I had heard that overprescription of antibiotics was leading to antibiotic-resistant bacteria, but I wasn’t aware of the “big part” played by factory farms, according to an op-ed column by Nicholas D. Kristof that I read in the March 7th edition of The New York Times. Hogs, cattle and poultry are fed low doses of antibiotics to speed their growth.

A study by the Union of Concerned Scientists found that in the United States, 70 percent of antibiotics are used to feed healthy livestock, with 14 percent more used to treat sick livestock. Only about 16 percent are used to treat humans and their pets, the study found.

More antibiotics are fed to livestock in North Carolina alone than are given to humans in the entire United States, according to the peer-reviewed Medical Clinics of North America. It concluded that antibiotics in livestock feed were “a major component” in the rise of antibiotic resistance.

On a nightstand in my room at the DoubleTree in Southern California is a plastic-sealed Sani-Cloth HB germicidal disposable wipe, next to which is a survey card, placed there “to understand the importance of providing a remote control disinfecting wipe to our guests.”

I am not picky with business-travel hotel rooms. I’ve stayed at places for less than $40 a night, places with carpet best described as “mangy” and furniture you couldn’t give away on craigslist. When I travel for business, I require a bed, a bathroom and quietude. That’s it. Germ content, much less that of my remote control, doesn’t enter my mind. I’d say I’ve given more thought to the following elements of hotel room cleanliness, although more as flights of fancy than concerns of an obsessive hand-washer.

• fecal matter content of comforter and chair cushions
• urine residue content of ice bucket and coffee carafe
• entertainingly contagious fungi thriving in tub
• mite population of pillows and mattress
• those three black hairs of indeterminate origin, clinging to the sides of the sink

Have I mentioned that I’ve started jogging? In junior high and high school I ran track but rapidly fell out of habit and lately into disrepair. I’ve wanted to get into some semblance of shape—as well as have the more regular appetite and additional energy that running’s afforded me in the past—so on Monday I got up early and hit the Greenway that edges the western side of Manhattan. It starts in my neighborhood, at Dyckman Street (the equivalent of West 200th Street) and runs all the way to the southernmost tip of the island, though since I’m just beginning again, I only made it to the George Washington Bridge (the equivalent of West 175th Street) and back.

As previously noted, when traveling north-south in Manhattan, 20 blocks comprise a mile, so I’m only pulling down a round trip of 2.5 miles. But, hey, I’m aging and in rotten shape, and because I idealistically hope to jog every weekday morning, I plan to improve my distances shortly. And, no, I’m not timing myself (yet).

The Greenway is mostly peaceful and there are very few other people on it, although the beginning of the trail parallels the busy northbound lane of the Henry Hudson Parkway only a few feet away, over a barrier of cement and steel fencing. A wooded valley separates the Greenway from the southbound portion of the Henry Hudson, which lies much closer to the Hudson River, and every morning, I’ve spotted restful squirrels and birds perched on the waist-high wall of mortared rocks topped with sandstone slabs that separates the trail from the woods. When I run by, I’m amused to watch each critter leap or take wing off the wall just as I pass, as if I was in Super Mario Bros. and had just became invincible by collecting a enemy-dispatching “Starman.”

This afternoon, I ordered a new “entry-level all-terrain shoe,” the New Balance MT608, from Zappos.com after realizing the 10+-year-old Nike Air Skylon TCs I wear (my brother’s size-13 Nikes, no less) weren’t doing my feet or form any favors. I’m thinking the fact that they’re slightly more rugged “trail” shoes will help navigate the ubiquitous bits of tree branches, broken glass and other debris on the Greenway in my neck of the woods, where the paths aren’t as well maintained as in the swankier and more populous parts of the city.

I’m interested less in how you’d like to shuffle off this mortal coil than how you’d prefer your corpus preserved—or not. Because while we can imagine our meat and bone supine in pine six feet under, or flame-kissed to tragic granules not unlike kitty litter and scooped into a decorative receptacle, the previously imaginative among the dead (or their survivors) have taken to more amusing displays.

I read last week that some cremated remains of Fredric J. Baur of Cincinnati, who died May 4th at the age of 89, were interred in a Pringles can—a can design he patented as an organic chemist and “food storage technician” at Procter & Gamble. Did you ever try that trick where you squeeze an empty Pringles can until the lid springs off with a pop? I imagine the Baur family had to affix a label warning not to do that with Fred’s cylindrical crazy-crisp casket, lest one of his more rambunctious grandchildren got any ideas during the wake. As for the ultimate in going out with a pop, I still admire the extravaganza of Hunter S. Thompson’s last gleaming: mingled with fireworks, his cremated remains were shot from 34 mortar tubes during a party at his ranch.

