Starve a cold, starve a fever

There's an interesting article in the new Harper's about the potential health benefits of fasting ("Starving Your Way to Vigor" by Steve Hendricks). It cites a number of historical cases to refute the common wisdom that a person will die of starvation after 10 to 14 days. There are reported cases of people living much, much longer than that without food, assuming they are adequately hydrated, and especially if they are overweight to begin with. One grossly obese Scotsman supposedly went a full year without food, feeding solely off 276 pounds of excess body weight.

Hendricks names numerous studies in which short fasts reduce or eliminate the symptoms of various illnesses and diseases, some associated with obesity and some not. In one, a group of 174 hypertensives fasted for 10 days, and all but 20 of them had normal blood pressure by the end of the fast; the average drop was greater than has been reported in any drug study, and six months later most were still maintaining a healthy blood pressure. In another, cancer patients who fasted prior to and during chemotherapy suffered fewer side effects. Rats who fasted every other day prolonged their life spans. There's a treatment for epilepsy that involves fasting for several days, followed by adherence to a strict high-fat, low-carbohydrate diet; discovered decades ago, it has recently come back into favor and is known to be far more effective in preventing seizures than drug therapy in some patients. The author himself fasts for 20 days (with daily exercise) and loses 20 pounds.

Given my interest in outsider health stories and self-experimentation, I of course find all this fascinating, but I do think it's strange that the author doesn't address calorie restriction, known to prolong lifespan in pretty much every species for which it's been tested, as a method distinct from fasting; long-term calorie restriction doesn't require fasting per se, and humans who voluntarily adopt calorie-restricted diets have reported similar health gains (and weight loss, natch).

I kind of want to do a brief fast, not to lose weight but to give my intestines a chance to heal up completely. They seem to be in a constant state of slight disrepair, though certainly much better than they were when I was eating gluten all the time. My guess is that not eating anything for a few days would do my gut good. I'm too paranoid to try in earnest, though, because I have a history of fainting when my blood sugar gets low; one of these episodes sent me to the ER in need of stitches (in my face, no less). So it seems unlikely that I'll get a chance to try it out, unless some nearby hospital runs a study and I can volunteer as a subject, hence doing it under medical supervision. That would be swell, especially if they paid me. How about it, science?

The Ultimate in Cocky-Hot

Who is it: James Spader in Pretty in Pink?

Or Jeff Bridges in Against All Odds?

Tough call, but given the option I think I'd want to bone James Spader but marry Jeff Bridges. Which is interesting, because Bridges is objectively hotter (the bod!), he just lacks that true asshole edge.

This is as good a time as any to tell you all how much I love the theme song from Against All Odds. Seriously, I could listen to this all day:

A perfume mini-memoir from the fabulous Julie Joyce

Julie Joyce is one of my favorite people in the SEO industry. She has good taste in music and appreciates my stupid Twitter jokes (the latter quality I find especially endearing). But it wasn't until recently that I found out she is also a perfume lover! I thought my perfume-loving readers would enjoy the below, Julie's personal perfume history. You'll recognize from your own perfume lives the scent that started it all, the arrogant SA, the fear of overactive sillage. For more Julie, follow her on Twitter or check out her websites, Link Fish Media (a link building company) and SEO Chicks.

I first encountered the venerable English fragrance company Penhaligons several years back whilst staying in a very, very posh hotel in Bloomsbury, and happily enough, it was one that I wasn't having to pay for. The guest toiletries were Blenheim Bouquet, a somewhat manly, yet still femininely-accessible fragrance that, even today, makes me think of lovely London life, especially on someone else's dime. It's lemon, lime, lavender, pine, musk, and black pepper. It's heaven. After happily wandering into the Penhaligon's shop near Picadilly Circus and being completely overloaded with all of their lush scents, I chose Malabah lotion, the least expensive thing I could find, since no one was offering to foot the bill for me to smell nice. I've parcelled it out over the past 3 years, terrified of running out, but unwilling to buy more, since I'm cheap as dirt. Malabah is the most heavenly scent on Earth...lemon, Earl Grey tea, cilantro, ginger, nutmeg, cardamom, rose, orris, sweet amber, sandalwood, and musk. You want to drink it.

Rush ahead to my deciding that I'd bite the bullet and buy the proper perfume when I was in New York at a store which shall remain nameless, except when I asked to sample the Malabah, the perfume lady said, quite nastily, "Don't you mean Malaga?" As I did not, but I'm a good Southern girl, I just smiled and pretended that it was my error. I'll pretend your error is my own, but I sure as heck won't pay for it, so I smelled the good stuff and headed off to buy a hat, being petty that way.

