Where The Streets Have No Gluten

HOLDEN'S CONFESSION

Ok, you know what? I NEVER wanted to be senior class president anyway, okay? GOSH! I must admit though, that my posters were pretty funny. I must admit that I was pretty funny in my Exec Council interview, as much as they all hated me and gave me an extremely crappy score. I must admit that "Gender Segregation Day" was an extremely good idea for my hypothetical "Senior Week," and that "Fatal Attraction" would've made a great date night movie. But, your loss Snow Canyon. Your loss. And forever you shall regret not picking me. Even though I didn't want to win.

Hey Bret Voran Gates! Hey! Are you reading this? I'm talking to you! LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU! I never wanted to win ANYWAY! There, are you happy? Does that put a little damper on your triumphant "I Beat the Coolest Guy In School in the Senior Class Election" story that you tell at every one of your social gatherings? Well...I LOST ON PURPOSE.

   "I voted for Holden!"

Besides, you don't really get to run the senior class anyway, right? I mean...seriously.

Sorry

Ok sorry! GOSH! I didn't know that the whole homeopathy thing could be so boring to everyone. Forget I said anything. Ever. In my whole life. Just forget it. Jerks.

I'll probably end up getting fired from work one of these days, I seem to kinda be in a Dixie Nutrition rebellion mode right now. Seriously. My conclusion, after two whole years of working there now, is that most everything is a scam. I think I've said enough about it.

The end.

The Scams of Homeopathy and Oscillococcinum

I figure most people I know don't really care about any of this, but I find this pretty interesting, as these products are huge sellers where I work. It's a lot to read, so don't be turned off right away.



(From Quackwatch.com: Homeopathy, The Ultimate Fake)

"At best, the 'remedies' are placebos"'

Homeopathic products are made from minerals, botanical substances, and several other sources. If the original substance is soluble, one part is diluted with either nine or ninety-nine parts of distilled water and/or alcohol and shaken vigorously (succussed); if insoluble, it is finely ground and pulverized in similar proportions with powdered lactose (milk sugar). One part of the diluted medicine is then further diluted, and the process is repeated until the desired concentration is reached. Dilutions of 1 to 10 are designated by the Roman numeral X (1X = 1/10, 3X = 1/1,000, 6X = 1/1,000,000). Similarly, dilutions of 1 to 100 are designated by the Roman numeral C (1C = 1/100, 3C = 1/1,000,000, and so on). Most remedies today range from 6X to 30X, but products of 30C or more are marketed.

A 30X dilution means that the original substance has been diluted 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 times. Assuming that a cubic centimeter of water contains 15 drops, this number is greater than the number of drops of water that would fill a container more than 50 times the size of the Earth. Imagine placing a drop of red dye into such a container so that it disperses evenly. Homeopathy's "law of infinitesimals" is the equivalent of saying that any drop of water subsequently removed from that container will possess an essence of redness. Robert L. Park, Ph.D., a prominent physicist who is executive director of The American Physical Society, has noted that since the least amount of a substance in a solution is one molecule, a 30C solution would have to have at least one molecule of the original substance dissolved in a minimum of 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 molecules of water. This would require a container more than 30,000,000,000 times the size of the Earth.



Oscillococcinum, a 200C product "for the relief of colds and flu-like symptoms," involves "dilutions" that are even more far-fetched. Its "active ingredient" is prepared by incubating small amounts of a freshly killed duck's liver and heart for 40 days. The resultant solution is then filtered, freeze-dried, rehydrated, repeatedly diluted, and impregnated into sugar granules. If a single molecule of the duck's heart or liver were to survive the dilution, its concentration would be 1 in 100 raised to the 200th power. This huge number, which has 400 zeroes, is vastly greater than the estimated number of molecules in the universe (about one googol, which is a 1 followed by 100 zeroes). In its February 17, 1997, issue, U.S. News & World Report noted that only one duck per year is needed to manufacture the product, which had total sales of $20 million in 1996. The magazine dubbed that unlucky bird "the $20-million duck."

Actually, the laws of chemistry state that there is a limit to the dilution that can be made without losing the original substance altogether. This limit, which is related to Avogadro's number, corresponds to homeopathic potencies of 12C or 24X (1 part in 1024). Hahnemann (homeopathy's founder) himself realized that there is virtually no chance that even one molecule of original substance would remain after extreme dilutions. But he believed that the vigorous shaking or pulverizing with each step of dilution leaves behind a "spirit-like" essence—"no longer perceptible to the senses"—which cures by reviving the body's "vital force." Modern proponents assert that even when the last molecule is gone, a "memory" of the substance is retained. This notion is unsubstantiated. Moreover, if it were true, every substance encountered by a molecule of water might imprint an "essence" that could exert powerful (and unpredictable) medicinal effects when ingested by a person.

