A Ridiculously Brief Defense of “Alternative Medicine”

Well done, Mr. Jobs.

Well done, Mr. Ritchie

Steve Jobs’ death has prompted widespread and popular sorrow (Dennis Ritchie’s death a few days later has been widely regarded with silence, which is sad in its own right). Steve wasn’t even 60. The fact that he succumbed to modern humanity’s scourge — cancer — instead of dying a “natural” death of heart failure or catastrophic aneurism, has provoked a sense of injustice from many people. That includes the fellow that penned this lovely little post in the immediate aftermath of Jobs’ passing, “Steve Jobs Succumbs to Alternative Medicine.”  With all due to respect to Mr. Dunning, Respectful Insolence’s post on the topic was much more nuanced than yours — but I digress.

I was shocked to see Steve Jobs’ untimely death blamed, without reservation, on the quackery that is “alternative medicine” — referred to here as though “alternative medicine” were a single, uniform entity instead of the rag-tag lost brigade of wishful thinking, innovation, philosophical excess, and common sense that it is.  As a number of voices chimed in with an excerpt from Tim Minchin’s Storm: “”You know what they call ‘alternative medicine’ that’s been proved to work? Medicine.”  Well said!

I can guarantee this will work... but only once


And particularly appropriate because, if you look back to the scientific revolution as it intersects with medicine — especially in the last quarter of the 19th century and the first half of the 20th — you will see an ironic trend.  Medicine — you know, bleeding, trepanning, the obvious truth that miasmas caused infection, and an extreme paranoia on the topic of masturbation — was confronted by an implacable sequence of “alternative medicine” based, not on the time honored tradition of the medical trade, but on scientific fact.  Many of these scientists were accused of quackery.  Many unavoidable deaths were blamed on “alternative medicine.”  The close-mindedness of traditional practitioners is often lampooned in costume dramas. They make quite excellent minor villains AND double as comic relief!

My point here is not that we should thrown down the walls of our skepticism and embrace every nutty theory out there (personally, I find the ideas that water responds to written words reflecting human intentionality, most purgative diets, and almost all homeopathy offensive in their nuttiness).   But conversely, discarding idea B or practice Y out-of-hand because they don’t fit into the canon of accepted treatment methodologies is by definition close-minded.  Everything must be proved and nothing can be assumed. And, no matter what the anti-mad-hatter types are saying in these blogs, the idea that diet and health are linked is an EXTREMELY SOUND medical theory. Can anyone honestly argue that Jobs’ belief in this link was nonsensical? Perhaps even more importantly, consensus in the medical community is a conundrum — developing the “proof” to determine whether a treatment is viable and productive can take, quite literally, generations. Let us remember that lobotomy, trepanning’s smarter, better-dressed city cousin, achieved its heyday in the 50s and 60s — the same time period that brought us widespread television, the first computing devices, xeroxes, and modern bureaucracy. This was “alternative medicine that has been proven to work.”

I’m sorry Steve Jobs is dead: I think he would have been well-advised to have pursued the Whipple procedure early instead of delaying 9 months, and as Mr. Dunning rightly points out, there is no evidence that diet effects the type of carcinoma Jobs was originally diagnosed with. Until a decade or two ago, the Whipple procedure still had catastrophically high mortality rates; enough to give pause. It is entirely possible that he was surveying exactly the history I’ve glossed above when he…. hesitated. But Jobs was never one to accept common knowledge at face value; Apple’s success can pretty accurately be described as an alternative technology being presented in an alternative way. I would sooner blame Steve (if blame is even necessary) for choosing to pause, than to blame “alternative medicine” — crackpots, visionaries, and pioneers alike — for daring to be alternative.

ADDENDUM: If you are an adherent of homeopathy, purgative diets, or writing love letters on your water bottles so your water will feel good, I apologize for targeting you above. I still think you’re crazy, but hope you won’t feel to bad about it =)

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Bleh

It has been a very pleasant weekend. For one thing, it’s the second weekend in recent memory I haven’t been scrambling to finish off one of our lingering home improvement projects or traveling — yay! Plus, I got to spend some time with my sister, the sun came out for an encore, and none of my cats left feces smeared down the front of my jeans. It was awesome!

But, alas — sometimes, such good times are destined to get the finger from fate. In this blog post, I simply intend to pass along a little bit of the sentiment that fate — or, as Cathy often refers to it, “Grace” — has directed to me this fine evening:

Once More, With Enthusiasm!

