a common medical experience. Almost everybody loves exhibiting their scars for the morbid scrutiny of others, and any gathering can become an arena for such normally private exposures.
In fact, encouraged by the success of this blog with the teenage ghoul demographic, I was actively seeking an interactive, web-based forum for iPhone pictures of my more graphic welts and bruises. I researched all of the popular image hosting sites, eventually settling on Pinterest: a sort of online cork board where members pin items that they consider to be inspiring.
My first Pinterest board is called "The Emperor Adds A Red Sash To His New Clothes," and contains various photographs of my chest incision scar taken over a six month period. I can already boast of accumulating seven followers since my board went live. For some reason they are mostly goth rockers from Berlin who call me the George Grosz of post-expressionist cardio-representational art (PECRA).
Of course, the key to producing quality visual art, besides the infamous rule of thirds, is proportion. For example, the artist only needs to sit at an alfresco cafe in the Piazza San Marco to observe how the ridiculous verticality of the Campanile ruins the harmony of the otherwise short and squat buildings in the square, making it impossible for tourists to capture good, all-encompassing shot of everything suitable for their "Travel" board on Pinterest.
Consequently, when framing photographs, I ensure that the angry red streak of my scar is proportionally balanced by any other vertical elements in the composition. These are usually limited to extremely coarse chest hairs and whatever type of drink I may have accidentally dribbled over myself while fiddling with the camera. The results don't really bear comparison with the mastery of Grosz's colorful paintings, obviously, but I certainly wouldn't feel ashamed to stand shoulder to shoulder with, say, the works of Alberto Giacometti or blue period Picasso.
I guess I consider myself to be an "outsider artist," a figurehead of the pinning zeitgeist, whose confrontational images permeate their way into public consciousness via Pinterest, rather than by means of a conventional gallery showroom. If you are interested, my scar photography can also be liked on Facebook, followed on your Twitter feed, located on Foursquare (I'm already mayor of my incision), and are available for purchase on Cafe Press as anatomically correct t-shirts (as long as you are roughly the same size and build as I am). Enjoy!
In fact, encouraged by the success of this blog with the teenage ghoul demographic, I was actively seeking an interactive, web-based forum for iPhone pictures of my more graphic welts and bruises. I researched all of the popular image hosting sites, eventually settling on Pinterest: a sort of online cork board where members pin items that they consider to be inspiring.
My first Pinterest board is called "The Emperor Adds A Red Sash To His New Clothes," and contains various photographs of my chest incision scar taken over a six month period. I can already boast of accumulating seven followers since my board went live. For some reason they are mostly goth rockers from Berlin who call me the George Grosz of post-expressionist cardio-representational art (PECRA).
Of course, the key to producing quality visual art, besides the infamous rule of thirds, is proportion. For example, the artist only needs to sit at an alfresco cafe in the Piazza San Marco to observe how the ridiculous verticality of the Campanile ruins the harmony of the otherwise short and squat buildings in the square, making it impossible for tourists to capture good, all-encompassing shot of everything suitable for their "Travel" board on Pinterest.
Consequently, when framing photographs, I ensure that the angry red streak of my scar is proportionally balanced by any other vertical elements in the composition. These are usually limited to extremely coarse chest hairs and whatever type of drink I may have accidentally dribbled over myself while fiddling with the camera. The results don't really bear comparison with the mastery of Grosz's colorful paintings, obviously, but I certainly wouldn't feel ashamed to stand shoulder to shoulder with, say, the works of Alberto Giacometti or blue period Picasso.
I guess I consider myself to be an "outsider artist," a figurehead of the pinning zeitgeist, whose confrontational images permeate their way into public consciousness via Pinterest, rather than by means of a conventional gallery showroom. If you are interested, my scar photography can also be liked on Facebook, followed on your Twitter feed, located on Foursquare (I'm already mayor of my incision), and are available for purchase on Cafe Press as anatomically correct t-shirts (as long as you are roughly the same size and build as I am). Enjoy!
