Frigging Fructose Festers Fears

Warning: The following blog post will make you sick, but if you're like me, not as sick as you already are.

Let's begin with the fact that I am an emotional eater. There, I've said it. I freely admit that I can eat myself sick and all in the name of stress relief. That's right. In some twisted way I've come to falsely believe that on any given day my habitually eating myself into oblivion will momentarily ease my life's chronic daily tension. Yes, I know that I can't stem the tide of life's indignities with junk food or even health food, but knowing as such has never caused me to muster the energy required to facilitate 'mind over matter' (i.e. put that fork down, step away from the table).

As I wedge that last chunky morsel of hot dog bun into my mouth, I realize the sad reality that the orgasmic second of stress release I'm craving is fleeting; it comes and goes and is replaced by that beached whale like bloating feeling in my gut. Lord, where did I ever get the idea that eating brings stress release? As I reach for another slice of key lime pie, I have to wonder if I was born this way, or if somehow I've been programmed to behave like this. Genetics? Nature vs. nurture? Or, ... just plain old conspiracy.

You Must Obey! Feed Me Seymour!

Nutritional Info for Dummies:
Ok, so if you rifle through the contents of your pantry, you will likely find that the single most common ingredient that the majority, if not all, of your packaged food items contain is 'high fructose corn syrup' (HFCS). It's what makes practically all of the processed food we eat taste palatable, even some that are touted as 'dietetic' or 'light'. Without this processed 'chemical' we might sooner be eating the cardboard and plastic packaging, than its contents. Trust me, there is no such thing as a gastronomically delicious dietetic delicacy.

• We all know that sugar in any form isn't good for us. It's a poison by any other name.
• Sucrose is table sugar processed from cane or beet sugar. Not to be snorted. Promotes cavities and tooth rot.
• Glucose / Dextrose is the sugar found in our bodies. What's not used for energy turns to ugly unsightly fat. Not what you find on your powdered donut.
• Fructose is a natural sugar found in fruits. We're told it's good because it doesn't raise insulin levels and it's all natural, but so is sucrose. Too much fructose triggers bloating and diarrhea.
• Corn Syrup is a cheaper sugar substitute made from corn starch. Like hair conditioner, it softens texture and adds volume. Some people bathe in corn starch to relieve crotch rot and other rashes.
• High fructose corn syrup (HFCS) is a laboratory produced mix of fructose and glucose. It has a higher concentration than regular fructose, tastes a zillion times sweeter, and most importantly to food manufacturers (aka Big Business) it's cheaper to produce.

Big Burp

Moreover, since it takes less of HFCS to approximate the same level of 'sweetness' as ordinary sugar, then to people like me this means we can eat more. Come on and be honest. You feel less guilty drinking that 'Double Big Gulp' of Coca-Cola because you don't see the word 'sugar' listed as an ingredient. In a similar vein, you are more likely to polish off that vat of fat free ice cream than the full fat variety. Such self-delusions of grandeur can be quite self-reinforcing. However, it's not just our lack of guilt or ignorance that perpetrates our acts of gluttony. Read on, for here the conspiracy lies. 

HFCS is truly an insidious creation. It addicts us with its tastes and then once ingested forces a biochemical game on us; it not only contributes to weight gain, but also fosters overeating. Fructose does not stimulate the production of  leptin, which is the hormone responsible for telling our bodies "You've had enough, you fat porker!" It also doesn't suppress levels of grehlin, which is a hormone that screams "Hey! I'm starving over here! Feed me!" Now, these are just the effects of good old regular fructose. Concerning HFCS, and let's place emphasis on the words 'high fructose', we can multiply these facts exponentially by ... well even without the numbers, we can do the math and understand why food manufacturers love it. In fact, the governmental 'powers that be' love it too, because more HFCS means more food consumption, which equals more taxes. It also means our wonderfully horrific fast food exports are winners abroad. And, as a result, world domination increases in proportion to waist size.

