Eat, Drink, and Be Wary

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about disposing of unfinished liquor bottles that had been sitting too long in the cabinet. This apparently has not been a necessary chore for a sizable chunk of the population lately: few bottles have gone unfinished during the pandemic. Psychiatrist William Scott Killgore of University of Arizona's College of Medicine wrote in the February Psychiatry Research, “many people are relying on greater quantities of alcohol to ease their distress.” Indeed. Alcohol consumption by those not affected significantly by the lockdown (for whatever reason) didn’t change. For those who were significantly affected by the lockdown, however, he noted that “hazardous alcohol use” rose from its normal (but high enough) 21% in April 2020 to 40.7% by last September based on answers to the Alcohol Use Disorders Identification Test. Severe dependency rose from 4% in April to 17.4% in September. Probable dependency reached 29%. Alcohol consumption rose for much of the remaining affected population, too, even if it didn’t reach hazardous levels.
 
Ironically, this makes drinkers who are locked down more susceptible to Covid. The World Health Organization remarked on its European website, “Alcohol consumption is associated with a range of communicable and noncommunicable diseases and mental health disorders, which can make a person more vulnerable to COVID-19. In particular, alcohol compromises the body’s immune system and increases the risk of adverse health outcomes.”
 
The highest risk comes from combining alcohol abuse with obesity, which also has increased during the pandemic; higher obesity rates in wealthier countries accounts for much of the higher lethality of Covid in those countries. The Abstract of an NIH study states, “Our hypothesis suggests that a combination of alcohol consumption and obesity causes low immunity and makes the individual prone to develop ‘cytokine storm’ and ‘acute respiratory distress syndrome’; the hallmark of COVID-19 mortality and morbidity. Thus, we propose that reducing any one trigger can have a beneficial effect in combating the disease severity.”
 
It may come as no surprise that obesity has soared during the lockdown. While I’ve not increased my tippling during the pandemic, I regret that I have not been immune to raiding the refrigerator. Unlike the liquor cabinet, the fridge has not needed a clean-out of unfinished meals. My bedroom mirror finally frightened me at the beginning of December. Since then I’ve dropped 20 pounds (9 kg) but that’s only halfway toward my (by no means thin) target weight, so there is still a fat guy in the mirror motivating me to stay hungry. The problem with reining in overeating, of course, is that unlike alcohol one cannot simply stop cold turkey. (I could do with some cold turkey – on whole wheat with tomato and mayo.) That makes it trickier, but we do what we can.
 

Cold Turkey

To the extent the lockdown has led to increased obesity, it also has had the unintended consequence of increasing the severity of Covid infections. According to a January 2021 article in Nature, “Furthermore, novel findings indicate that specifically visceral obesity and characteristics of impaired metabolic health such as hyperglycaemia, hypertension and subclinical inflammation are associated with a high risk of severe COVID-19.” Most of us know infected people who shrugged off Covid with nary a sneeze and others who were knocked squarely (perhaps lethally) off their feet. 60 – 90% (yes, that’s a big range of uncertainty) of the severe cases have significant co-morbidities, and obesity (with its common health effects) is definitely a risk factor.
 
Self-reported weight gain among Americans having experienced lockdowns according to one study has averaged 2 pounds (.9 kg) per month. (People tend to lie even on anonymous surveys for some reason [wishful thinking?] so the real number may be higher; we know Americans drink more than they say they do, for instance, because the alcohol tax brings in 50% more than it should if they were telling the truth.) This is in line with my own experience: I needed to lose 20 pounds before the pandemic, so I’m actually back to where I was this time last year but not to where I aim to be.
 
In truth, the pandemic is not a big factor in my ongoing effort to lose pounds. Vanity is a slightly bigger one. Mostly, though, it is just the hope that being fitter will feel better in a more general sense. At my age that might be a fantasy. Nothing will restore me to feeling 18. We all need our fantasies though, and there are worse ones to have. Without it I could all too easily give up and resemble Ella Mae’s Mr. Five by Five.
 
 

Ella Mae Morse – Mr. Five by Five (1942)

Singular Triad

 
The painfully uneven slow-walk back toward normality (which itself seems abnormal by now) means there is still much time in evening hours to entertain oneself by oneself. Here are three of my picks for the job from the past week.
 
The Glass Slipper (1955)
 
It is my habit once every week or two to randomly pick a movie from my DVD collection. Well, almost randomly. My DVDs are arranged chronologically: not meticulously by precise release date but by decade. A 1938 could be bracketed by a 1934 and 1936 but there won’t be a 1948 separating any two from the ‘30s; this is more than sufficiently ordered for my purposes. So I have an idea of the probable age range of the movies toward which I reach with eyes closed when I stand (or crouch) in front of one general area of the shelves, but the particular movie on which a finger alights is still a surprise. My reasoning is that if I really don’t want to watch the movie I blindly pick (even though I want to watch some movie or I wouldn’t be picking at all) it shouldn’t be taking up shelf space. (The true turkeys already largely have been removed by this process.) I often have doubts about what gets selected in this way, but rarely do I regret the pick after the first 10 minutes of playing it.
 