So here we are, a year after that, and I decide to price Malabah online. Well it's freaking pricey, let me tell you, as it damn well should be, but since (remember from above) I am quite "thrifty" I decided to investigate similar (i.e. cheaper) scents and buy one of those. I came upon the lovely Samsara, by Guerlain, and I purchased it online after reading loads of reviews that made me feel like my wearing Samsara would lead all women to hate me, and all men to love me. I may have indeed caused a stir when I wore it the first time, but that could be because I might have been a tiny bit heavy-handed, so maybe the annoyed glances were the results of headaches, not envy. Still, I pressed on!!

And then, yes then again, my sweet, sweet husband ordered the best early Valentine's present ever; a gift set of Malabah. I can soak in a tub full of it, then I can drench myself in it. I can pretend that I have dark eyes and jet hair and am dating a man who wears flowy linen and doesn't look stupid in it. I'm in East India eating raita and samosas.

This is what I love most about a fragrance...it's the most amazingly evocative thing in the world to me, more so than a sound or a photograph. I can remember where I was when I first smelled something in the same way that I can remember which album I bought at what record store when I was 11. Some scents smell fantastic yet have names or associations (like celebrity endorsements) that would put me off enough that I'd never test them, and more is the pity there but it is what it is. For example, there's nothing in the world that could convince me to smell anything that is associated with Celine Dion or Britney Spears. I don't want to smell like bad pop music. I want to dress like it, but there it ends.

Poison, Opium, Samsara, and Malabah, however, invite you in through their names alone. They are exotic and dangerous, two things that I am not, and for that, I love them all.

noPERCH Reading on Thursday, Feb. 16

Denver people, I am reading in your town this Thursday night! Consider it a little belated valentine. Here's the 4-1-1, as they said in the '90s:

EXPERIMENT #4: OBSERVATORY
RICHARD FROUDE, SELAH SATERSTROM, & ELISA GABBERT
FEBRUARY 16, 2012: 7 PM – 7:50 PM 

CHAMBERLIN OBSERVATORY
2930 EAST WARREN AVENUE
DENVER, COLORADO 80210 

Please join us Thursday, February 16th to see Richard Froude, Selah Saterstrom, & Elisa Gabbert read their work in the dome room of the Chamberlin Observatory, a facility that has been in continuous operation since 1890. The reading will take place alongside the 20″ aperture refractor telescope presently installed in the dome room, a telescope with a tube length of approximately 28 feet. More information about this observatory can be found here and here. 

The total capacity of the dome room is 24 people. Admittance will be on a first come, first serve basis. We will be starting on time! Doors open at 6:45 pm.

Downton Abbey: Was Mary date raped, and if so, er, where?

After a couple of conversations in Boston this weekend, I realized my interpretation of the infamous third episode of Downton Abbey diverges significantly from the consensus, at least among my friends.

***SPOILER ALERT*** If you haven't watched the first season of Downton Abbey, and plan to, step away, this post reveals key plot points.

As those of you who have been watching know, there's an incident in Episode 3 that has rippling consequences for the household for years. I'm referring, of course, to "the Turk," Mr. Pamuk, having "sexual relations" with Mary. Because people didn't say what they meant back then (do they now?), and because we don't actually get to see the act, there are two primary ambiguities around the incident. I'm more certain of my interpretation of the first ambiguity, which is ...

Did Mary consent to sex and/or was she "asking for it"?

I was always dismayed that, when asked by her mother if the Turk forced himself on her, she shook her head no. As far as I'm concerned, he did. He showed up unannounced and evidently unexpected. She asked him several times to leave and he refused. By my definition (and probably any American college's), this is date rape.

Here's the scene, as a refresher (sorry for the lousy quality):



Given the look on her face and her various shocked protests ("Please leave at once or I'll scream"; "Please, stop"; "I'm not what you think I am. If I've led you on I'm sorry...") I don't believe for a second that she expected him to show up or was even pleasantly surprised. Is she flattered? Yes. Is she attracted to him? Yes, very obviously. But did she want him to sneak into her bedroom and seduce her that night? No, I don't think so. She was angling for a proposal, not sex. And if she consented in the end, it was because, I believe:

a) She wanted him to like her (Haven't most women at some point done something they didn't want to do for this reason?).
b) She believed he might want to marry her.

