A machine that prints chicken nuggets. Fake shrimp made out of algae. Edible coverings that keep fruit fresh. These inventions—and many more—are part of a technological revolution that is poised to shake up the way we eat. WSJ
With scientists messing about
with pizza and crisp sauerkraut,
I do not pretends
to know where it ends --
a pot roast that swims like a trout?
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6:44 a.m.
Today I see the doctor. Sarah will pick me up at ten for my ten-thirty appointment. She came by with the kids last night very late for a school night -- after 9:30. She said she had to get out and do some aimless driving and then remembered she had some Tupperware in the van to bring back to me, so she swung by. I'm always glad to see her and the kids, but her late visit made me wonder what's up with her.
I'll get a flu shot. I'll consult with him about my lack of energy and stamina. I'm gonna ask for a Handicap tag, cuz my knees are getting worse and worse; I haven't been able to handle a flight of stairs in over two years. I'll tell him about my kidney pain whenever I urinate -- probably a leftover from my kidney stone attacks when I lived in Virginia back in 2012. I'll get refills on my prescription medications. I'm currently taking Tamsulosin to keep my urethra open -- without it I can barely urinate at all. I take Levothyroxine for an underactive thyroid condition. And I take Lisinopril for my high blood pressure and to help control my edema. I'm also prescribed Atorvastatin cuz my cholesterol levels are too high, but the pills are gigantic and since I can't swallow pills but have to either chew them with a piece of candy or crush them up and have them with a tablespoon of honey, I decided to forget about them -- the prescription is from a year ago and the doc has never mentioned it since, so I won't either. Then there's a big black pill containing, according to the label, 50 thousand units of Vitamin D2, to be taken once a week. It says on the container "Swallow whole. Do not crush or chew," so I haven't taken them -- I'll ask the doctor if he can prescribe it as a liquid or something I can crush and take with honey.
2:39 p.m.
Dr. Walker smiles constantly, showing teeth like white shoepeg corn. He sits in a very small room with a very small desk and computer and asks me if I would like a prescription strength antiperspirant for the top of my head, which is constantly streaming with sweat nowadays. I tell him no. Behind him on the wall is a blank cork board. He orders a Pneumococcal Polysaccharide Vaccine for me, but tells me to come back next month to get a full-strength flu shot. His brown-skinned nurse takes blood samples. Now that I'm on Medicare he is going to refer me to an endocrinologist for my parathyroid problems. (And btw, now that I'm on Medicare there are no more co-pays!) And double my dose of Tamsulosin. But otherwise he cheerfully says I seem to be in pretty good health. That's what Sarah said, driving me over to the East Park Clinic, too. I'm in pretty good condition. So why do I feel like crap so much of the time? I think the good doctor wants to tell me I need to lose a hundred pounds, at least. I weighed in today at 332. Maybe he will come out with it next week when I go in again. And maybe it's more psychological than physical -- what am I trying to avoid by feigning exhaustion and confusion all the time?
Now that I think on it, when I attempted a rapprochement with Amy last summer I was taken sick almost every time we went out together to visit our kids or have dinner and see a movie. Diarrhea, a swelled scrotum, and anxiety attacks that left me dizzy, nauseated, and sometimes speechless. I had to be taken into the ER twice while we were together again. When I broke things off with her last April I felt bad emotionally, but my health improved markedly.
"Is a puzzle" as Yul Brynner said in 'The King and I.'
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My friend in the Pacific has a morbid fear of being quoted out of context with his emails. He's always begging me not to copy any of them into my work. And in return he sends me photos of his lunch and dinner:
He seems to think I can be cajoled into sparing him by appealing to my obsession with comestibles. So far he's been lucky. But he needs to make his meals look more interesting and appetizing if he wants a continuing reprieve. I'm not sure what the stuff is above -- there's rice in it, and scrambled eggs, and broccoli, but otherwise it could be flypaper and pencil erasers for all I know.
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white on far whiter
blue mixed with grey mixed with blue
the sky has no walls
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