On a larger scale, you may end up preserved whole, or nearly so, for the public eye. Lenin and his tomb bore me; instead recall nineteenth-century philosopher Jeremy Bentham. He sits in a glass-doored mahogany cabinet at University College, London, where underclassmen occasionally steal his head. Or consider this if you’re a Chinese prisoner: your final insult may not be your torture and execution but to remain educationally flayed as a popular American tourist attraction—“$27.50 on weekends and holidays, $21.50 for children 4 to 12, and a dollar less for each on weekdays.”

Is there anything worse than having a cold in the summer? Probably, but when you have a summer cold, it doesn’t seem that way.

I found this handwritten flashcard on the floor of the A train last night. There’s not an answer on the back and the suspense is killing me: anyone know which valve has the lowest transvalvular velocity?

Did you ever do that thing where you stand in a doorway and push out hard against the frame with the backs of your hands, then step out of the doorway with your body at rest, and your arms raise themselves? It’s to demonstrate muscle contraction triggered by calcium ions—you know, for kids.

Anyway, that’s how my arms feel now—rubbery and hyper—after indoor rock climbing tonight. I’ve never done that before. I should have read up on the subject beforehand because mechanical systems confuse me, especially regarding levers and pulleys, and when I’m concentrating on not killing my partner, the climber, while I’m belaying. So I eventually learned the lingo, as you can see, and the levers and pulleys, and I didn’t kill Beth, not that there was danger in that, as she’s scaled ragged mountain faces in Wyoming and is as lithe and surefooted as Tom Cruise’s stunt double in the opening scene of Mission: Impossible.

The New York City Department of Parks and Recreation runs 15 indoor rec centers in Manhattan and Iggy works at the only one with a climbing wall, on W. 59th Street between 10th and 11th Avenues. It’s a compact, maze-like building, smelling of sweat, chlorine and old wood, its exercise facilities reminiscent of an elderly but clean high school’s. There’s a basketball court, a pool in the basement, and men’s and women’s locker rooms with showers. A full-sized air-hockey table sits outside the climbing room, which is run by the City Climbers Club, a non-profit organization comprised of a bunch of crazy-folk with excellent muscle definition. They started out rappelling in Central Park and because there wasn’t any place to climb indoors at the time, built the 59th Street climbing wall from scratch on a disused racquetball court. The room’s festooned with signs warning everything from “This is not the lifeguard training room” to “Climbing is Inherently Dangerous.” Synthetic-rock handholds and footholds, marked with colored tape blazes indicating paths of varying difficulty, have been bolted into plywood masking the room’s original walls. Some of the climbing walls angle outward or are pitched upside-down for a more challenging climb.

Iggy is a climbing supervisor for the Climbers Club and runs its private parties, after-school programs and kids’ events, which is fortunate, because he was patient in teaching me the basics and repeating instructions, like, five times. Only at the bar afterwards did I learn he wanted to punch me in the neck because I was exasperating him.

I had a fun but tense time and learned I need to visualize my path in advance so I’m not wasting time and energy clinging to the wall, jerking my head around to locate the nearest tiny piece of white tape. I must also more efficiently utilize my long legs to push myself ceiling-bound instead of pulling myself upward with my comparatively weaker arms. On my final climb of the night, my upper limbs were too weak to grasp the uppermost hold. Muscles I never before realized I even had, like abs and triceps, ache now, but in a good way.

Our office held its annual health fair today in the conference room. It’s an excuse for physicians and other shysters in our health plan to drum up more business, like the chiropractor who insisted I needed an appointment so he could address my possibly poor posture. I found out later that coworkers who agreed to an appointment received a free shoulder massage; I received only a photocopied diagram of the spine entitled “Your Nervous System Controls Everything.” Another practitioner was offering complementary, full back/shoulder/neck massages, although the therapist kneading my muscles and inadvertently tickling me noted the presence of “serious knots” in the region of my trapezius muscles. I also got my blood pressure taken (110/70) and my body fat measured (11.1%, but only if I really do weigh 150 pounds, as I guessed).

Visions of Christmas Vacation danced in my head as I learned, via a press release issued yesterday by the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission, that each November and December, about 10,000 people are treated in hospital emergency rooms for falls, cuts, shocks and burns related to holiday decorating. And Christmas trees, typically the sort that are around on Valentine’s Day and as dry as the face of Tommy Lee Jones, ignite and kill 10 people annually. I’d like to say this is why I don’t decorate for Christmas but really I’m just lazy.