Buffoon In Leather Trousers
Jean Paul Sartre was quite wrong. Hell is not just other people, as he famously claimed, but other people's rock bands performing in public. Unfortunately, there are enough of them that one or two are probably even good friends of yours. Bipolar singers; waxen bassists; aimless drummers; balding guitarists wearing funky hats; amateur, aging musicians who lacked the confidence or talent to quit their day jobs in their twenties. If only they didn't demand your presence when their wretched ensembles go through the motions in dingy bars or out-of-the-way lofts every third weekend.
This was a tolerable Hell, of course, when you were young and bored of sitting at home; a reasonably comfortable Inferno into which Dante might cast those who are merely mean to small animals or use their fingers at salad bars. But as you get older you sink further and further into the fiery pit of unacceptable inconvenience. The music grows ever more cacophonous and unbearable until eventually you're rubbing shoulders with murderers, rapists and heavy-metal guitarists in the lowest circle of Hell, and the torments of the damned don't stop until the amplifiers are packed away. Wouldn't you much rather be at home, curled up with a mug of cocoa and a decent book?
Consequently, one of the great consolations of having bypass surgery has been the instant excuse it provides to avoid seeing a friend of mine's talentless band. I thank heaven for the unassailable alibi afforded by my residual aches and pains, even if they are somewhat fabricated rather than real in this case. "I'm sorry but I'm feeling particularly weak this evening and can't be there," the malingerer croaks in his best sick-note voice. "But definitely let me know next time you guys have a gig. I'm sure I'll be feeling better then."
No doubt such subterfuge practiced upon a friend seems both rude and deceitful, even a little white lie like that. However, the ends unequivocally justify the means when you're standing in a pool of spilled beer all night, watching sweaty middle-aged men play unsuitable teenage songs to an audience of their equally geriatric acquaintances.
In my more eldritch moments, I often wonder if I subconsciously made a Faustian pact with the Devil regarding attendance at my friend's wretched concerts: a high-stakes, diabolical deal to undergo heart surgery and receive a free pass to never go again in exchange. If so, it was an unbeatable bargain and I encourage everyone to contact the Devil immediately about their own friends' bands. You know it makes sense.
These days you will only find me at the bandstand in my local park, well wrapped up in an Astrakhan coat and homburg hat, slouching in my rolling chaise, listening to an afternoon concert of light orchestral music and beating time with my blackthorn stick. I happen to know Norman, the third trombonist. We met in hospital while waiting for our stress tests. Soon I hope to say truthfully to him: "Sorry, Norman, but I won't be at the bandstand today because I'm feeling so much better, so I'm taking endurance cycling classes instead. I've just bought a new bike with a zillion gears and a lycra tank top." And then I'll pedal off into the sunset with the wind in my armpit hair.
This was a tolerable Hell, of course, when you were young and bored of sitting at home; a reasonably comfortable Inferno into which Dante might cast those who are merely mean to small animals or use their fingers at salad bars. But as you get older you sink further and further into the fiery pit of unacceptable inconvenience. The music grows ever more cacophonous and unbearable until eventually you're rubbing shoulders with murderers, rapists and heavy-metal guitarists in the lowest circle of Hell, and the torments of the damned don't stop until the amplifiers are packed away. Wouldn't you much rather be at home, curled up with a mug of cocoa and a decent book?
Consequently, one of the great consolations of having bypass surgery has been the instant excuse it provides to avoid seeing a friend of mine's talentless band. I thank heaven for the unassailable alibi afforded by my residual aches and pains, even if they are somewhat fabricated rather than real in this case. "I'm sorry but I'm feeling particularly weak this evening and can't be there," the malingerer croaks in his best sick-note voice. "But definitely let me know next time you guys have a gig. I'm sure I'll be feeling better then."