This part is by me:

An explanation of the "dilution" thing: Homeopaths use a method called serial dilution. A drop of the original substance, whether it's snake venom or sulphuric acid, is added to 99 drops of water or alcohol. Then the mixture is violently shaken by hitting the tube against a hard surface. It is believed by homeopaths this is a vital stage. It somehow transfers the healing powers from the original substance into the water itself! The result is a mixture diluted 100 times, so called 1C solution. You then take that 1C solution and dissolve it in another 99 parts and now you end up with a 2C solution, and so on. And this is where the conflict with science begins. For example, 6C solution is equivalent to one drop of original substance in 20 swimming pools, and 12C is equivalent to one drop in the Atlantic Ocean. The typical dilution is 30C, a truly astronomical level of dilution. The fact that the least amount of a substance in a solution is one molecule, leads to a conclusion that in 24C or more solutions we don't have any molecules of substance left.


Hmm. Sounds like a pretty strange product.

I guess it'll work if you really believe it will, eh? The mind is great like that.

The Noodles

“Hey Dad.”
“Hey son.”
It was here, in a lowly hospital room, somewhere in the slums of Chicago, where Tony Stephenson came to see his dying father, Frank.
“Son,” came the weak voice of Frank, surely upon his deathbed.
“Yes father?”
“At the end of your life son, it won’t matter how many good deeds you did in your life.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, son. It won’t matter that you raised your family in love and righteousness.”
“Really dad? That’s odd,” replied Tony.
“Yes, son. It won’t matter how many people’s lives you saved, whether by untying them from railroad tracks, or taking bullets for them, or doing something truly heroic and selfless.”
“Really? That seems weird. That seems like it would be important—“
“SHADDAP WHEN I’M TALKIN TO YOU!” yelled Frank. It wasn’t really a yell though. It was more of a yell-whisper, since he was dying, you know.
“Sorry Dad,” said Tony.
“It won’t matter that you loved your wife to the very end of your life, and were completely faithful to her, and that you kept your promises,” Frank said.
“Gee,” replied Tony.
“Only one thing matters in a person’s life, Tony. One thing. Do you know what that one thing is Tony?”
“Uhh,” said Tony. “I can’t think of it. What is it?”
Frank looked his son right in the eye.
“Tony,” he said. “The only thing that matters is whether you eat enough of the noodles.”
“What noodles?” asked Tony.
“Son, the only regret in life I have is when I went to that one party when I was like, 22 years old. They had these really great noodles. I mean, really great. And this delectable sauce that you got to pour on top. Sauce, Tony! You got to pour the sauce on there yourself! If you wanted just a little sauce, you could choose to just put a little sauce on there. If you wanted more, well, you could have more. It was your choice. I ate one plate of these noodles.”
“Wow, sounds like some great noodles,” said Tony.
“Yeah, they were. Well, even though they were great, I still only ate one plate of noodles. I forgot to eat more of them. We got to dancin’ and havin’ a good time, and I just plum forgot to eat another plate of those noodles. When that party was over, I was taking your old mom home, you know we was datin’ then. And about halfway to her place, I realized something—I had forgot to eat more of the noodles!”
“Geez,” said Tony. “That’s uh…way bad. Bad? Is that bad?”
“You have no idea, Tony. I mean…usually when you like something, you eat more of it, but that was the first time I can remember where I actually didn’t eat more of something I really liked. Does that sound crazy to you son? Does it? It does to me.”
“Wow Dad, that is pretty crazy,” said Tony.
“Darn right, son. So crazy that I’ve never forgot about it all these years. It haunts me every night.”
“It haunts you every night? That’s weird. I thought that you’d be haunted every night because you killed Mom 15 years ago. “
“SHADDAP WHEN I’M TALKIN TO YOU!” Frank snapped. Even in his frail, dying condition, he was still Tony’s father, and Tony had to respect that.
“Son?”
“Yes father?”
“Go grab me some hospital noodles. Do it. Do it now! I think I’m about to pass on son. I can see the angels coming son! I can see them! They’re in this room! They’re coming son! Hurry!”
“No problem Dad!” said Tony, and he bolted out of the room to grab some hospital noodles, unable and unwilling to disappoint his old dad in his final minutes.
Tony ran down the hall.
Noodles, he thought. Gotta find noodles. Gotta do it for Dad.
Time was winding down.
He turned a corner.
No noodles. “Dang!” he swore. So he went around another corner. Yes! The food court! And a vendor, with a giant obnoxious sign across the front: NOODLES AND MORE! He ran up to the counter, where a young teenager was standing behind a cash register.
“Gimme some noodles!” yelled Tony.
“What kind of noodles?” asked the teenager.
“I dunno! Good ones! What kind of noodles do people like?”
“Well,” she replied. “The bowtie noodles have been pretty popular today.”
“All right, gimme those,” replied Tony.
“We’re out of the bowtie noodles,” she responded.
“WHAT THE CUSS?!” yelled Tony. “Then why did you tell me they were so popular?”
“I dunno,” said the young man. “I don’t know why I say a lot of things.”
“Gimme the next best thing!”
“Sir,” said the young man. “You’ll have to let me know what kind of noodles you want.”
“JUST GIVE ME THE GOSH DANG NOODLES!!!” screamed Tony, pulling a gun on the kid. Tony was an angry angry fellow.
“Geez! Ok ok, put the gun down. Here, take these noodles,” he said, scooping some noodles into a to-go box. Tony threw down a twenty-dollar bill, grabbed the box, then bolted back towards the hospital room.
Only seconds now.
Must get him the noodles, Tony thought.
Must not disappoint Dad.
He threw open the hospital door at last. “DAD!” he cried. “I got them! I got the—what the?”
The hospital bed was empty.
Empty? Impossible. It was as though no one had even been in the bed. The sheets were folded nicely, there were no wrinkles.
“But,” said Tony. “Dad. He was just right here.”
Just then, a nurse walked by.
“Nurse,” said Tony. “What happened to the man who was in this room? Just a few minutes ago?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Now you’ll have to excuse me, I’ve got important business to take care of.”
“But there was a gentleman in this bed just a few minutes ago! Frank Stephenson! Do you remember?”
“Ahh yes,” she said. “Frank Stephenson. One of my favorite patients. Too bad he died last week.”
“Huh?” asked Tony, stunned. What in the name of Sam Hill…?
“Yeah. He died. Real interesting fellow. Too bad his kids never came to visit him.”
“Then...who was I talking to???” asked Tony.
“I don’t know, there hasn’t been anybody in this bed all day,” replied the nurse.
Then Tony stood there with a big wide-eyed look on his face, and some really mysterious twilighty zoney music started playing, and everybody was just like, way weirded out. And then Tony ate the noodles because he hadn’t had anything to eat all day.

"Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them."
                                       Dion Boucecault

Fish Tacos of Death: The Epic Poem

I ate a crumbly taco once,
it was full of fish.
I don't remember it being that crumbly,
as it crumbled in my dish.
And many a man, who likes his fish,
is often heard to say:
What happened to my favorite taco,
I loved in a former day?
For it is gross, and tastes like death,
I think I'll go be gay.

Stains of Gluten

 

Chapter 1

 

          Growing up, I’ve been taught, numerous times, that my soul is gluten free. My parents made sure to let me know, day after day, week after week. The conversations went something like this: we’d be sitting around the dinner table, and Dad would say to me, “So son…how was school?” “Eh,” I would reply, because I hated my dad and didn’t like talking to him. “You know son, your soul is gluten free,” he would say. “Wow, that’s great,” I would mumble, rolling my eyes. On another occasion, I was out on an oil rig, rigging some oil, and whatever other oil-drenched activities take place on an oil rig. On this particular day, I was so dreadfully covered in oil that I retired to my bedroom on the 3^rd floor of the oil rig, so that I might change my clothes. Upon opening my closet, I discovered my mom sitting there. “Mom, what are you doing here?” I asked, somewhat surprised.

         “That’s what I’ve been meaning to ask you, son!” she exclaimed, visibly upset. “It was only five years ago that you ran away from home. Won’t you come home, son? Won’t you?”

          I turned my back. How could I go home? How could I? How could I go back to that life I once knew, a life of drugs, alcohol, and stand-up comedy? How could I repair the damage done to all my family, my friends, and my pet iguana? And how on earth did my mom get inside my oil-rig bedroom closet?

          How?