Angry fathers who assert that their disobedient children have rocks in their heads or “rocks for brains” aren’t far off point. An item in Wired last month noted that our heads, specifically our inner ears, contain what the American Hearing Research Foundation calls “ear rocks,” bits of calcium carbonate known as otoconia. (Although “rocks” may be literally generous; otoconia is Greek for “ear dust” and a Google scan of scientific literature favors the marginally larger descriptor “crystals,” not rocks or even very small rocks.)

Whatever their likeness, the ear rocks rattle around our heads and help us maintain balance, sense gravity and track linear acceleration, the latter of which, if my powers of science and analogy are solid, is similar to an accelerometer, like the one in the Wii Remote. Vertigo may result from ear rocks falling into the wrong canals of the inner ear. But unlike the Wii Remote, ear rocks are unlikely to fly across the room as a result of sudden erratic movement by their owner. Rock on, ear rocks!

When I think I have it bad with my peanut allergy, I only need to think of Tyler Savage, a 12-year-old British boy who I read an article about today in the Evening Standard. Apparently he can eat only chicken, carrots, grapes, potatoes and apples; everything else makes him spew violently from one or more orifices. The minerals and vitamins he doesn’t get from his five foods are pumped directly into his stomach by tube. This news coincides with the fact that more and more children are developing food allergies; the public is better educated about such maladies so more are being reported, but other than that, there are only guesses as to why so many people these days are allergic.

An AP article yesterday noted that the U.S. hasn’t been home to the world’s tallest average people since World War II. Germans are now taller than Americans. Young adults in Japan are about as tall as their American counterparts. In Holland, home to the greatest numbers of tallfolk in the world, men average 6 feet in height. Meanwhile American men hover at an average of 5'10".

That makes me taller than average, or just plain “tall,” at 6"0’ when I stand ramrod straight (which I rarely do). According to the article, which didn’t cite its sources, tall people are healthier, wealthier and live longer than shorter people. I don’t know about all of that. Being tall isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Sometimes if I’ve been crouching for awhile, say, to better investigate the bargain-bin CD’s on the bottom shelf at Academy Records, when I stand up, the blood pooling in my legs shoots back up to flood my trunk and head and I feel a little dizzy. Or that could just be the mint “Monsters Of Rap” CD I found for $2.99.

Plus there’s the hitting of my head on things. (I can only imagine this one, like most of my gripes, can be a real problem for actual tall people: 6'2", 6'5", what have you.) My favorite is knocking my noggin on the handrails above the seats on the subway that I sometimes forget are there until I rise quickly to exit the car and crack my head.

Another favorite is incompatible shower head height. I vaguely recall a lengthy stay in a hotel room in a country with classically shorter people (France? Mexico?) where the unadjustable shower head was positioned only high enough to hit my upper chest so I had to contort myself to wash my head.

Also, the gangly proportions of tall people can complicate shirt-shopping. I find that in a medium, the sleeves are just right but the chest can be as billowy as a pirate shirt. In a small, the chest is just right but the sleeves are too short. In a nutshell, this is why tailors still have jobs.

Lately I seem to be doing a lot of helping short and/or old ladies heft their 200-pound wheeled suitcase into the overhead bins on airplanes. Sometimes I feel like asking these people, “If you’re only 5’2", why would you carry on a suitcase approximately your size and weight when you know you can’t lift it into the overhead using your T-Rex arms?” Then I realize the answer is, “Because there will always be a gallant sucker such as myself to do it for them.”

Don’t get me started on the legroom aboard said airplanes.

On the plus side for being tall: no Napoleon complex, better views at movies, concerts and sporting events and a presumed ability to dunk.

In a happy coincidence, given the movie I saw last night, I read an article on the front page of the Marketplace section of today’s Wall Street Journal (“Lead Toxins Take a Global Round Trip” by Gordon Fairclough) that the Chinese are unwittingly returning to America its exported toxic waste. According to recent studies, costume jewelry, of the sort sold in malls and discount stores in the U.S., often contains high levels of lead, which comes from computers and other electronics that are discarded by Western countries, then shipped to China as landfill scrap or for recycling.

This toxin could be racking up serious frequent-flyer miles. Most electronics sold in U.S. are made in China. So the lead starts there, as solder for electronics that are shipped to the U.S. where they’re eventually discarded and shipped back to China where the lead is stirpped, made into jewelry and shipped back to the U.S.

After a recent meal in the Little India section of Jersey City, Katie and I indulged in some pan (also written as paan), which I’d vaguely remembered reading about on Boing Boing a while back.