There were no regrets at all about last night’s DVD. Filmed five years after Disney’s animated hit Cinderella, MGM’s 1955 The Glass Slipper is the most interestingly off-beat iteration of the story ever made by a major studio. The production reportedly was a nightmare for many of those involved: screenwriter Helen Deutsch stressfully (but successfully) fought constant interference from the producer, director Charles Walters fought (unsuccessfully) against the ballet dream sequences, and Michael Wilding (the Prince) tried repeatedly to resign from the role because he thought he was unsuitable for the part. Only Leslie Caron enjoyed the experience. Yet, it works. Even Walters’ self-doubt, to the extent it manifests on screen, humanized a character that might have seemed too arrogant otherwise.
 
Caron’s Ella (the nickname “Cinderella” is a taunt) is temperamental, tomboyish, and feisty. On her first meeting with the prince, who pretends to be the son of the palace cook, she pushes him into a pond. In case we don’t get that she lashes out at others because she feels bad about herself, Walter Pidgeon explains her motivations in Freudian fashion in a voiceover that verges on parody of the Disney technique. The village crazy lady acts as the fairy godmother of the tale. The dream sequences with Les Ballets de Paris are trippy – an out-of-fashion but wholly applicable adjective. As in many films from the era the pacing isn’t rushed, but with a total length of 93 minutes the film doesn’t have time to drag.
 

The film is utterly enjoyable. It is the only movie version of the story I would watch again of my own accord rather than as an indulgence to company.
** **
 
Ways to Die in Glasgow by Jay Stringer
 
“Write what you know” is the standard advice to aspiring writers. It shouldn’t be taken too literally. It is highly unlikely that a science fiction author knows much about what life is like on the fourth planet of the Trappist-1 star system unless he happens to have been abducted by aliens from there. He isn’t thereby forbidden to write about it. Still, it helps if whatever drama plays out there in his story is grounded in his own experience. For example, fine author of Golden Age sci-fi Harry Harrison in the early days of his career lived in a small Mexican town; he later wrote that the residents of that town were the basis for characters in his novels and short stories. The standard advice is soundest, of course, in novels that strive for realism. The top three of my go-to contemporary mystery/suspense writers definitely benefit from it: South African author Deon Meyer, fellow New Jerseyan Harlan Coben, and Glaswegian Jay Stringer. Even if you’ve never been to Cape Town, Livingston, or Glasgow, the three authors’ intimate feel for the physical and cultural milieus of their hometowns draw you in effectively.
 
I first became aware of Jay Stringer from a brief description in an ER Hamilton book catalogue of his 2016 How to Kill Friends and Implicate People. I bought and enjoyed the darkly humorous mystery in which he breaks a number of writing-class rules and gets away with it nicely. The book also introduced me to Sam [Samantha] Ireland, a recurring PI in his novels. This week’s read, Ways to Die in Glasgow, is another Sam Ireland mystery written in Stringer’s characteristic style of multiple alternating POVs.
 

Mobster Rab Anderson has grown tired of the criminal life and has found he can make money and become a minor celeb by writing books about it instead. This doesn’t sit well with people who might be implicated in those books including crooked cops. Rab is kidnapped while an attempted hit on his rough-edged nephew Mackie goes awry. A prestigious law firm then hires Sam to serve papers on Rab. She has to find him first, which puts her in the middle of whatever is going on. Whatever it is involves police, politicians, wealthy developers, organized crime, and well connected legal firms – and murders.
 
The noir novel is fast-faced and bloody while the humor is Chandler-esque with a Scottish accent. Good stuff.
** **
 
Harley Quinn
 
As I’ve mentioned in other blogs, there are some pop culture things I watch, hear, or otherwise sample just to be part of the conversation – and perhaps in-person conversations will be something that happen again someday. More often than not I don’t much care for them, but the HBO animated series Harley Quinn proved enjoyable.
 

The character Harley Quinn has been one of DC’s most bankable villains since her first appearance in the early 90s. For two decades, however, the franchise floundered in its attempts to make proper use of her. The movie The Suicide Squad failed critically but it was profitable anyway, mostly thanks to Margot Robbie’s version of Harley. The subsequent Birds of Prey fared far worse. DC finally regained its footing in print with an intelligently revamped origin story Harleen (which I reviewed last year here) by Croatian author Stjepan Sejic who details the emergence of Dr. Quinzel’s shadow self under the influence of Joker. In 2019 the animated series Harley Quinn came to the small screen with Kaley Cuoco voicing Harley and Alan Tudyk as Joker.
 