No doubt such subterfuge practiced upon a friend seems both rude and deceitful, even a little white lie like that. However, the ends unequivocally justify the means when you're standing in a pool of spilled beer all night, watching sweaty middle-aged men play unsuitable teenage songs to an audience of their equally geriatric acquaintances.
In my more eldritch moments, I often wonder if I subconsciously made a Faustian pact with the Devil regarding attendance at my friend's wretched concerts: a high-stakes, diabolical deal to undergo heart surgery and receive a free pass to never go again in exchange. If so, it was an unbeatable bargain and I encourage everyone to contact the Devil immediately about their own friends' bands. You know it makes sense.
These days you will only find me at the bandstand in my local park, well wrapped up in an Astrakhan coat and homburg hat, slouching in my rolling chaise, listening to an afternoon concert of light orchestral music and beating time with my blackthorn stick. I happen to know Norman, the third trombonist. We met in hospital while waiting for our stress tests. Soon I hope to say truthfully to him: "Sorry, Norman, but I won't be at the bandstand today because I'm feeling so much better, so I'm taking endurance cycling classes instead. I've just bought a new bike with a zillion gears and a lycra tank top." And then I'll pedal off into the sunset with the wind in my armpit hair.
Breakfast of Runners-Up
As everybody knows, any reasonable expectation of a breakfast should include at least two fried eggs draped over buttered toast, three plump sausages, several strands of streaky bacon, some sort of tomato presentation and a puddle of baked beans. Adventurous gourmands often substitute a pair of kippered herrings for the sausages, possibly adding the odd hexagon of pineapple if morning finds them in a tropical mood. Blood pudding, greasy mushrooms, hash brown rubble and a demolished onion are also viable supplements and alternatives in any acceptable breakfast: a cavalcade of proteins and vitamins to begin our long day's journey into dinner.
Both Napoleon and Alexander regularly awoke to the mouthwatering aromas of such hearty feasts cooking upon their encampment stoves at reveille. In antiquity, the mathematician Archimedes discovered his famous principle, that a floating object displaces its own weight of fluid, only after preparing an enormous breakfast of seven feta cheese omelets, twenty-four slices of Phoenician bacon and nine pancakes soaked with his own homemade maple syrup (which is the reason why he was taking a bath in the first place). Time after time, from Paleolithic griddlers daubed on Lascaux cave walls to footage of Neil Armstrong slathering cream cheese on his bagel in zero gravity, the frying pan of history provides sizzling proof that breakfast is without doubt the most important meal of the day, just as Franz Kafka claims in his novel Metamorphosis.
Consequently, the heart sinks and the stomach groans upon learning that cardiological orders have limited my breakfast to a mere dollop of non-fat yogurt strewn with a few anemic berries. There is little hope of me conquering my bowel movements, never mind the world, after starting the day with a mouthful of such pitiful gruel. Little Miss Muffet enjoyed heartier breakfasts than mine. Even her intrusive spider wouldn't bother to sit down beside me if I were sat on a tuffet, wearily dragging my spoon around a small bowl of boiled oatmeal in search of that last shriveled raisin. There is absolutely zero incentive to arise from one's slumbers when only tasteless brown sludge and senile prunes await, cowering in a gloomy breakfast nook, ashamed to show themselves to the sun. The early bird is completely humiliated by the worm's swift turn of pace in such conditions.
My breakfast is not the fabled, yawn-conquering Breakfast of Champions; mine is the Breakfast of Runners Up; the uninspiring and unappetizing Breakfast of Bad Luck But Thanks For Playing. My breakfast does not snap, crackle and pop while bathed in morning's golden light. It coughs, splutters and then scratches its pale, mushy backside and staggers off to the bathroom, wherein it squats on a cold lavatory seat to dwell upon its weaknesses and inadequacies. Perhaps we'd all be better off if my breakfast just flushed itself down the toilet?