We ordered them from a Photomat-sized booth across the street from the restaurant that was decorated with Christmas lights and had bodega-like items for sale. The only question the man behind the counter asked was whether we wanted our pan regular or “tropical.” We figured we’d go with the former as we might not be ready to handle tropical just yet. Because the opening of the booth was high, I couldn’t see what he was doing, other than dispensing mystery pastes out of plastic squeeze bottles and sprinkling other ingredients atop vivid green heart-shaped plant leaves. I didn’t know it at the time but apparently the pan variety we had was betel nut, which is betel leaf filled with a betel nut paste and something like 11 secret herbs and spices.

Our pan man then folded the leaf over the ingredients and presented one to each of us tightly wrapped in a square of foil placed in a white Zip-Loc bag the size of a playing card. On the front of the bags, in a jaunty green script, was printed a slogan:

We Do Cater Pan Laxmi Masala
and Fresh Sugar-Can Juice for Any Occassion

Yes, those are sics: sugar can juice and Occassion. Just because my inner copy editor (I call him Alan) wondered whether these errors were indicative of the effects this mysterious object might have on my various bodily systems, including spelling, didn’t mean I shouldn’t give it a try.

You’re meant to tuck the pan in your mouth, suck on it and spit out the juices, just a pinch between the cheek and gum, as those old smokeless tobacco ads used to drawl, but the thing was the size of a butterfly cocoon. I crammed it into my mouth as close to my jawbone as I could muster and imagined I looked like a hillbilly and/or Major League Baseball player. If I’m grasping the pan concept correctly, while it’s in there, it’s meant to invigorate and aid in digestion. In other words, it’s a lot like a digestif. Although with most digestifs, once you’ve taken a taste, you don’t keep spitting it out, unless you’re at some sort of fancy brandy tasting event, and even there, you’re likely not spitting on the ground.

You see, whatever was in that pan gave a Chuck Norris-caliber roundhouse kick to my salivary glands and I was spitting all over the place, in a vivid red hue. I had popped the leafy cocoon in my mouth just as I exited the PATH train at the World Trade Center, estimating the underground walk from there to the A train would span enough distance for my pan to offer maximum effectiveness. It wasn’t long enough; I spit in every trash can on my way and at the base of every pillar. I tried to be discreet and reserved my furtive expectorations for when other pedestrians weren’t walking towards me from the opposite direction. By the time I reached the Chambers Street station, my pan still hadn’t given up, so I directed my ptooey onto the subway tracks. I was hoping there’d be a pack of rats milling around down there that I could take aim at, but the patchouli stink may have been keeping them at bay. As the A train approached, I toyed with the idea of taking an end seat and merely spitting out the door at each stop, but I think that would be frowned upon, even in New York.

Results? My pan made me feel wide-eyed and wired, in an up-late-on-No-Doz sort of way. The taste was hard to describe, but like that of incense, with an oily mouthfeel that lingered on my mouth lining a full day afterwards, even after I brushed my teeth later that night. I’d try it again. Maybe I’ll go “tropical” next time.

Somewhere on my rockstar circuit to our nation’s “Ph” cities, I picked up a nasty head cold, which, if you know the size of my head, makes for a tremendous amount of phlegm. Along with feelings of low-grade fever and Carter-caliber malaise, I sound as if I’m speaking through a bucket of mud. I’ve taken to telling people I have laryngitis to avoid going into detail and save what’s left of my voice. They either can’t understand what I’m saying or respond brightly, “You sound awful!” Thanks, I reply, and attempt to soldier forth in my primeval rasps, coughs and gurgles. Awful is not the word for this. I sound like Tricky doing a bad Don Vito impression.

My sinus headache and achiness returned and I wasn’t feeling well at work this morning, so I left around lunch to spend an hour sitting in my doctor’s waiting room, reading old issues of Esquire and New York. Her verdict: sinus infection, for which she prescribed an antibiotic.

By the time I caught the subway home around 3 p.m., it was chock full of schoolkids on their own way home. I’m rarely if ever on the subway at that time on a weekday so I’ve never experienced this children’s crusade up close. Seems like the NYPD beefs up its presence at stations (at least at the 66th and 86th Street stations on the 1 line) to cut down on shenanigans. There was practically nothing but kids on my car, their loud chatter and raw hormonal energy bouncing off the walls. Across from me, two girls split a pair of iPod headphones, one taking the left earbud, the other taking the right. As they listened to their music, they put out a constant hum of conversation, referring to many things as “mad hot,” apparently a superior state of being.

