Tripping on Tryptophan

Science points out that there’s as much tryptophan in chicken and ground beef as there is in turkey, but we never blame the cheeseburger for feeling sleepy. Then again, on Thanksgiving, many people tend to pack away way more food, so the comparison is not as accurate. If there’s 350 milligrams of tryptophan in a typical 4-ounce serving of turkey, and sleep aids typical have 500 to 1000 milligrams, science says the turkey’s not enough to induce sleepiness. But then, I’m laughing at the idea that I’m only eating 4 ounces of turkey.

I just wanted to say that. On the one hand, there’s all sort of reasons why we can’t say that turkey actually makes us sleepy. On the other hand, there’s all sorts of avenues for getting away with saying it. I mean, due to the job I have, I know more about the brain than the average person. I don’t know even a hundredth of what an expert knows, nor do I even know enough to educate someone. But I know enough to win arguments against people who know nothing.

And in the “know nothing” group are both: people who think turkey makes you sleepy, and people who only know that it really doesn’t. I can beat them both in an argument, if I want to. Being right, or the truth, or facts have nothing to do with it.

I mean, facts are facts. There’s no arguing over facts. And opinions are personal. There’s no logic to telling someone her opinion is “wring.”

To the “turkey makes you sleepy” people, I can haul out the whole “not enough tryptophan, its actually the overeating, etc” argument. I can point them to Snopes or a dozen other websites.

And to the “no it doesn’t” folks, I can say “why not?” Chances are, they don’t know the by-the-milligram amounts of tryptophan in turkey, or in sleep aids. I can tell them “you can’t get sleepy without serotonin, and you can’t get serotonin without tryptophan, and there is a LOT of tryptophan in this meal we’re eating…”

So what’s the point? Why do we haul out these facts and arguments, what is it about sitting around a table with a bunch of people we’re not allowed to dislike that makes us so petty? And by us, I mean me. What’s the deal?

I dunno. I’m not seeing my therapists this week. I’ll get back to you. Until then, do like me: let them say whatever they want to say. Let them be right. Being right doesn’t feel as good as turkey tastes, in my opinion. And if you let things go, you’ll sleep better, no matter what time of day it is.

Brain Paste

We had a party on Friday night, for my birthday. Due to alcohol and a week of fatigue, I slept hard. Real hard. I snored with my mouth wide open, and my wife was so tired too, she slept right through it. Which means she didn’t wake me up or adjust me like she usually does, so I snored all the harder and longer. It was a hard long snoring.

The result: super dry mouth, which caused a bad case of Uvilitis. That’s a word that’s so weird, that even Google doesn’t like it. “Did you mean uveitis?” No I did not.

Wikipedia is cool with it though. Anyway. Since I have in-laws in town, there’s turmeric everywhere, and I recalled that turmeric is natural anti-inflammatory. So we tried adding some to honey to make a paste. And then I started thinking about all the brain research I’ve been doing, and decided to add cocoa, to make it palatable and for the anti-oxidants. And then oil, as I need something to make it pastier. And then chili powder. So here’s the result:

• 1 tsp cocoa powder (flavanoids!)
• 1 tsp raw honey (anti-everything)
• 2 tsp olive oil (fat fuses flavors)
• 1 tsp turmeric (anti-inflammatory)
• ¼ tsp chili powder (boosts metabolism)

Mix into a paste. Add to your chai tea or milk or whatever. Or spread on toast. Or a bran muffin.

None of this is scientific, of course, strictly speaking. But dang it’s good. It’s like one of those trendy chocolate bars the fancy-dancy shoppes sell ya. It’s like Nutella for cheapskates. It’s like there’s a party in your mouth, and only the hipsters are invited.

Oh, and I should say: measure the turmeric last or use an entirely different teaspoon. Turmeric has a tendency to get into things if you’re not careful. I like turmeric but sometimes I’m not in the mood for it to get into my tea. Sometimes.

 

Messing With Genres

I wish I could remember how I came upon Bitter:Sweet. Maybe I should search older blog archives, because I might have written about this before. “Dear Diary: I have no intention of ever reading any of this again, so you’re not a diary, or even a journal, you’re a blog.” I think that’s how it goes. They call ‘zines about the person who makes them “Perzines.” Does that mean there’s “Perblogs?” Of course. So if this is one, or www.bukkhead.com is one, and if you read this or that and remember reading how I came across Bitter:Sweet, let me know.