Creators Justin Halpern, Patrick Schumacker, and Dean Lorey were executive producers on The Incredibles and bring some of the same irreverence and humor to this show. Harley Quinn, unlike The Incredibles however, is R-rated and brutal – but still smartly written and funny.
 
In Season 1, Harley, with a figurative and literal push from Poison Ivy, finally breaks free of her dependence on Joker but without returning to her old persona Harleen Quinzel. She attempts a reconciliation with her parents but ends up confronting them over the damage they did to her psyche – the confrontation is not bloodless. To take over Gotham she assembles her own gang of villains including a bumbling Bane and a foul-mouthed Dr. Psycho in order to challenge the Legion of Doom in which her ex Joker is a prominent member. The supposed good guys (e.g. Batman, Gordon) are almost uniformly pompous, self-righteous egotists reminiscent of Captain Hammer in Whedon's Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. The villains would be humanly likable were it not for their propensity for casual murder. Season 2 continues Harley’s evolution including her relationship with Ivy. The show isn’t afraid to be incorrect (an increasingly rare attribute), and when it is politically correct it isn’t preachy about it. The mix is a lot of fun, though very much over the top in violence. Recommended, but not for the easily offended.
 

The other Harley isn’t bad either

The Pretty Reckless - Harley Darling

Cabinet Clearance

Due to you-know-what there hasn’t been a significant get-together at my house in a year. Prior to then there was at least one sizable party per season, usually holiday related: solstices and equinoxes count as holidays. My parties aren’t boozy by normal measures, but they aren’t entirely dry either. My own consumption of alcohol has varied over the years from a bit excessive in my 20s, to near teetotal avoidance in my 30s, to light-side-of-moderate today. The last descriptor might seem subjective, but I’m using the CDC’s guidance to define moderate. According to the CDC, an adult male should restrict his alcohol consumption to no more than 14 drinks per week and no more than 4 in any one day. (A standard drink in the US is 14 grams of pure alcohol, which is equivalent to 1.5 ounce [44.4 mL] of 40% [80 proof] spirits.) I haven’t had 4 drinks in a single day in years. I haven’t neared (much less exceeded) the weekly limit in decades. In consequence of such restrained sippage by either guests or myself, the inside of my liquor cabinet hasn’t seen much daylight (or artificial light) since the early days of 2020. So, earlier today I figured it was time to sort through what was there and spill out what needed spilling.

My liquor cabinet

2019 equinox party

 
Unless stored recklessly, unopened spirits and wines have a shelf life longer than a human lifetime. Once opened, however, even hard liquors go bad in months. How many months depends on how much air is in the bottle. A mostly empty bottle should probably be discarded after 3; a mostly full one is good for 6 months to a year. They don’t go bad in the sense of being dangerous (more than otherwise, that is) but in the sense that they taste awful (more than otherwise, that is). Several partially filled bottles were selected out of my cabinet to intoxicate whatever critters (microscopic or otherwise) live in the drain pipes.
 
There is no cabinet or drawer in my house for other intoxicating substances unless you count caffeine. Despite having lived in a college dorm in the hippie era with constant haze in the hallways and a dealer in psychedelics on every floor, I never cared for any of them. I have been in favor since my teens of legalization of all recreational drugs (not just marijuana) but that always has been on civil libertarian grounds rather than because I have a taste for them. There are other arguments in favor of legalization (the social side effects of the drug war) too, but I trot them out only when debating someone who values social arguments more. For me, though, the belief that free people have the right to make bad choices for themselves is enough by itself. It’s a belief not always widely shared. 120 years ago, true enough, you could buy cocaine and morphine over the counter, but all that changed in the next two decades. 101 years ago alcohol Prohibition began. The current contents of my liquor cabinet, though fairly modest, would have been enough to earn me a prison sentence. Prohibition ended in 1933.
 
Prohibition was enacted by Constitutional Amendment, by the way, because the federal courts (though not state courts) back then did share the quaint idea that the Bill of Rights protected a citizen’s right to make bad decisions. An Amendment got around the real possibility that the Supreme Court might otherwise overthrow a federal ban on alcohol sales. The same concerns account for the bizarre way marijuana was banned by the Marijuana Stamp Tax Act of 1937. Marijuana was not outlawed per se; you simply had to pay a tax on it by buying a stamp. However, you had to bring in the substance to be stamped, and since the marijuana was unstamped when you brought it in you were in violation of the law. This Catch-22 arrangement persisted until 1970 when it was replaced by the Controlled Substances Act. By 1970 there was less concern the Court would overthrow straightforwardly paternalistic legislation. The concern has only lessened since then.
 