After getting my prescription filled, I stopped at my friendly neighborhood bodega to buy ice cream, noticing that despite the fact the flavor was introduced in 2003, they were for the first time carrying Häagen-Dazs Crème Brûlée. As I bought it, the bodega owner and one of her clerks sidled over and asked me to pronounce the name for them, which I did. Then they asked me to explain what exactly Crème Brûlée was, presumably in case they had to field any questions about the “new” flavor. “Is it like dulce de leche?” they asked. Sort of, I said: it’s a custardy French dessert with a caramelized sugar top.

When I got home, I was delighted to discover that the ice cream was delicious. I was not as delighted to learn that I am allergic to moxifloxacin, the new antibiotic my doctor prescribed. Instead of getting spots all over my trunk as I did with that cipro two years ago, my head broke out in welts. “So, just like Chris Elliott in There’s Something About Mary?” my boss said later, in what’s just about a near-perfect description.

Argh. Sinus headache all day today. Woke up with it. Decided to take a brief nap around noon but fell asleep until 4 p.m. This is turning into a lost weekend. It hurts to look at things. My system is swirling with generic Sudafed and aspirin but neither is helping. Evil matter drips from pockets in my skull to the back of my throat. Bleah.

I laughed at a quote by Taco Bell president Greg Creed in today’s New York Times (“E. Coli Sickens 39 in New Jersey and New York” by Robert D. McFadden). Addressing the E. coli outbreak of food poisoning traced to his company’s chain, he said, “Health officials have indicated that there is no immediate threat and whatever may have occurred has most likely passed through the system.”

Aside from the intense vagueness required by the corporate catastrophe first-response playbook (indicated, no immediate threat, whatever, may have and most likely), I was struck by the phrase passed through the system. Ha ha! When you’ve made your customers shit blood, you may want to watch your double entendres, Greg.

From what I remember about Paris (and my memory sucks), smoking is allowed most everywhere, either freely or in designated sections: hotels, restaurants, cafes, airports, cabs, theaters, etc. But on Sunday, Prime Minister Dominique de Villepin announced a new smoking ban in schools, public buildings and offices around France as early as next February. Anyone caught violating the ban could be slapped with a fine of 75 euros (about $94.50). I thought the New York and New Jersey bans were tough news, but man, those French people really like smoking. I wonder how this will shake out.

Mainly I’m worried about David Sedaris, who if I recall his essays correctly, moved from New York City to France in part to escape the grip of smoking laws here. This, remember, is a guy from a family in which the children would receive cartons of menthol cigarettes from Santa at Christmas.

If I were to ask you why you sleep, you might reply, “Because I get tired” or “I need to rest and recharge” or maybe even “Oh boy, sleep! That’s where I’m a viking!”

It seems like an obvious question. But reading a LiveScience article today about the sleep patterns of migrating thrushes, I learned that scientists don’t know the answer.

The need for sleep is nearly universal in the animal kingdom, but scientists still aren’t sure what purpose it serves. Some studies suggest we need sleep to organize the memories we amass during the day and to give our bodies time to rest, but both theories remain unproven.

Then in the New York Times Book Review today, in a review by Natalie Angier of D. T. Max’s The Family That Couldn’t Sleep, she writes:

If you stop sleeping altogether, you will suffer in ways you didn’t think possible, you will lose all bodily control and dignity, and you will finally, inexorably die a horrible death.

I figured there are many unsolved mysteries of the mind and body, but I didn’t know sleep was one of them. The word “nearly” in the first quoted paragraph above piqued my interest, too, and it may be inaccurate. I think most every animal has a state that could be referred to as sleep, although some can go for long spells without it. For instance, newborn dolphins don’t sleep for weeks.

Reading today about this find by a heath care team at Harvard Medical School, I felt a great disturbance, as if millions of criminal defense lawyers suddenly cried out in glee.

From the press release:

A seldom-studied mental illness called Intermittent Explosive Disorder, characterized by recurrent episodes of angry and potentially violent outbursts—seen in cases of road rage or spousal abuse—has been found to be much more common than previously thought. Depending upon how broadly it is defined, this disorder affects as many as 7.3 percent of adults, or 16 million Americans, in their lifetimes.

Hmm. “How broadly it is defined.” No need to worry about that part, medical community; the legal community will get right on it.

Act I. Excerpt from an Associated Press news article, March 29.

When it comes to dirty, cancer-causing air, New York City is the worst of the worst: the city with the greatest risk, in the state with the dirtiest air, according to data from the Environmental Protection Agency.