Because via Bitter:Sweet I have discovered a whole “genre” of music that I’ve been listening to for a while now. I say “genre” in denigrating quotes like that because I’m not sure what genre it is or even if it’s all one genre. Mostly this is stuff that came in via Pandora, on my Bitter:Sweet station. Now that I think about it, I also have a Wax Tailor station, and a Skeewiff station, and those yield excellent tunes as well, with much overlap. And now that I think about it, I have some guitar-based stations, like flamenco and surf, and there’s overlap there as well, sort of. So maybe that was it.

Anyway, as I was listening to some serious groove last night, or trip hop, or accelerated lounge, or caustic ambient, or spy fusion, or whatever the hell it is, it occurred to me that maybe this is all just drum and bass. So I looked up drum and bass and was told that Pendulum is a drum and bass artist/group/whatever, so I made a station based on that.

And it turns out that what I was listening to before is NOT drum and bass, BUT, there WERE some overlaps, like when the Glitch Mob came on. I am inclined to think that was Pandora’s not adhering to Pendulum’s “genre” but their own taxonomy.

I’m keeping the station, and I may try to find a way to mix some of the stuff from that into the Bitter:Sweet stuff. Like The Yoshida Brothers, who came on this Pendulum station and rocked my socks off (I have a few of their albums already, but not the song that came on last night).

Genres are tricky. I would like to think the same is true with writing. I would like to think that art describes genre, and not the other way around. I would like to think my writing is proof of that.

 I have two other blogs to write on today, so I guess we’ll see.

Birthday BBQ and Rye: 42, Starting Off Good.

Sorry this is late. Late? Yeah, I try to post these by 2:00 PM at the latest. I know, no one cares. But I read somewhere that you get more followers if you post at a consistent time. I also read that its okay to not write every day. Well, I already skipped Monday and Tuesday so I’m going to suck it up and pound this post out if it kills me.

Work has been super busy today, as there’s lots going on. A new version of the game, Achievements, testing, write-ups, all manner of this, that, and the other. Thank god tomorrow is beer day.

Last night, though, was my birthday, and the wife took me to Bitterroot, which is what I want to talk about. Call this a review, if you like.

5/5 stars. Excellent BBQ. Excellent prices. Excellent ryes. Excellent service. Not hard to find, not too crowded on a Wednesday night, and the location is such that as terrible as parking is in Ballard, at least for this place parking was only mostly terrible.

What I REALLY want to talk about was the rye flight I had. I don’t remember what the first one was, but if I had not known it was a rye, I might have guessed it was just whiskey. It was very powerful. I would drink it again, though, as it was still better than your average rotgut.

The second one, though, was amazing. George Dickel its called, and I will be buying a bottle to share. So smooth. So sweet. None of that pressure-in-the-forehead you get from a slam of alcohol in your nose. Just so damn good.

The third one was nearly as good as the Dickel. Lock Stock and Barrel, super complicated, nuanced, but neither playful nor provocative. If Templeton is my best gal, and Dickel’s the sweet neighbor girl, then LS&B’s the sophisticated older lady down the block who’s still a knock-out.

So, in one night, I imbibed my second and third favorite ryes of all time. Templeton’s still my number one, of course. It’s as much loyalty as it is just how damn good that rye treats a body. Yum.

So, if you’re in Ballard, go to Bitterroot, get pretty much anything on the menu, order a rye flight, and tip your server well.

What We Didn’t Do on our Not-a-Vacation

In order to pursue the betterment of person kind and to assure our place in the annals of history, the wife and I went to Denver for a few days. This is why there was no blog post on Monday and Tuesday. If you’re an avid reader of “...Other” then I do apologize for the lapse. Hopefully you found other entertainment. Your sock drawer, for example-- surely it is now well arranged?

I can’t tell you what we were doing in Mile High City, but I will say this: the Seahawks are 10 and 1, while the Broncos are 9 and 1 so far… and they won’t be playing each other unless they both go to the Superbowl. That’s all I’m saying. I mean, those facts have nothing to do with why we were there, but, well… that’s all I’m saying.

While we were there, in addition to not writing blog posts, I struggled to even get my daily NaNoWriMo words done. I managed by smashing a keyboard for a few hours on the two plane rides. I was using a little iPad mini and Zagg bluetooth keyboard. Monday morning I just typed into an email and sent it to myself. Tuesday evening I wrote 16 100-word paragraphs. It was grueling.

In between I noticed something that I’ve been doing for a while-- talking out loud to myself. Little innocuous things, like “should I get this shirt or this one?” Not deep philosophical questions, to say the least.

But then I saw this article about our inner voices. Its mostly about inner voices, but it starts off with a little description of Virginia Woolf talking out loud to herself. And of course, I started thinking (without saying it out loud because I’m in a small office with a coworker) “Hey, she’s a writer, and I’m a writer, so… like maybe writing a lot makes people talk out loud to themselves more!”