The Corn Refiners Association

We all know that sugar is bad enough, but HFCS is worse and here's the rub: HFCS promotes 'metabolic syndrome'. That's a fancy word for a combination of risk factors that trigger weight gain, raised cholesterol levels, coronary artery disease, strokes, and type 2 diabetes. It's sort of like the 'triple crown' of health ills. Moreover, for those of you who abstain from alcohol, you may still be at risk of cirrhosis of the liver thanks to HFCS. In fact, the only real metabolic difference in our bodies between drinking a can of Coke versus a can of beer is that the latter gives us a 'buzz'. Unlike Coke, beer is metabolized in our brains. Yet, HFCS does it's damage so surreptitiously that you might think that both the Corn Refiners Association and the National Corn Growers Association were on contract with the Pentagon!

Let's be honest here, I know it's wrong to wash down that Snickers bar and bag of Doritos with a 32 ounce 'BIG GULP' of soda. It's even worse when it involves a 44 ounce 'Super Big Gulp', or a 64 ounce 'Double Gulp' ... and especially with a 128 ounce 'Team Gulp'! However, it's one thing for me to willfully poison my health with foodstuffs I toss down my gullet, and it's another to fathom that various agricultural and food manufacturing industries, as well as Uncle Sam, are attempting to profit from my lack of willpower. In other words, it's one thing for me to knowingly feign a dump truck as I hold a bag of BBQ potato chips up into the air to let its contents 'fly down the chute' into my drooling mouth. It's another thing altogether to realize that I'm being fattened for the slaughter at the behest of 'big business' for its own twisted economic cravings. Knowing this makes me sick, and it should disgust you, too.

Not from the 'X-Files'

The other day I invested 90 minutes of my life to watching a well reasoned presentation, by one Dr. Robert H. Lustig, that laid quite intelligently, and entertainingly, not only how sugar, fructose, and especially HFCS, are killing us, but also how various big business and governmental interests are pulling the trigger. Watching this presentation helped me change my mind about the foods I eat. Now ... I only need to change the foods I eat. I suggest you do the same. Here's the video:

Watch the video and then go to the following websites and complain. Better yet, head on over to their local offices and vomit at their door. Leave them a can of Coke, too!

The US Food and Drug Adminstration: http://www.fda.gov/
- Uncle Sam. He knows the truth. The truth is out there.

The US Department of Agricuture: http://www.usda.gov
- Uncle Sam says grow more corn! We need more ethanol and HFCS!

The Corn Refiners Association: http://www.corn.org/
'Children of the Corn'. Sort of like the NRA and the Tobacco Industry 'Death Merchants'.
  

The National Corn Growers Association: http://www.ncga.com/
Corn Nuts. Proud makers of corn, not porn or tobacco. Not to be confused with the 'Northern California Golf Association'.

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PS. Thanks for reading. Why do we believe it's normal to gulp down 32 ounces of Coca-Cola, shove a Big Mac and fries down our throats, and then go for another 32 ounce refill? Aren't you ashamed that we are so gullible as to continue to allow 'big business' and government to poison us in the name of good economics? Are you an emotional eater or do you really think you're getting exercise by running to the fridge every 10 minutes? Let me know.


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A Mess of Ideas Defying Expectations

"Hung velvet overtaken me

Dim chandelier awaken me

To a song dissolved in the dawn

The music hall a costly bow

The music all is lost for now

To a muted trumpeter swan

Columnated ruins domino"

- Surf's Up: Brian Wilson & Van Dyke Parks

I have an idea, but it begs the following questions:

Why is it easier to make a mess of some things than to just sort them out in the first place? Why is it harder to achieve greatness than mediocrity? Why is it easier to say 'no' than 'yes'? Why is it easier to go nowhere and do nothing than to set out on an adventure? Why do so many adventures we set out on come up short? Why do things implode with less intensity than they explode?