New York is followed by California, Oregon, Washington, D.C., and New Jersey for the dubious distinction of having the worst air, according to the EPA’s data. The best air was in Wyoming, South Dakota and Montana.

[According to George Thurston, a professor of environmental medicine at New York University], living in a heavily polluted city like New York is roughly equal to living with a smoker.

Act II. Excerpt from a Reuters news article yesterday that I read coincidentally after my most recent BBQ outing.

A compound formed when meat is charred at high temperatures—as in barbecue—encourages the growth of prostate cancer in rats, researchers reported on Sunday.

Their study, presented at a meeting of the American Association for Cancer Research, may help explain the link between eating meat and a higher risk of prostate cancer.

It also fits in with other studies suggesting that cooking meat until it chars might cause cancer.

Act III. Caption options.

• Daddy’s prostate is the size of a Valencia orange.
• That savory smell is my hand stuck in the grill.
• No prostate, no problem! Dig in, ladies!
• You can’t spell grill without girll.
• No, honey, only male mammals have a prostate, the gland surrounding the neck of the bladder that secretes a component of ejaculate.
• At least we don’t live in New York City.

Exeunt.

A third of U.S. adults say they’re very happy, according to a recent report by the Pew Research Center. Another half say they are pretty happy and 15% consider themselves not too happy.

Two of the report’s findings surprised me:

1. These percentages have remained stable for more than 30 years. Pew and similar sociological survey firms have been posing the question “How happy are you these days in your life?” since 1972 and there’s barely a blip in the levelness of the responses.
2. Pet owners are no happier than those without pets. Well aware that millions of cat and dog owners would sit bolt upright and screech like shivved banshees at this revelation, Pew hides it at the very end of its report (“A Closing Note on a Delicate Subject”), adding: “We’re at a loss to explain.”

Not as revelatory are that republicans have been consistently happier than democrats, rich people happier than poor, and religious people happier than heathens.

Pondering the results, I put more thought into the question being asked. This isn’t meant to make you muss my hair and say, “Aw, Jason, you’re such a cynic,” but how many people are really “very happy”? I’m serious: Are people aware what that phrase could encompass in their lives?

I’d like to ask these very happy people, oh, really: Are you happy when you’re sleeping? How about when you’re commuting to work? Or when you’re shitting, taking a shower or on that conference call at work? You may not be sad when doing these things, but I don’t think very happy is the right descriptor, either. I’m plenty happy, but I wouldn’t say “very happy.” Go back to your macramé and your reality television, very happy people, and stay out of New York; your type gets mugged.

I went to the dentist today, finally. I’ve lived in Manhattan over a year and had been putting it off because I’d had such an emotional attachment to my dentist in Cleveland. I’d toy with the idea of working in an appointment when I was back in Ohio visiting the family, but it never seemed to work out. Or maybe I just didn’t want to go to the dentist. I mean, who does, other than those people who brush and floss mornings, evenings and after lunch, or the ones who never get cavities no matter how lax their hygiene.

As a patient, I come from a short line of dentists with names both reassuringly brief and comical. First it was Dr. Blank and the one in Cleveland was Dr. Rinkel. My new dentist’s name is Dr. Stern and like the other guys, he’s anything but. It reinforces what nurses have known all along: MDs really are assholes, especially when you consider dentists are doctors, too, yet all the dentists I’ve known have been so animated that they would need only put on a rainbow wig to become the entertainment at a child’s birthday party.

Still, I get nervous going to the dentist. I went through several years of my life where every visit revealed another cavity. My appointment today began with a battery of oral x-rays and I wasn’t imagining the best. Every zap of photons would bring up a grossly enlarged digital photo on a computer monitor in my eyeline. I was glad the hygienist had me remove my glasses because I wasn’t keen on seeing any evil dark matter lurking in the images. And I wasn’t about to take up Stern on his offer to email me the images if I should so desire. Why would I need such pictures other than to scare small children into brushing or else look what will happen. To my relief, I didn’t require another filling to tip the total of 12 I already have to an unlucky number, although three of them do require replacing. I also got plenty of running commentary on that. No dentist seems to think any other dentist does things the right way and that extends to fillings. Everyone knows you don’t mix composite and silver fillings on the same tooth, Stern said. He had other issues with why certain fillings had been done a certain way, despite the fact that Rinkel was always so proud of his handiwork filling my cavities, I got the feeling that was all he bragged about to his wife over dinner, right up until the day she divorced him.

