American Fez

Perihelion

A new brand of toilet paper has made itself at home in our bathroom. It's called "Quilted Northern," as if it were especially designed for camping trips during the freezing rains and howling gales of late November in New England; just another item to add to the list of seasonal chores to be completed before winter arrives:
1. Retrieve woolens and heavy coats from storage.
2. Insulate the windows with thermo-seal.
3. Chop firewood.
4. Buy a family pack of Quilted Northern.
And, alas, winter is nearly upon us. Persephone's bags are packed and she is preparing to make her way to Hades for half the year. Which is why, having missed most of the summer with my heart surgery, I'm going to recreate June by seeking the sun wherever it still shines.
So next week, rather than traipse around to the cardiologist's office or the rehabilitation center as usual, I thought I'd make an excursion to the Greek islands instead. After all, what can be better for your heart than tramping up and down zillions of steps as you attempt to find your hotel in a maze of whitewashed buildings clinging to the cliff side, especially after a grueling, stressful flight from Boston via London and Athens. Still, there will be a healthy Aegean meal of fish heads in sour yogurt and squid ink waiting for me, along with a glass of that Santorini wine they ferment from strange grapes that grow on circular vines in the volcanic ground.
Interestingly, toilet paper looms large in the legend of Greek vacations, although I'm sure they don't sell black market Quilted Northern at the local Agora. Toilet paper, it seems, cannot be flushed down the toilet, and must be placed in appropriate receptacles instead. Beware of Greeks bearing plumbing supplies, apparently! How odd that Athenian engineers could master the Doric column but not the plastic u-bend pipe.
Nevertheless, I refuse to allow such hygienic inconveniences to ruin my delayed summertime. I shall be soaking up the rays and sampling the moussaka regardless. And, obviously, I will not be too concerned with updating this blog for the duration of my vacation, either. So do not worry if nothing more appears here until October the tenth or so. I am not dead, but merely wondering what happens if you drink ouzo and then swallow a dose of Crestor on an empty stomach.

A Fate Worse Than Death

Having a blog is an embarrassing and often downright tedious extension of the self, rather like having smelly feet and asking your friends if they'd be interested in sniffing them once or twice a week. It is a particularly pungent form of electronic body-odor for which the only available deodorant is a link to the Onion website.
In fact, the very existence of your blog is a dirty little secret that most people would prefer to remain undisclosed. Your blog is an Internet version of Mr Rochester's mad woman locked in the attic; an online equivalent of Dorian Gray's deteriorating portrait; an HTML simulacrum of ... oh I could go on and on - this is a blog, after all - but I think you get the picture.
Of course, as far as embarrassing and often downright tedious blogs go, a blog that is increasing preoccupied with your own health problems must be the lowest of the low. Surely it is a monstrously selfish act to burden your loved ones with the responsibility of reading interminable paragraphs about clogged arteries, blood pressure fluctuation, cholesterol pills and hardcore constipation. Even the most thrilling of thriller writers would fail to make an electrocardiograph session sound interesting. Consequently I don't simply tell people I have a blog these days, I break the news to them as gently as possible:
"I have some good news and some bad news."
"Okay. Well, give me the good news first."
"I'm pleased to say that my creative juices are flowing again."
"Great. That's awesome. And so what's the bad news?"
"The bad news is that they're flowing into a blog."
"Oh. Gosh. I'm sorry to hear that. That's terrible news."
"Yes, I know. Believe me, I feel really bad that you have to read it all the time."
There are alternatives to blogging, obviously: social networking sites, for instance, are eponymously not as misanthropic as owning a blog. The mercifully brief format of Twitter might be ideal for disseminating important reports concerning my condition: "Experienced new twinge just now. Calling hospital #pain #anxiety #etc."
Or maybe even Facebook could provide a convenient forum for uploading pithy updates about cholesterol contaminated foods, combined with graphic pictures of my incision scar: Vlad the Impaler Likes This, and so on.
But, alas, mine is an old-fashioned and self-important intellect. My ego needs to stretch and unwind, requiring adequate elbow room for its longueurs, semi-colons, extended metaphors and patronizing allusions; and only the unlimited storage space of a blog will suffice.
So I am left with but a single hope and aspiration, only one excuse: that some fellow heart patient seeking comfort in his darkest hour will read these words and think: "The surgeon will be cracking my chest open tomorrow and attaching my heart to a machine, but at least I'm not a loser blogger like this American Fez person."

Fish Oil vs Snake Oil

Green tea, flax seed and fish oil have all been recommended to me as natural, heart healthy alternatives to pharmaceutical drugs by their various wide-eyed proselytizers. Alas, I have had zero faith in nature's remedies ever since a liquid mixture of eucalyptus, echinacea and zinc (a foul tasting concoction that even a mad scientist would think twice about before drinking) failed to have any effect whatsoever on an annoying cough I was stricken with one winter.
In fact, whenever some sort of medicinal root or herb is mentioned in connection with your health, it is worth recalling that hellbore and borage were popular sixteenth-century panaceas for black bile, and that bloodletting with leeches was once considered a cure for almost any malady. Frankly, I see little difference between such grotesque practices and the holistic healing products aisle at Whole Foods.
The plain truth is: flax seeds produce flatulence; fish oil makes you belch; and I'm not exactly sure what green tea does but I'll wager that it's not particularly pleasant either. Lipitor and Crestor pills have their worrisome side-effects too, obviously, but they generally do not involve vulgar noises, disgusting smells and consequent social ostracization.
Fortunately, certain authorities also regard dark chocolate, coffee and red wine as beneficial additions to a heart healthy diet. Of course, the Aristotelian ideal advocates moderation in all things, so consuming too much of these three delicious substances might be unwise, but then who is this killjoy Greek philosopher to argue with the experts at Lindt, Lavazza and Chateau de Coeur anyway? Personally I prefer to pin my faith on medical science and luxury brands, rather than listening to the sandal-wearing maniacs who hang around Norwegian dockyards trying to squeeze the juice out of dead herrings. But that's just me.