These are the types of questions equally raised by the hopeful and the hopeless; the dreamers and the depressed. They are part and parcel of the same enigmatic shaded overtones of our existence, and fail to answer what we are supposed to do with it.

Yes, many people have pondered the 'meaning of life'. Some have postulated carefully crafted answers, while others have just posited more conjecture. When members of these two camps of thinking meet, terms like 'primordial soup', 'existentialism' and 'life after death' are slung around like hash on a sizzling griddle. Someone shouts 'you think you know everything!' An incredulous gasp is exfoliated from the lips of the brow beaten. A pregnant pause is enjoyed by all. Some ask for donations.

Pandemonium ensues as more questions are eventually raised. Meanwhile, a mass of masses amass momentarily before going about their business. This throng of the 'tall and the small' are advised to seek sage and solace from:

the clergy and the cleric,

the physicist and the alchemist,

the healer and the savior,

the 'child, father of the man'.

A false prophet steps forward. A hush is heard as a child cries out "but he isn't wearing anything at all!" Stones fly. Am I heretical to ask why we are constantly looking for more than there actually is and why we are not content?

Why do we have to build a better mousetrap? It seems to me in so many ways we are constantly working against ourselves, banging our individual heads against a collective wall. Is it that we don't know what we want, or is it that we know exactly what we want but can't get it? Does all this mental masturbation yield the reality that we might all be hungry sadomasochists?

When we put our best foot forward, we inevitably learn that the other is left behind. The mandate "do your best!" dilutes into "do the best you can", further dissolving into grumblings of "nothing comes from nothing".

We encourage 'stars' to burn brightly, and then just as vehemently we clamor to see them self-destruct, even egging them on. "Jump! Jump!" we plead longing for a train wreck. In this regard, and to answer the age old cosmic conundrum, I guess it's true: a black hole can invariably swallow itself whole.

The sobering reality:

To maintain our sanity and make us 'SMiLE', we are admonished not to sweat the 'little things'. However, in the fabric of time, space and existence we are also reminded that we are all merely specks of dust. It's funny... I'm allergic to dust.

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PS. Thanks for reading. Do you question your existence or are you just not certain where to stand? Let me know. All roads should lead here.

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Weird Scenes Inside The Gym

 A while back I posted that I had started going to the gym to address some of my, for lack of a better term, health issues. Psychologically speaking, I decided to go for the very reason that I don't want to go. You can read more about that decision HERE. But for this post, suffice it to say that sometimes in life you just have to psyche yourself into doing even the most beneficial of things.

OK, so at least 3 days a week I wake up, have a cup of coffee and a healthful breakfast of sliced fruits, nuts and feta cheese. I don my gym clothes and saunter across the street to the gym. No, I don't drink raw eggs ala' Rocky, but I do raise my hands in victory after jaywalking my way through traffic. Sure, there's a crosswalk about 20 feet way, but, you know like, that would be too easy. Besides, statistically more accidents happen at intersections than in the middle of the road.

Anyway, the gym I go to is small, or at least the weight room where I work out in is. There is another much larger room that hosts aerobics classes of all forms. If Cheech and Chong were members of this gym, they'd probably hang out in the corner of the larger room. At times, this room seems to reverberate with waves of rainbow colored hues of stretchy fabric waxing, waning, and writhing in faux copulating movements. Reminded of the Doors' song "The End" and the lyric "weird scenes inside the gold mine", I've decided to  pass on these regular Dionysian orgies of spandex and lycra. Anyway, I don't do spandex; it makes me itch. So, I've opted to stick to the smaller room where most people wear cotton. It suits me fine.

Moreover, the larger room also has a disproportionately large amount of women doing 'squats'. Now, I once read an article on a phenomenon called menstrual synchrony concerning lunar fertility rhythms in ancient tribal communities. The women there would ovulate together on the full moons and then subsequently bleed together on the 'dark moons' (when the moon and sun are conjunct). Yes, the large room makes me nervous.