That’s not what the article’s about and there’s no evidence of this anyway. But I want to think it. I want to think that in the last month, since my daily word output has sky-rocketed, my brain must be changing. For the better, I hope.

Or not. This might just be the latest foster parent in my brain’s visitation schedule. From March to about June this year I was playing a lot of WoW. Then from June to September I was reading a novel almost every day. And now it’s a writing jag. Maybe in December I’ll be into collecting Lego minifigures.

This is Jam

I am very very very far behind on my NaNoWriMo words. So instead of writing a blog post I will post something I've been working on to catch up.

Blog posts, dry toast, hipster d-bags coast to coast bragging about flagging their intellectual victuals roasted over the slow broasted flames of inebriated inflection, reflecting on the directions social media's going, lowing like cattle and rattling neck-bearded sabers at cable-television wagers.

Dangerous conclusions, colluding over slow-roasted macchiatos, the new dime bags, tagging their posts with allusions to the cages we’re all defined by, and data-mining every meme for the unseemly we deem appropriate when we scheme to skim some of the cream off this fat-ass latte dream.

Magazines flogging molly and clogging up hallways with picture-postcard advertisements advising us to retire outside the confinements of dignity, dinner at Denny’s on Wednesdays something to calendar in last year’s technology, colanders holding more water than the biology we requiem sitting in front of TV screen, little black and white man boys slaving over a hot grid iron and their sweat ejecting desperation for identity in masculinity, our prostates full to bursting, urging us to cursing as we thirst for another nacho cheese potato chip and our IVs drip with Schlitz and Lebatz.

Facts forgotten, moments fomented on memories of epistles penned three fingers at a time, rhyme nor reason in season as we hunt and peck through the dreck of explaining the chain of events that lead us from these five-hundred word rants through chanting, panting in post-connubial bliss (we insist) because writing is better than plucking.

A euphemism, a eulogy for euthanasia, mercy killing words too fierce for flinging, singing neither electric physiology nor spirit-tested psychology but soul fettered ignominy, frets bursting fingertip capillaries so that capsicum laced coffees can be chased through places equally spaced to accommodate the greatest rate of return on waiting for that delicious libation.

No apologies. None.

Too Much Writing, Not Enough Writing

Add this to the moan n’ groan department. I can’t keep up with all my (self-imposed) writing assignments. Not to mention everything else I have to do.

Woe is me, I know. At least I get to eat (well, not today, I’m on a juice cleanse. Apparently that means I drink things with lots of cayenne pepper in them. Got it at Costco, on a whim, but I might be shooting myself in the foot because that Costco Mac n Cheese we had last weekend blocked me up good. Sorry for being graphic, but hey, you’re not even supposed to be reading this, you’re supposed to be reading those other darn blogs and earn me some darn AdSense money, darn it).

At least I have a roof over my head (except today when I was walking to the bus stop in the rain. It wasn’t a down pour, but I’d decided to leave my coat at home because it’s too heavy for the weather we’ve been having lately, and I’m tired of sweating up and down all those darn stairs. I should take the elevator, but who has time to wait for elevators? And I need to burn the calories! Yes, I’m walking contradiction, sue me).

At least I have a loving, caring wife (except in the mornings when she’s on her feet and walking to the shower but somehow still has her head on the pillow. I don’t know how she does it. But I have learned my lesson—being bright and chirpy in the morning will get me a deep bite mark on my arm, which I’d better appreciate for the way it distracts me from being throttled by angry, sleepy hands. Just kidding. I love you honey. Why are YOU reading this stupid blog).

Still, whatever my privileges, I feel like it is my duty as a middle aged middle class white hetero married man with a Kia and two mortgages to complain, so I’m going to complain. Woe is me. Too much writing to do, way behind on NaNoWriMo. Struggling to find content for this blog AND the brain one AND the zombie one. Have to write a weekly blog for work. Have to write emails to people. And did I mention: laundry, dishes, cleaning the garage, cleaning the gutters, getting the house ready for an 18th-month-old, the new World of Warcraft expansion, Desktop Dungeons, Grand Theft Auto V, PvZ2, keeping up with Facebook, keeping up with Tumblr, keeping up with Reddit, and my notes! I have SOOOOO many daily notes to process.

I tell you what, it’s this job, it’s having a job, its going to a job every day and working. I shouldn’t complain, I know, I should be grateful. And I am. I love this job, I will gladly sacrifice any of those other things to keep this job. Especially cleaning the gutters. But I am being stretched thin, here.

All my own fault of course. But at least moaning about it got me five-hundred or so words to put on this darn blog.