Lightning in a Bottle

Grumpy? You betcha’ by golly wow. Today’s version of The Rankler courtesy of Time: A report in the Journal of the American College of Cardiology found that light to moderate drinking (14 or fewer drinks per week for men, and seven or fewer for women) was associated with about a 20% reduced risk of death, compared with no drinking at all, over the 13-year study duration.

So, “a reduced risk of death” is it? Well, dig me a shallow grave, but I thought my risk of death a certitude as in 100%. Now, please, don’t bother to trot out the “you know what they meant”.

I see this type of wording all the time, which may or may not reflect an inclination to sidestep our mortality. Some practice anecdotally or via research suggests slowing down the shuffle off this mortal coil, and the media lets us know that we may decrease our risk of death.

Let me proactively offer another phrase: increases life span (or reduces as the case may be).

More importantly, would that light to moderate drinking be 2 a day, or maybe some variation like a TGIF 3 drinks, perhaps a Hair Down Saturday 4 shots? We talking Michelob Ultra or Wild Turkey 101?

And, keep the “page space was limited” gambit to yourself.  If space (or time for broadcast media) is so limited, then why bother with this information?

By the way, the JACC editorial in the first issue of Volume 69 concludes, “For AF (atrial fibrillation), there is no benefit, only hazard, with risk increasing at the lowest level of alcohol intake.”

Write responsibly. Read responsibly. Drink responsibly. Think responsibly.

Like I said, grumpy.

That was Then, This is Now

As experiences go, the eclipse was pretty cool—temperature drop duly noted. Short-lived, gender-neutral, apolitical, and a relief from a pretty warm summer's day.

I liked the quietness of the moment here where I live. Another respite from the resounding 24/7 yakking that seems to define the current culture. But, onward we move. Through space. Through time. Into our respective nows.

The past has, uh, passed. Glib?  Of course. Nor are we there yet, the future somewhere beyond the blink of our eyes—many blinks even. Elusive, just ahead, foreseeable, and yet unforeseeable.

Sure, for centuries and centuries retailers of living-in-the-moment guides have tutored us in the ways of being in the present, attentively. I do not know how many folks are attentive, but some are, sure as the sun will rise—most likely, chronicling their moments. They instafacesnap like gerbils spinning the wheel.

Look! Here’s a moment and here’s another one and here’s another one. And lest some have some doubt of that now back then, like a bolt from Zeus, from the cloud the evidence will appear.

Okay, a mea culpa. Nope, I am not especially nostalgic, and nope, not so sentimental. I do sometimes peruse the On this Date feature offered by our good friends at Facebook. More often than not, not very affecting. Which could speak more to my lifestyle admittedly. 

I will remember standing in my backyard. I will remember the shadowy pall cast over our slice of this firmament. I will remember the laughing of children nearby. Until I don’t.

But that will be then, this is now.  

To the Dogs!

Me? Yes. I talk to my dog Max. Of course.

No baby talk, mind you. That foolishness is handled by family and friends who treat my 90-pound side of canine beef as if he were a puppy curled up in their laps.

Nothing too serious either. No lectures on the clever insidiousness of Marvell’s seducer. (I can hear former students howl their relief in the distance.) Well, I do bark at him to chew his food when he snorts up the bits like a Dyson set on max. He hacks up the mouthful and I tell him to chew and then he daintily eats up the mess on the floor one nugget at a time. Every meal.

Sure, the basics are in place: sit, wait, in or out—either as a question or as a command. Typically on our morning walk I will several times urge him to “hurry” when I have let him spool out the leash and lag behind.

Sometimes, the one-sided chat is just part of daily sociability. “Are we having a good day?” Or “tell ‘em”, when he barks at the blue heron or the beavers or the neighbors starting up their truck or a golf cart passing by or a motorcycle or a riding mower.

Weather stuff, too. “It’s too hot,” I say. Max hangs his tongue out like a limp dishrag.

We have our understanding about personal space. “Go sit down” he knows to mean that I am tired of him pestering me. Unless there is a storm approaching or on top of us and then my tone changes and “Go sit down” means go to his safe room, the laundry room in human terms.

Sure, like most dogs, Max will dream—doesn’t always seem pleasant by way of his moaning. I bring him out of it with a simple question: Chasing rabbits, Max?

Yesterday was National Dog Day apparently. We always seem to miss the occasion.

So let me throw Max a bone and quote some Shakespeare: Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will…. Max?

“Woof.”

Good boy!

Winner, Whiner, Chicken Diner

I am not a political scientist, nor do I play one on t.v.

But, in my mind--our president's discourse on our newish path forward in Afghanistan strikes me as the perfect executive straddle. To paraphrase, my (his) guts don't want to, but going with my (again, his) expert advisers. 

Brilliant. Under one foot, the supportive base hears the echo of Trump's campaign stance, and under the other, detractors are shown he will listen. 

If the mission shows no significant progress during Trump's tenure, he can whine that he should have listened to his gut. And--on this point I have a severe case of doubt-itis--if the situation should dramatically improve, he can crow about a presidential willingness to be swayed by the opinions of others.

Now is this political two-step shrewdly, cynically choreographed? I cannot say. What I can say serves only as a very obvious reminder. Afghanistan--well, we have slogged down this road for 16 years. 

But, heck, Russia marched out after only 9.