Anyway, the cabinet doors are closed again. Perhaps by the solstice I’ll be able to open them again for actual company. Though NJ is stumbling through an obstacle course of the legislature’s own making toward legalization of pot, any guests inclined toward it will have to supply themselves. Nonetheless, perhaps someday (though I don’t see it happening soon) we’ll even revive the general notion that what private people voluntarily do in private settings is nobody else’s business.
 

Bessie Smith – Tain't Nobody Business If I Do (1923)

Junque

 
I’m in the midst cleaning out my barn and fixing up a small house I’ve owned for years to ready it for sale. The process has evoked unexpected nostalgia even though I have no emotional attachment to any of the junk per se or to the real estate. I suspect the reaction is from an implicit acknowledgement of aging. Most of the things in the barn (along with the small house for that matter) targeted for removal have been retained up until now on the “I may do something with this someday” theory. The bulk of them (not actually garbage in the usual sense, but things such as screens, hardware of all kinds, specialty tools, mismatched lumber, cabinet pieces, etc.) were stored there by my dad (gone more than 20 years now) on the same “I may do something with this someday” theory. The realities of time being what they are, I’m really not going to do anything more with them than he did if I keep them. Yet, removing them (whether by sale, gift, or disposal) is a recognition of doors closing.

the barn

 
Nostalgia is tricky. It’s not just about missing the past, such as that special someone in one’s youth who got away. (Odds are we are lucky that particular someone got away.) It’s about missing past futures. We miss having had the option of a certain kind of future with that someone as much as (or rather than) miss the person herself. Everyone has biological clocks that tick at different speeds for different activities. As we age, our options constrict – quicker in practical terms than in hypothetical terms. Yes, in principle someone in his or her 60s, for instance, still could go to medical school and complete residency by age 80, but I think we can agree that as a practical career plan that option faded decades earlier. With each passing year our realistic possible futures become more limited. It begins early. By our late 20s most of us are weighing time costs (of more education for example) against the benefits, and sometimes the costs already are too high. So, while we remember past people, places, and events when in a nostalgic mood, we also contemplate the past world of possibilities associated with them.
 
Of course, we never really know how much future (and therefore how many possible futures) we have at our disposal. Actuarial tables give us the odds, but the distribution curve has, as they say, fat tails: there are a lot of outliers. It is uncertain what is the maximum lifespan for a human being. During the time of Charles I, there was the case of Old Tom Parr who married at for the first time at 80 (fathering two children) and for the second time at 122. He eventually succumbed in 1635 at age 150 shortly after being entertained (on account of his age) at Charles’ court. However, recordkeeping was somewhat questionable in those days, so modern historians tend to be skeptical that the numbers are right.
 
The oldest person for whom the records are reliable was Jeanne Louise Calment who died in 1997 at age 122 (and 164 days). One poor fellow in Arles made the biggest mistake of his life by betting against her based on actuarial tables. André-François Raffray at age 47 signed a contract to buy Calment’s Arles apartment en viager, by which Calment not only retained life rights to occupy the apartment but received a 2500 franc monthly check besides. Calment was 90 at the time. Raffray quite reasonably expected he would be on a hook for perhaps a few years, which would mean the apartment was a steal. Calment outlived Raffray by three years. What was Calment’s secret to a long life? Well, she did quit smoking – at age 117. She also drank port wine every day and ate two pounds of chocolate per week.
 
A curious thing about centenarians – especially those over age 105 – is how infrequently they follow usual health advice about exercise and diet. Muriel Froomberg, who died in London in 2017 at age 108, drank a bottle of whisky a week and touted its benefits. Antonio Docampo Garcia (died 107) drank up to four bottles of homemade wine per night – he disdained water. Batuli Lamichhane (119) of Nepal never quit her 30 cigarette per day habit. Susannah Mushatt Jones of Brooklyn (died 116) recommended eating bacon. Richard Overton (died last year at 112) of Texas credited his health (or at least his happiness) to cigars, bourbon, and ice cream. A Japanese study of seven people over 110 may give some clue about what is going on here. The seven have (and apparently were born with) exceptional immune systems. Specifically, their CD4 T-cells actively attack viruses and cancerous cells with an effectiveness not seen in average people. So, they can get away with (perhaps even benefit from) lifestyles that might kill the rest of us.
 
Are you one of those destined to live over 110 years? Probably not. You and I might well be on the nearer tail of the actuarial curve rather than the further. But you never know. With that thought, I think I’ll keep some of the stuff I had earmarked in the garage after all. I might use it for something someday. And that decision, too, feels like old times.

Diane Keaton – Seems Like Old Times