In the weight room, my basic workout regimen includes 15 minutes on a stationary bike, 20 minutes on a treadmill, assorted gesticulations on weight machines, and then another 20 minutes on the treadmill. Oh yeah, I have to do sit-ups, too. Alas, life ain't perfect.

Warming up on the stationary bike is great. It's comforting to know that my work out begins with my sitting down. I also appreciate that the chances of my falling off the stationary bike are very low. Also, the stationary bikes face the small TV hanging precariously over the heads of those huffing and puffing on the treadmills. Quite a choice of viewing options is on offer here: the morning news or bouncing butts (less 'Barbie and Ken', more 'Betty Boop' and 'Popeye' - for those of you who are more visual oriented).

Wimpy

OK, don't get me wrong: the truth is I'm not really one to comment on the physiques of other gym members. Honestly, I do want to say that I find most of the people who train or just workout at the gym very inspiring. Sure, it's easy to throw stones and crack stupid about who should be voted onto any one of those reality makeover TV shows that grace the airwaves. But let's be honest, looking in the mirror and seeing our own shortcomings can be very sobering. Trust me, my looking like Popeye would be a vast improvement over my looking like his friend Wimpy, or even Judd Jugmonger on a bad day. Though I've managed to lose about 10 pounds already, my naturally grown beer belly still protrudes a bit from under my t-shirt when not tucked into my pants. And, though I've been told that I am broad shouldered enough to pass for a weight lifter or wrestler, I'm no Arnold Schwarzenegger! Well, maybe I could pass for him if I grew a few inches, lost my gut, and stood in front of one of those circus mirrors.

Speaking of Arnold and my beer belly, I wanted to make it clear that attaining six-pack abs is not one of my goals. When undertaking any fitness program, you do need to set realistic goals... and if you saw me doing sit-ups, you'd most likely agree. Firstly, the Earth's gravity must have gotten much stronger since I last did sit-ups in a past life. I've given up on being able to reach my knees with my elbows more than once. A trainer told me to just focus on raising my shoulders off the floor a few inches, and to make sure I exhale on the way up. To my horror, I've learned that I breathe backwards! Now, I'm not sure if this is the result of a congenital disorder or what, but apparently with practice and patience, the condition is reversible. And yes, I'm making progress! Ground Control, we have lift off!

Now, when I first started using the treadmills, I was instructed to take it easy. "Walk, don't run" I was told. Fine, I can walk. My feet don't go in the same direction, but I can walk. In time, I discovered, it's not enough to just walk, however; you need to walk fast in order to get your heart pumping the sweat out of your pores. And, somewhere between your maximum and training target heart rates an endorphin rush lies, or so I've been told. Therefore, over time I've ramped up my walking speed. It did take me a couple of weeks to start sweating appropriately, but I am happy to say that now I'm flailing my legs around at a good pace, and I am only worried about at what high speed it would be safer to run than to walk. After all, I've only fallen off the treadmill ONCE, so safety is always an important consideration.

I've also made an amazing discovery: it turns out that I like perspiring. Lord, who would've thought that I, a former Miami native, who traveled way across the sea to get away from 12 months of insufferable sweltering persiration inducing Florida humidity, would end up enjoying warm sweat streaming down my body into my sneakers? But I do. I don't know if it's an 'endorphin rush' I'm experiencing, or just the good feeling of knowing that I'm actually realizing some of my health goals. When I get home after each workout and wring out my gym clothes I've peeled from my aching body, I smile knowing I made the right choice to get up off my ass and go to the gym.

So, for all you couch potatoes who can't decide on whether or not to take the gym plunge, I say  'JUST DO IT' and 'GO FOR IT', too! And, take heart: most of the pulling and pushing you see on those weight machines are done from a seated position!
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PS. Thanks for reading. Do you go to the gym? Do you like sweating or are you just generally a nervous type? How many times have you fallen off the treadmill? Be honest!

Suggested Listening: What I listen to on my MP3 player for my high energy workout:

   

   


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