Thank God, then, for the coffee bean; that brown diamond of the dawn. Roasted, ground and then percolated, coffee provides the necessary energy that breakfast foods fail to supply. Were it not for this munificent bean's rich nectar I doubt I could gird my brain to write these words. Blogs do not write themselves, you know, even though, admittedly, that may sometimes seem to be the case.
Both Napoleon and Alexander regularly awoke to the mouthwatering aromas of such hearty feasts cooking upon their encampment stoves at reveille. In antiquity, the mathematician Archimedes discovered his famous principle, that a floating object displaces its own weight of fluid, only after preparing an enormous breakfast of seven feta cheese omelets, twenty-four slices of Phoenician bacon and nine pancakes soaked with his own homemade maple syrup (which is the reason why he was taking a bath in the first place). Time after time, from Paleolithic griddlers daubed on Lascaux cave walls to footage of Neil Armstrong slathering cream cheese on his bagel in zero gravity, the frying pan of history provides sizzling proof that breakfast is without doubt the most important meal of the day, just as Franz Kafka claims in his novel Metamorphosis.
Consequently, the heart sinks and the stomach groans upon learning that cardiological orders have limited my breakfast to a mere dollop of non-fat yogurt strewn with a few anemic berries. There is little hope of me conquering my bowel movements, never mind the world, after starting the day with a mouthful of such pitiful gruel. Little Miss Muffet enjoyed heartier breakfasts than mine. Even her intrusive spider wouldn't bother to sit down beside me if I were sat on a tuffet, wearily dragging my spoon around a small bowl of boiled oatmeal in search of that last shriveled raisin. There is absolutely zero incentive to arise from one's slumbers when only tasteless brown sludge and senile prunes await, cowering in a gloomy breakfast nook, ashamed to show themselves to the sun. The early bird is completely humiliated by the worm's swift turn of pace in such conditions.
My breakfast is not the fabled, yawn-conquering Breakfast of Champions; mine is the Breakfast of Runners Up; the uninspiring and unappetizing Breakfast of Bad Luck But Thanks For Playing. My breakfast does not snap, crackle and pop while bathed in morning's golden light. It coughs, splutters and then scratches its pale, mushy backside and staggers off to the bathroom, wherein it squats on a cold lavatory seat to dwell upon its weaknesses and inadequacies. Perhaps we'd all be better off if my breakfast just flushed itself down the toilet?
Thank God, then, for the coffee bean; that brown diamond of the dawn. Roasted, ground and then percolated, coffee provides the necessary energy that breakfast foods fail to supply. Were it not for this munificent bean's rich nectar I doubt I could gird my brain to write these words. Blogs do not write themselves, you know, even though, admittedly, that may sometimes seem to be the case.
The Tyranny of Aches and Pains
In late March 1757, in Paris, the failed regicide Robert-François Damiens was executed by the bloodthirsty method of drawing and quartering. His grisly death is recounted in the memoirs of Casanova: "I was several times obliged to turn away my face and to stop my ears as I heard his piercing shrieks, half of his body having been torn from him."
Poor old Damiens and his sufferings always leap to mind whenever I am lectured about stretching every morning. After all, is straining to touch your toes any less painful than having your arms and legs ripped off by four shire horses harnessed to each limb, meanwhile, with surgical precision, your torso is being tweaked with red hot pincers and razor sharp daggers? Beneficial exercise is often described with the torturous euphemism "feeling the burn" for good reason, let's not forget. Indeed, I think Casanova would be equally appalled by my grimaces and screams of agonies in the gym as he was by witnessing Damiens' ordeal. At least Damiens wasn't forced to wear polyester gym shorts and a sweaty tank top, a small mercy for which he should have been most grateful.
Supposedly, as we get older, daily stretching regimens improve the flexibility in our bones and joints, thereby reducing the risk of incurring activity-based injuries: a cracked tibia, perchance, from tripping over a partner's foot while waltzing to the golden sounds of yesteryear; or maybe just a pulled muscle from trying to reach that bottle of aspirin which some shopkeeping idiot stores on the top shelf in his pharmacy aisle. I myself often fall victim to a pinched nerve in my neck: the unhappy consequence of not sitting up properly while typing blog posts in bed. Ouch. There it goes again.