Bad Philosophy

It has been an interesting week and a half.  I’m still coughing out the lingering cold that has been sucking marrow from my bones.  Last week a career opportunity beaned me out of left field and yesterday I gave notice to my friend and current employer, which was a good step for me pragmatically but not exactly what I would classify as a satisfying emotional experience (Poem, David, Nakey, Mason: I’m going to miss you).  The stock markets are a disaster area.  The federal budget is totally hosed.  Global warming seems intent on making Roland Emmerich look subtle.  Oh, and my house still feels a lot like a hotel: I have no idea where my clothes are, and I keep looking in the wrong places for dishes and the garbage bin.

My sister wrote a blog post today.  It’s title, fittingly enough, was “Fuck It.”  Her bitterness today makes my own look like the carefree ramblings of a gradeschooler ;-)

I have NO CONTROL over the bad things in the world, the shit that people do to each other, over cancer, and pollution and violence and that ASSHOLE DRIVING DOWN THE ROAD THAT DOESN’T USE HIS TURN SIGNAL…I only have control over how I react to to these things. (Emma Bush, http://emmabush.com/?p=946)

Strangely enough, this sounds a lot like the thesis I started writing for my final paper back at UW 8 years ago — the one I never finished, thus failing to achieve my all important diploma.  How droll.

Today, I went to my favorite beach — my place for walking in solitude, for contemplation, for stepping out of the world — and found that someone had tagged the shoulder with the phrase “Hello Coal.  G’bye Beach.”  Could my beach actually go away?  In any case, we’ll become strangers: I’m moving south this winter, with no plans for an immediate return.

Is the world ending?

Four Horseman, or Forty Bazillion?

The answer is yes, but not the way you’d think.  War, hatred, intolerance, stupidity, ignorance — these things are simply not the villainous forces that we have taken them for.  Do a google image search for the phrase “apocalypse” and take note of what you see.  Mushroom clouds, superheroes, zombies, and desolated cities — a lot of them.  No real people.  These notions of destruction are a distraction from the real force actively aging you, eroding you, and with almost imperceptible slowness destroying your world.  The truth is, most dramatic acts of distraction have the effect of stopping time, and slowing it down — keeping the real force of destruction at bay.  Organizational skills, indifference, distraction, and efficiency are the servants of the true destroyer.

Namely, Time.  An parade consisting of an infinite succession of horses.  Each horse signifies a moment passed, never to return.  Some of them will bring you gifts; some will carry your children to you.  One of them will nuzzle you insistently, and you will ride away with it.  They carry the world away, but no faster than they bring replacements for everything they take.  They destroy the world, and recreate it, one grain of sand at a time.

Eight years ago, I was philosophically distressed.  This sort of conception of the singularity of every life and every minute felt weighted, depressing.  I am thankful to have shaken free of this sort of fatalism, which did neither more nor the world any good whatsoever.  Instead, I am glad to be destroyed, to be part of the process.

If you live on the assumption that the world is constantly ending/ended/rebooting/starting again, that means that every day is new.  Slavery to the past, to history, to habit — these are all a misconception created by the illusion that you’re still living in the same world you lived in yesterday.  We are freer than we feel.

Embrace your freedom, and your time: appreciate every microcosm you can.

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Lesson of the Week: Sickness & Cinema

This summer has been a go-go-go sort of season, consumed in large part by travel (Pittsburgh to see family, Provo and Austin for business) and home improvement (new furnace and ductwork, new walls here and there, and a complete layout redesign), with a wedding and some visits to Seattle thrown in for good measure. Sadly, there was no room in the schedule for camping this year! Until last weekend, that is. I got away for one night to Deception Pass State Park, just in time for my nascent head cold to meet a convergence of rain, wind, pine needles, and tabletop gaming.

Believe me, folks — there is no better medium for germs than playing cards. I’m sure I infected everyone there.

56 hours later, I was a complete disaster, lying in a pool of my own mucous, and incapable of tasting even the sharpest cheeses. It was seriously one of the nastiest colds I’ve had in many years. I’m still coughing the last of the gunk out of my throat and lungs, and I still have fluid behind my temples and ears. Nasty.

Foolishly, I decided to kick back and watch of few of my old, favorite movies. What better way to take your mind off of a sickness, right? WRONG. I had forgotten that a bad cold poisons not only your body, but your thoughts as well — that it can make you hate something which, under ordinary circumstances, you enjoy enormously.

Die Hard (1998).  Though exceptionally well reviewed for an entry in its genre, I found McClane’s smug antisocial tendencies to be deeply irksome and the movie’s mores (probably not surprisingly) to be extremely recessive.  Oh, and it was much grosser than I remembered — the groin shooting near the middle was particularly disturbing, with the liquified legs sequence taking a close second.  More than anything else, though, McClane’s smugness just drove me nuts.  Yippi ki yay, huh?
 
