Toronto, eh?

My new home for the next few weeks: Toronto, Canada.

A few misconceptions we Americans have about Canadians...according to Canadians...

* Most of them live in igloos.

* They all speak French around Americans just to piss us off (most don't know a word of French).

* Other than British Columbia, most of Canada is frozen tundra.

* They all say, "Eh?" at the end of every statement.

* The 49th parallel is where the frost begins, that's how you can tell it's the border.

* They eat seals and whale blubber on holidays.

* They don't mind us Americans, but think we're dorks.

Wait. That last one is true.

Below is a photo of my new bachelor pad for a while.

Dude...I'm so wasted on tryptophan! Ya' got any more?

Let’s put this tryptophan myth to rest right now!

First of all, it’s NOT a myth. Well, mostly.

Second of all, turkeys have tryptophan in them naturally.

Third of all, so do many other foods like chocolate, oats, bananas, mangoes, dates, milk, yogurt, cottage cheese, red meat, eggs, fish, peanuts, and all poultry.

Fourth of all, tryptophan is not something injected into turkeys to give us a happy, sleepy, drug-induced feeling of well being after the Thanksgiving meal...(see Second of all).

Tryptophan is one of many amino acids the body needs to produce protein. We don’t make it ourselves internally. We need to acquire it in our diet. This essential element, in large doses, does affect our serotonin production and has been prescribed in the past as an anti-depressant. This practice was ended years ago because of its after-effects, namely muscle pain.

That overwhelming desire to stretch out on the couch (or any other convenient flat surface) after the meal stems from a combination of causes, not the least of which is alcohol. Hello! Ding ding ding! Let’s not forget the gorging of one’s self on a plethora of sweets, snacks, MSG-laden junk, and a shitload of all carbohydrates in existence in a relatively short amount of time. Of course we want to take a nap. It’s a wonder we can even wake up from this post-turkey-day debauchery!

There is a consensus among nutritional eggheads that pounding a couple slices of turkey (by itself) near bedtime may produce a slight sleepiness in most people. But so does warm milk, a Hershey bar, or a few Buffalo Wings. Don’t forsake the sleepy-time benefits of a nice hot toddy just before retiring. At least with booze, you won’t have to brush your teeth again.

So, if you still can’t seem to find the word tryptophan on the label of your Thanksgiving turkey, don’t worry. It’s in there! And it always will be.

Nighty night!

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

I often wonder when I lost that wild-eyed idealism and gullability I had as a child. That “Gee, Mr. Wizard, how does water freeze solid when your bottle of vodka doesn’t?” naivity. That “Mom, I didn’t see any storks at the hospital when we picked up you and my baby sister!” realization. That “Really, Father Flanigan. I won’t go to heaven unless I show you my what?” deception. When did it all go south? When did this cynical, crusty exterior form around my little brain? (By the way, I’m not catholic. Journalistic license is a wonderful thing.)

It’s not a question of when, since I now know it is an ongoing process that may never end. I’ll always possess some sort of child-like hope and fantasy. Or will I? What happens if that karma cup goes empty? What then? Will I actually become Henry Chinaski?

My own personal timeline of Decreasing Naitivty and Increasing Cynicism probably started when I was three years old. That is the year the hit song, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus came out. Sung by twelve year old helium-voiced Jimmy Boyd, it sold over 3 million records in 1953 alone. The title of the song itself explains the premise. But what conclusion might a three year old glean from this premise? The obvious and intended: Santa Claus is actually Daddy...hence, there is no Santa Claus. The less obvious: Mommy is a cheap ho’ and Santa is a pervert...hence, who is my Daddy? Either way, what a confusing kick in the ass for a three year old! What a dose of reality for little Zed! What a crock of shit for the sake of musical commercialism! How was it this song wasn’t banned in Boston?

As I recall, I continued to believe in Santa Claus (and the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and the Boogie Man) well into my 30’s. These fantasy figures will remain etched into our young minds forever. That cynical crust not only prevents new things from entering...it doesn’t often allow old things to escape.

I still have a boatload of hope. But I still sleep with a small nightlight, and never ever open the closet alone in the dark!

What were you thinking?

I recently attended my 40th year high school reunion. What a load of apathy!

Sure, I was extremely apathetic in high school. I didn't go to Pep Rallies. I didn't attend student government meetings. I went to some Friday night dances...but I might as well have been asking the girls to dance in my Algebra class. I found out years later that they were not allowed to date in high school anyway. No wonder so many of us opted to go to Vietnam instead of dealing with holier-than-thou high school virgins at a sports night dance. Bras stuffed with Charmin never did impress me at that age. Most of the guys they were dating back then are counselors at AA and NA meetings now anyway. I guess they're called "sponsors".

Back to the reunion. Out of about 950 classmates who managed to complete the 12th grade with a GPA of 2.0 or higher, only 50 or so showed up to our reunion. That includes 5 or 6 people who decided to attend our reunion instead of theirs next year. I guess we were a more fun bunch! Yeah, right.

Now, somehow I have roped myself into spearheading the next reunion, the 45th, in 2012. I've even proposed a meeting in Vegas next year (my proposed reunion meeting place) to get together and do some "planning". So who has committed to the thing next year? Yours truly and my best friend, Bob. What the fuck...over?

Those of us from the generation of love, 1967, what has happened to us? What went wrong? We've turned into deflated hot air balloons laying in a field of dead alfalfa waiting for the propane guy to show up. Judging from the numbers of people who didn't showed up at the reunion, we've turned into the dead alfalfa. Wow, how disappointing. No wonder no one volunteers to head up reunion committees. My daughter recently attended her 10th reunion. Only a dozen or so showed. And I thought my 40th reunion was disappointing!

Zed's dead, baby! And they call it a chopper, not a motorcycle.