Yet even the sorts of amateur athletes who relentlessly stretch their spandex and fleece clad bodies throughout the day, those lunch break joggers and their kind, reek of powerful analgesic ointments and Cortizone cream. You have to wonder why they bother with the cult of stretching since it obviously doesn't diminish their discomfort. If you ask me, ill-considered stretching beforehand probably contributes a not inconsiderable amount of wince-worthy extra ache to their exercise-propagated pains. Stretching is another modern myth, in other words, no less preposterous than the old wives' tale that you should starve a fever and feed a cold. Following that wretched advice only results in hungry people drenched with sweat and fat folk who sneeze and cough a great deal.
The torn rotator cuff, the inflamed knee, the outraged elbow and the dislocated hip are simply afflictions we must bear with as much fortitude and dignity as we can muster, which unfortunately turns out to be very little in my case.
I wouldn't denounce myself as a baby, exactly, but my response to joint and muscle pain certainly doesn't wear long trousers or wipe its own chin and nose; it is, perhaps, best described as the tantrum of a spoiled brat: spoiled because I've rarely experienced much corporal distress until my recent heart problems; I had no permanent bruises, disfigurements or scars before. These days I often feel like a Vitruvian man who's been scrunched up into a ball of waste paper. It's a short road from muscle ache to bellyache, which is probably why I go on about my bypass so incessantly.
Meanwhile, the only statement Damiens made on the morning of his execution was a taciturn verdict that "The day will be tough." Very stoic of him, I'm sure, but he wouldn't have been an especially good blogger with grandiose reticence like that, however impressive it may appear in history books.
Poor old Damiens and his sufferings always leap to mind whenever I am lectured about stretching every morning. After all, is straining to touch your toes any less painful than having your arms and legs ripped off by four shire horses harnessed to each limb, meanwhile, with surgical precision, your torso is being tweaked with red hot pincers and razor sharp daggers? Beneficial exercise is often described with the torturous euphemism "feeling the burn" for good reason, let's not forget. Indeed, I think Casanova would be equally appalled by my grimaces and screams of agonies in the gym as he was by witnessing Damiens' ordeal. At least Damiens wasn't forced to wear polyester gym shorts and a sweaty tank top, a small mercy for which he should have been most grateful.
Supposedly, as we get older, daily stretching regimens improve the flexibility in our bones and joints, thereby reducing the risk of incurring activity-based injuries: a cracked tibia, perchance, from tripping over a partner's foot while waltzing to the golden sounds of yesteryear; or maybe just a pulled muscle from trying to reach that bottle of aspirin which some shopkeeping idiot stores on the top shelf in his pharmacy aisle. I myself often fall victim to a pinched nerve in my neck: the unhappy consequence of not sitting up properly while typing blog posts in bed. Ouch. There it goes again.
Yet even the sorts of amateur athletes who relentlessly stretch their spandex and fleece clad bodies throughout the day, those lunch break joggers and their kind, reek of powerful analgesic ointments and Cortizone cream. You have to wonder why they bother with the cult of stretching since it obviously doesn't diminish their discomfort. If you ask me, ill-considered stretching beforehand probably contributes a not inconsiderable amount of wince-worthy extra ache to their exercise-propagated pains. Stretching is another modern myth, in other words, no less preposterous than the old wives' tale that you should starve a fever and feed a cold. Following that wretched advice only results in hungry people drenched with sweat and fat folk who sneeze and cough a great deal.
The torn rotator cuff, the inflamed knee, the outraged elbow and the dislocated hip are simply afflictions we must bear with as much fortitude and dignity as we can muster, which unfortunately turns out to be very little in my case.