Dentists have their own way of cleaning, even. Stern quickly explained that my “cleaning experience” wouldn’t be with one of those traditional devices with the tiny, cup-shaped rubber-tip that you usually get because that wears down the enamel, according to him and probably his dental equipment salesman. So no caveman-like cleaning for me. I was treated to a newfangled procedure that is essentially sandblasting for the teeth, a jet of highly pressurized water mixed with some mysterious abrasive, the name of which he rattled off and that I think was aluminum flakes or something equally spaceage sounding. The spray kicked up and required the dabbing of my face with a wet-nap afterwards, which I’m familiar enough with at BBQ establishments, but less so at dentists. After the spraying, there was traditional scraping for “descaling” purposes and for poking around near my molars to dislodge ossified bits of items that had previously been really tasty. I guess it was a success because I had the typical boxer amounts of blood and tissue bits to rinse into the spittoon afterwards.

Stern wrapped up by trying to get me to switch to a mechanical toothbrush, one that he happened to have a sample of and a brochure for, with money saving coupons inside. Despite his protestations that Oral-B wasn’t occasionally slipping him large, crisp stacks of $20s, I felt like the Manhattan moviegoer, trapped in an air-conditioned room, reclining on a comfy chair, then suddenly subjected to 15 minutes of commercials and no practical chance for escape. I’m surely growing older because I gave his pitch some consideration, especially with the whole better-for-your-gums features of the mechanical toothbrush. At my age, he claimed, I don’t have to worry about cavities as much as I do gingivitis and other bacteria-inspired mayhem. At my age. I know what you older people (and younger people with worse teeth than mine, which I wouldn’t have thought possible) are thinking: he’s yet to experience the joys of root canals, bridgework and caps. And it seems not so long ago I enjoyed going to the dentist because I got those cool tablets to chew that turned all the invisible plaque on my teeth red.

Naturally, I ended up having a mild allergic reaction to the cipro after finishing only 60% of the prescription, so my doctor took me off it and, upon close investigation of my throat and various glands proclaimed my infection effectively gone.

So despite those stern warnings about always finishing a prescription of antibiotics, I’m no longer on the pills and have an alledged clean bill of health. I just hope that infection is stamped out for good because I’m in no mood for a recurrence. That thang really kicked my ass.

I think the cipro is making me a little edgy^*. I seem to be unusually sensitive to coworkers tromping by my cubicle, gawking out my segment of window, and remarking on the fact that it’s snowing. Yes, yes it is. It’s been snowing, heavily, since lunchtime, so people have been remarking on this since lunchtime. Really observant stuff, too, like “Wow, it’s really coming down!” and the witty “Maybe we’ll get to go home early!” This wouldn’t be so bad if about 15 separate people hadn’t done it, saying more or less the same thing, with the grace and intelligence of a succession of circus clowns tumbling from a tiny car.

I guess I should take heart that I actually have a window in my cubicle. Only about 10 non-corner office-types here do. The avenue isn’t so wide that I can’t catch some Rear Window-like glimpses of people in the office buildings across the street, working, or perhaps writing blog entries.

^* Edginess doesn’t seem to be one of the official side effects or warnings associated with cirpo, at least according to the alarmist Patient Information brochure Duane Reade provided when it filled my prescription. But here are some of the genuine warnings: don’t take multivitamins within several hours of taking cipro; avoid excessive sunlight and tanning booths; and don’t eat any dairy products along with cipro. In other words, do not taunt cipro.

The results of my blood test reveal it’s likely not mononucleosis, but my white blood cell count is high, which means there’s still infection lounging around my body. Apparently, I personally contain more malicious bacteria than the surface of the average New York City subway pole. So I ditched my amoxicillin, got a 10-pill ciprofloxacin prescription filled and started with my first dose tonight. Is it too much to ask that I feel 100% better by this weekend? (Hint: No.)

Sleeping. Pain. Not necessarily in that order.

Now the doctor wants to rule out mononucleosis, so she took some blood and told me to call for the results Monday afternoon. In the meantime, there didn’t seem to be too much she could do about my really sore throat, other than to confirm, via shining a light down my maw, that, yes, it sure is sore.

After doping myself with phenol and aspirin, I met up for dinner with Sherry at Blue Smoke, where my parents and I had dinner in December. Sherry hadn’t been there before, and I had described the atmosphere as resembling that of Outback Steakhouse, although I had forgotten why. I remembered why when we got there at 8 p.m.: it has a comfortable atmosphere with simple tables, booths and wooden floors; it’s noisy; and it caters to families. When my parents and I were there, I don’t recall seeing a single kid. But tonight, the place had more than a few shrieking infants (including some at the table right next to ours), plus a bunch of shrieking college-age people bustling around the bar in a haze of black leather jackets, strong cologne and pheromones.