This leads us to the second major ambiguity ...

Did Mary and the Turk have anal sex?

I was somewhat shocked to find this is the more common interpretation of what happened in Mary's bedroom that night. Mr. Pamuk tells Mary she'll "still be a virgin for her husband." She asks if he is asking her to marry him, and he says no, he doesn't think either of their families would like that. Then he says "With a little imagination ..." and mumbles something I've never heard clearly, which adds to the ambiguity. So most of my friends (most viewers in general? I don't know) took this to mean he was proposing they have anal sex.

Personally, I find this very hard to swallow (no pun intended, although I'd actually be more inclined to believe he was hinting at a blow job than anal sex). If this were The Secret Life of the American Teenager, sure, I'd buy it, but Downton Abbey? The show is really not that racy. And I just don't think it's plausible that Mary would go along with it.

My interpretation is that they had regular, old-fashioned, penis-in-vagina sex, and Mary gives in for one of two reasons:

1) She believes, as I noted above, that she might convince him to marry her, even if their families disapprove, because his lust could be a sign of love. Also, he doesn't say outright that he doesn't want to or won't marry her, just that he isn't at that moment proposing. I think the suggestion is there that he may eventually be her husband, and he plants the suggestion as a bargaining chip.
2) You could interpret the Turk's claim that she'll "still be a virgin" in another way, that he is getting her to agree to sex by degrees, i.e. convincing her to agree only to a heavy make-out session, counting on her being too compromised to say no to sex once she's already naked.

What do you think, Downton Abbey fans?

Hatters gonna hat

Is there a name for that thing that happens where people redundantly tack the last word from an acronym onto the acronym, as in "PIN number" and "ATM machine"? Yesterday John did it with "BFF's forever," which I'm sure is the name of several Facebook groups. I was talking to a guy at a party once several years ago about this phenomenon, and the example he gave was "stupid hat party party." Whether or not there is such a thing as a stupid hat party (party), this is still my favorite example.

Update: It's known as RAS syndrome (redundant acronym syndrome syndrome).

Guys!! Come to this reading in Boston

I'll be back in Boston in a couple of weeks for work and to attend and host a reading at Grub Street. The featured reader is Frances McCue, whom I picked to win the 2011 National Book Prize in Poetry for her collection, The Bled. You should come! Here are the details:

Friday, February 10th, 6:30-8:30 pm, at Grub Street headquarters (160 Boylston Street, 4th Floor) 

Join Frances McCue, winner of the 2011 Grub Street National Book Prize in Poetry for The Bled (Factory Hollow Press), for an evening of poetry and conversation. Frances will be visiting us from Seattle for the weekend as part of the national book prize festivities. At 6:30, Frances will read from her work and take your questions about the poems and about the craft of poetry in general. Following the reading, there will be a wine and cheese reception and Frances will be available to sign books. This event is free and open to the public.

You can read more about the book (and the two finalists) here.

"Woody amber" vs. amber vs. amber that happens to be woody

I am not a chemist or a perfumer, so probably not the best person to write this post, but it doesn't seem to have been satisfactorily answered elsewhere on the Internet, so here goes: What's the difference between "woody amber," "amber" and an "amber" that happens to be "woody"?

"Woody amber" is a term used to describe a class of synthetic molecules with a sharp smell sometimes described as being reminiscent of rubbing alcohol. Woody ambers, like synthetic musks and other large aromachemicals, tend to be perceived differently by different noses. Some people are completely anosmic to them, others are highly sensitive. People who are sensitive to woody ambers usually describe them in auditory (high-pitched, screechy) or tactile (spiky, abrasive) terms. Molecules that fall into the "woody amber" category include Karanal and Ambrocenide. They are sometimes simply called synthetic ambers or synthetic ambergris. (Amber and ambergris are also different things; woody amber materials are usually considered to be a substitute for ambergris, not the amber accord described below.) Aside from having a smell of their own, woody ambers are often used as intensifiers to make other materials more diffusive and longer-lasting.

"Amber" is a much older term used to describe an accord (familiar blend of notes) rather than a single note or material, usually a combination of vanilla, resins and/or balsams.

The confusion, naturally, arises from the fact that "woody" is also an adjective that means what it sounds like: smelling like wood. And a perfume with a natural amber accord could also easily be woody (including cedar or sandalwood, for example), leading people to describe it as a "woody amber." But an amber with woody notes is not the same as a "woody amber note." Both valid descriptions, but they mean different things.