I wouldn't denounce myself as a baby, exactly, but my response to joint and muscle pain certainly doesn't wear long trousers or wipe its own chin and nose; it is, perhaps, best described as the tantrum of a spoiled brat: spoiled because I've rarely experienced much corporal distress until my recent heart problems; I had no permanent bruises, disfigurements or scars before. These days I often feel like a Vitruvian man who's been scrunched up into a ball of waste paper. It's a short road from muscle ache to bellyache, which is probably why I go on about my bypass so incessantly.
Meanwhile, the only statement Damiens made on the morning of his execution was a taciturn verdict that "The day will be tough." Very stoic of him, I'm sure, but he wouldn't have been an especially good blogger with grandiose reticence like that, however impressive it may appear in history books.
Adam 2
Despite the best efforts of certain scientists and philosophers over the years to develop a breed of superior humanoids, the most common human hybrid at large in the world today is the human-baboon. There seem to be more and more of them every year, loping around the city streets in their basketball shorts and misshapen sneakers. This is why, together with the parlour game Exquisite Corpse, certain exotic aspects of pre-modern era West Indian cuisine, and playing with my extensive collection of Mr Potato Head dolls, the controversial field of Bioethics as always held a great deal of fascination for me. In fact, I think I would have done quite well if I'd chosen the Transhumanist career path in college; hanging around in the lab in my white coat, rolling DNA around in my palm like a ball of Silly Putty; throwing it up to the ceiling to see how long it would stick there. That's a job for life.
But Bioethics isn't always as simple as meeting with your colleagues over coffee to discuss growing a row of human fingers next to the toe patch. As the name implies, practicing this branch of biology inevitably engenders many ethical if impertinent questions from unscientific sections of the community; from those pious souls who still believe in God's creation, for example, and from concerned parents who don't want their steam-punk child getting silicon Devil horns implanted in his skull when he joins an alternative rock band.
But most of us are moral relativists, content to merely cross the street whenever we see some misbegotten lovechild of freakdom and cosmetic surgery walking towards us, secure in the knowledge that there is either a comic book convention around the corner or a rock concert up the road, rather than the profanity made flesh that the appearance of such a creature might have suggested in previous centuries.
In my most idle moments, which occur about eight or nine times a day, I often wonder whether my cardiac bypass counts as Transhuman engineering. It was a rather dramatic restructuring of the natural order, after all. Not that I expect to find myself pursued by angry villagers waving flaming torches anytime soon, of course. My operation was certainly no feat of Promethean medical genius to rival Frankenstein's, just a low-level starter kit operation suitable for Igor or the Baron's nephew. But still, my internal organs were altered by radical scientific intervention, however mundane that intervention may seem when compared to splitting a transgressive artist's tongue into a forked and serpentine fashion accessory.
But Bioethics isn't always as simple as meeting with your colleagues over coffee to discuss growing a row of human fingers next to the toe patch. As the name implies, practicing this branch of biology inevitably engenders many ethical if impertinent questions from unscientific sections of the community; from those pious souls who still believe in God's creation, for example, and from concerned parents who don't want their steam-punk child getting silicon Devil horns implanted in his skull when he joins an alternative rock band.
But most of us are moral relativists, content to merely cross the street whenever we see some misbegotten lovechild of freakdom and cosmetic surgery walking towards us, secure in the knowledge that there is either a comic book convention around the corner or a rock concert up the road, rather than the profanity made flesh that the appearance of such a creature might have suggested in previous centuries.
In my most idle moments, which occur about eight or nine times a day, I often wonder whether my cardiac bypass counts as Transhuman engineering. It was a rather dramatic restructuring of the natural order, after all. Not that I expect to find myself pursued by angry villagers waving flaming torches anytime soon, of course. My operation was certainly no feat of Promethean medical genius to rival Frankenstein's, just a low-level starter kit operation suitable for Igor or the Baron's nephew. But still, my internal organs were altered by radical scientific intervention, however mundane that intervention may seem when compared to splitting a transgressive artist's tongue into a forked and serpentine fashion accessory.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)