Sherry got the Hickory Pit Prime Rib and I had the sliced beef brisket; both were lean, meaty and hearty. But Sherry’s was a bit on the chilly side, so she had our waiter take it back to heat it up. They made a big production out of sending the manager back out with the reheated plate, who apologized, followed by our waiter, who also apologized, then offered us both free desserts. Sherry ordered the cinnamon-sugar churros (fried dough served with some exotically spicy dipping sauces) and I got some warm apple crisp with throat-soothing maple pecan ice cream.

Despite my antibiotic regimen, I still feel ill. My sore throat is much worse, like a thousand knives of fire stabbing me in the tonsils. Misdiagnosis or antibiotic resistance? You make the call. I’m going to the doctor again tomorrow.

So I’m feeling somewhat better (which isn’t saying much, seeing how I felt before), but still run down. And now my throat’s really sore. Even sorer than before I started taking my drugs. So is the soreness from all that evil drainage retreating from the pockets in my skull, or what? Because I wouldn’t think I'd have a sore throat with my Amoxicillin raining down like hellfire on my body’s bacteria.

I figure now that I’m on generic Amoxicillin, which if I’m not mistaken is related to penicillin, it’d be a great opportunity to check out some suspicious local eating establishments and catch up on my lost 52 Meals (don’t think I’ve forgotten). For instance, there’s a literal shack down the street from where I work (around the corner from the methadone clinic; no, really) that’s only open for a few hours each day and sells fried chicken and fries. A guy I work with named Fernando recommended it as super ghetto yet super cheap and tasty. Who am I to argue with a guy named Fernando? Plus, I got my Amoxicillin Protection.

Either that or I can fearlessly peruse the gloriously Orwellian-sounding NYC Department of Health and Mental Hygiene’s Restaurant Inspection Information, a database of health inspections conducted at eating establishments throughout the five boroughs. Not all of them contain disturbing violations, mind you, but the more entertaining ones do. Looks like my beloved Harry’s Burritos (the one on Columbus Avenue), for example, had some issues with “evidence of mice or live mice present in facility” in December. O.K., no more with that site.

So what it is, according to the doctor I saw this morning, is a sinus infection which, unchecked, decided to throw a party in my throat, too, causing some glands in the area to swell to the size of golf balls. I’ve never had a sinus infection before so this was thrilling to learn. Here were some of my happy-fun weekend symptoms:

• achy, breaky feeling
• lack of appetite, moreso than usual
• dehydration
• cold, metallic-smelling, full-body flopsweat
• feelings of fever, incurable by more cowbell
• urine color that was creatively testing the boundaries of “yellow”
• the sensation that the bacteria in my sinuses were bowling. also, they had guns. Put another way: I have never had headaches worse than the ones caused by this infection.
• occasional Chihuahua-like tremors
• general inability to appreciate life

It was hard to tell which of these symptoms were caused by the bacteria swirling virulently around my system and which were caused by the fistfuls of aspirin, ibuprofen and generic Sudafed I kept popping on an empty stomach.

I slept a lot. I also drank many ounces of water.

Starting today, I am taking high-powered antibiotics thrice daily for 10 days. May my bacteria die slow, painful deaths, even the elderly and the cute little baby ones. Fuckers.

I felt O.K. this morning.

Then I felt really, really sick.

But Chris Rock’s Oscar monologue was laugh-out-loud funny, so that helped leaven things a bit. I think it’s great that the network and twats like Matt Drudge were concerned about possible Negro-related potty mouth issues and scrambling for that delay switch. Instead, Rock was much more successful in his witheringly concise, curse-free mockeries of nearly every celeb presenter (Halle Berry, “star of the eagerly-awaited Catwoman 2.”) and other folks, like his analogy comparing the war and the rising debt under the Bush Administration to working at The Gap. It worked so well because it was a Chris Rock performance, not an Oscar performance.

The rest of the show was downright boring in comparison. Although Katie shared an amusing anecdote about how Hillary Swank went through a phase where she kept trying to return books not originally purchased at Barnes & Noble, as well as $5 magazines, to the Barnes & Noble store Katie used to work at. You would think that by now, Hillary has an assistant or two to take care of stuff like this.

I felt really sick today.

I felt sick today.

I’m feeling a bit under the weather, kind of achy and chilly like I might be coming down with an illness. I really hope not because I got a wicked-long weekend to enjoy. Not only do I get Presidents’ Day off, but my boss announced today that because everyone in my department had to stay until after 8 p.m. during the last half of last week, we’ll be getting off work at noon tomorrow. Hooray!