          “I don’t know, Mom,” I said, the emotions swirling deep within me, whatever the crap that meant. My father, Jeremiah, was a very stern man. He rarely smiled. His only method of communication with me was shaking his head in disappointment, because that’s all I had ever been to him. Oh, and that time at the dinner table where he told me about my gluten-stained soul. That was an exception. Was it really time for me to go back? Was it really time for me to reconcile with my father, the only father I had ever known, the only father to have ever fathered me like a true father? Was it? I turned and looked at my mom. I stared into her eyes, those penetrating blue eyes.

          Do it for mom, a voice said inside of me. Do it for dad.

         “I’ll do it!” I yelled, triumphantly, lighting up my favorite cigar. My mom shed a tear.

          “I knew you’d come home, son,” she said, a smile on her face.

          “Whadda ya say you and I get outta here?” I said, putting my arm around her, drenching her in oil. Somehow though, the cigar lit all the oil on fire, and from there it was just a really really bad day, to say the least.

 

Chapter 2

 

          It’s almost 60 years later. I’ve grown old. Most of my face is gone from the day the oil-rig fire tore it all off. But I still look back upon that day and laugh. Old Mom sitting in that closet. How did she get in there? She always had a way of getting into your closet. I laugh again. “My mom,” I say to myself, smiling. It doesn’t really look like a smile, because, like I said, most of my face is burned off.

          I live in a rest home now. It’s hell. I hate the food, I hate the people, I hate the smell. The only thing that keeps me company is my television set, old favorites like “The Lawrence Welk Show” and “Matlock.” I push the “call” button every 10 minutes, but nobody ever comes to visit me. I haven’t had a visitor in at least seven months. You might think that crazy.

          This is my curse. And this is why when I get out of this place, I’m going to form a band called “Stains of Gluten”. Because all my life I’ve been deceived into thinking that there were no traces of gluten on my soul. But there are, my friend. There are! You know how I know? BECAUSE SOME CRAZY BEARDED HOMELESS GUY TOLD ME. Yeah! What do you think of that?! And this guy has already agreed to be the drummer in my band. Welp, I’ve got to go now. See ya.

Actual Story

Here's a real-life story and dialogue involving Holden Green that is sure to bring a "Oh Holden, you've done it again" smile to your face. This takes place in 7th grade, in the shop room of Mr. Gubler's shop class at Snow Canyon Middle School, at a time in life when I didn't know what certain body parts were called.

 

              Holden is stopped by Matt Miller and the always hilarious crackhead Travis Audia

 

Travis: Hey kid, do ya know what testicles are?

 

Holden: Ummm...yes.

 

Matt: What are they?

 

Holden: Uhhhh...(because he doesn't really know)

 

Travis: (laughing like skater druggies do) Ha ha! A ha ha! What a dumba**!

 

Holden: Heh heh! Yeah, I guess I am!

 

                                    The End

Quote of the Week?

 "Music, I feel, must be emotional first and intellectual second." 

Maurice Ravel

PAU!

HE'S SO UGLY AND SO HAIRY, OH MY GOSH. SOMEBODY PUNCH HIM IN THE FACE TO DEATH. DO IT. DO IT NOW. PREFERABLY FESENKO SO HE GETS SUSPENDED FOR THE REST OF THE PLAYOFFS. PLEASE. DO IT.

What Makes Us Human

Smart people could elaborate better than me, with all of their fancy scientific terms and such. Such is not me. I'm not as smart as smart people.

In the midst of my pondering this question, I've come up with a few possible keys to our uniqueness:

1) Agency?
           - Making conscious decisions. Do animals make conscious decisions? I don't know. From my standpoint, it seems like they're just...there. They have no goals to their decision making besides basic survival. Food. Sleep. Of course, this sounds like a lot of humans too.

2) Potential?
            - What we can become, through the sheer power of not only human will, but divine providence. A baby puppy grows up to be a dog. A bear cub grows up and matures into a bear. Nothing more is expected. A newborn child can grow up to be a Beethoven, an Einstein, maybe a Winston Churchhill, maybe a Michael Jordan. Some sort of individual with incredible physical, spiritual, or intellectual capacity.

3) Experience?

           - Not experience simply from operant or classical conditioning, but actually using our powers of judgment and decision to learn what we need to from an experience, and apply it to later similar situations.

4) Life-Span Perspective?

            - Perhaps this goes with experience. The ability to look at our past, present, and future, and to understand it all, what it means, who we are, why we are, what we've done with life, what we've learned, our place in the universe.



My biology professor probably wouldn't accept it as a valid rebuttal for "evolution by natural selection," but I think we're more than animals.

Comments are welcome.