Perfume is stupid sometimes.

Interestingly, I don't see this term used often by women perfume bloggers, but it's used all the time in the Basenotes community, perhaps because woody amber materials are more commonly used in men's fragrances. Here's what one Basenotes writer had to say about them:

Honestly, I don’t like Chrome. But it’s a perfect, easily available example of a textbook “woody amber” scent, so I think I need to put it on here for historical significance and as a useful reference. 

If you think about it, even esoteric groundbreakers like A*Men and Le Male are grounded in traditional perfumery, using age-old notes like patchouli and lavender in interesting new ways. Even Green Irish Tweed, with its game-changing hyper-synthetic Allyl Amyl Glycolate/Dihydromyrcenol/Ambrox aquatic mix, was grounded with traditional chypre ingredients. 

What Chrome did was to take Creed’s legendary aquatic chemical mix and take it to its extreme. By topping this mix with a lavender overdose and a bunch of other synthetics, they created a distinct smell, the polar opposite of traditional perfumes. Aside from some lemon in the topnotes, Chrome doesn’t smell like anything classic. Instead, it’s more of a chemical buzz than an identifiable smell. Some compare this smell to ammonia or lemon-scented Windex. To others, it’s the smell of an over-heated swimming pool, its chlorine fumes hanging heavy in the humid air. It’s also known for smelling like super-saturated rubbing alcohol or the smell of hot metal or flint. Many people don’t even think of this mix as an intentional accord, thinking of it simply as “that men’s cologne smell” or “that smell that makes me sneeze”. However you perceive it, this is what’s known as “woody amber.” This, of course, is a terribly misleading term, because it doesn’t smell like wood or amber. It’s also generally not included in note lists (though some scents lately have called it amberwood, which I think is a name they’re trying to call this mixture now), so it’s very rarely discussed, leaving it as a weird elephant in the room of men’s scents. 

More than any other mix of notes, this “woody amber” mix has come to define modern mass-market men’s perfumery. Sometimes, it’s an artful metallic buzz (like in Terre d’Hermes), while other times it’s combined with pepper and sweet citrus or fruit to give a masculine hum to otherwise too-sweet topnotes. But, most commonly, it’s a familiar base to hundreds of unremarkable modern men’s scents. 

So, in the interest of informed discussion, I urge everyone to go out and spray some Chrome and really get to know its weird smell so you’ll fully know “woody amber.”

A photograph within a photo

On organization called Tamms Year Ten is trying to change conditions at the Tamms supermax prison in Illinois. One of their projects involves soliciting requests for photographs and drawings from male prisoners kept in solitary confinement. The February issue of Harper's includes some of the inmates' requests:

I would love a photograph of a woman sitting by a lake fishing, with an empty chair next to her, with a cooler of beer. And have a Harley-Davidson motorcycle in the background! I'd prefer the photographer take the photo from a boat out in the lake! Also, I'd prefer a woman that's over forty! 

A photograph within a photo of me + the lakefront. A photograph within a photo of me + Navy Pier. A photograph within a photo of me + wild lions. A photograph within a photo of me + wild wolves. A photograph within a photo of me + Chinese dragon, for next Christmas mailing of cards. Please place me in the right, upper corner of the photos within a photo + make copies of them. 

A gray & white (mix) "warmblood" horse(s) in an outdoor environment -- shown in action, such as rearing up or jumping or climbing. I'd like the photo to convey freedom, strength, and the wisdom of nature. If possible, taken in a cold environment so that clouds of hot breath can be seen. 

At sixty-six years of age I try to use a little humor: I want a picture of a trash can with the lid half off and two eyes peeking out as the trash can rolls down the hill toward an incinerator with the caption: I seem to be picking up speed I must be headed toward a bright future.

Something I find interesting: It's easy to imagine a talented photographer or artist fulfilling these requests to complete satisfaction. However, if I imagine an equally specific request for a poem or even a novel, it seems that the written work would almost always disappoint.

The saddest songs of all time

These two songs are currently in a dead-lock tie for the saddest song I've ever heard. Notice the common theme: utter and complete subjugation/desperation ("I'll do anything for you"/"I would be anything that you wanted me to be").

"For the Widows in Paradise, For the Fatherless in Ypsilanti" by Sufjan Stevens



"A Favor" by Okkervil River (more on this in an upcoming Coldfront feature)



Same goes for this forever runner-up: "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want" by The Smiths



Give me your tired, your poor, your most wretched songs of all time.