The One

The One

The One (2001). I remember loving this the first time I saw it. How flat and cliched it seems now! I know there’s a fabulous action sequence in the last fifteen minutes — featuring Jet Li kicking his own butt in rather spectacular fashion — but boy oh boy, this stinker just did not hold up for me, and I didn’t even get close to that scene. In the words of Ebert: “Offers brainless high-tech action without interesting dialogue, characters, motivation or texture.” Thanks, Rog.
 

Constantine

Constantine (2005). Such a pretty movie. Such a lost opportunity. A little more character development (if any of John’s friends had been more than set pieces, it would have helped!) and a little more screen time for the female leads (Swinton and Weisz were both excellent casting choices) could have bumped this film by 15 points, easy. HOWEVER, that would have done nothing to fix the plastic, unsatisfying demons. I mean, they basically look like Gollum after a botched execution by guillotine! They simply weren’t scary; hell, Gabriel was much scarier than they were (speaking of which, I love this scene, especially from about 2:30 on).
 

Aliens

Aliens (1986). Speaking of scary females… I still remember the first time I kind of watched this back in the eighties. Actually, I mostly remember hearing it because I spent most of the movie hiding behind the sofa. Then again, I was 15. Whatevs.

My tolerance for cinematic violence has developed to a point now where… I don’t have to close my eyes anymore. And I have heard Sigourney shout, “get away from her, you bitch!” one too many times. It is still a beautiful movie but… blame the cold virus… they could safely have trimmed about 35 minutes from its runtime and lost nothing. Perhaps it’s just been too heavily borrowed from to feel “fresh” anymore.

OK, the moral of the story here is, when you are sick… DO NOT WATCH MOVIES YOU LIKE! Watch trash that you can afford to hate without having to replace your DVD collection. That is all.

Addendum

I think Constantine would have been awesome if Constantine had been played by Sigourney Weaver. Seeing her go head to head with Tilda Swinton would have been frickin’ amazing.

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Change I Wish I Could Believe In

Cathy is back to school this week, so we’re both spending evenings in our cozy home office which, thanks to some sweat and cursing this spring, no longer reeks of cat urine. Hurray!

Pandora brought up Etta James’ At Last, which led us into a discussion of dancing and measures (she claimed two step, I claimed rapid waltz, and the tune could of course have been penned in either 3/3 or 6/4, so we both could hypothetically be correct).  This in turn led us to this video:

This, in sequence, depressed the hell out of me. 2008 was the first time in my entire life I briefly set aside my political cynicism, and dared to hope for and contribute to change (yep, I voted with hope in my heart, despite my lower intestines suggesting that participatory democracy is a scam and a delusion of the controlled masses that they do, in fact, have a hand on their own leashes!).

Ivan Aivazovsky got it

I am sorry to say that, even allowing for the quite crappy circumstances, Obama has disappointed me greatly. It turns out we didn’t need an idealist, after all. We needed an experienced politician. By which I mean someone who can get more of what they want than they have to give away, and can make shitty circumstances look like the other side’s fault. Or something.

It is quite likely that presidents don’t make their own fate — that they are really, like captains of seagoing vessels, at the mercy of whatever combination of weather, currents, and piracy they happen to travel through. George Washington was not a great president because he was George Washington; he was a great president because he was the FIRST president of a country that had just overthrown a much larger and better armed imperial power.  If the colonies had lost and remained colonies, it is quite likely that a sense of his incompetence would have outweighed a sense of his accomplishments, and indifference would outweigh sympathy.  Conversely, Hoover was probably not a really terrible president; he was just a terrible president because the shit hit the fan 8 months after he got into the office, and he couldn’t fix the Great Depression in the three years he was alloted.

Not an Ear Whig

Not an Ear Whig, but kind of creepy

Now, William Henry Harrison?  Probably a bad president.  And a Whig, the political party that always makes me think of ear-wigs.  Ick.

I still hope that things will turn around: that the economy of the world will pick up a little lift, that a few fronts in the War/Terror can be closed down and a few tens of thousands of troops can come home; I hope that anti-Western jihadism will wilt on its dusty vines and that paranoid militaristic wingnuts will get onto the anti-depressants they need.  I hope that the world will become a marginally more productive and happy place in the next year.  And I would be pleased to see Obama get more than his fair share of credit for it.  Oh, and I’d love to see him dance with Michelle like in that video…  at his reelection party.

George W, Looking Silly

At least, I'll try

But if that happens, I will learn to think less harshly of GW — on behalf of the last two years with Obama. George, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt!

But I will continue to despise William Henry Harrison.

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An Old Favorite

So, I’m in Texas.  In the heat.  The dry, baking heat.  The killing, inescapable, merciless heat.

Actually, the heat is surprisingly survivable — not just because of the A/C, though it is necessary, but because after a while you just get used to it.  It’s 96 now, but just a few minutes ago I was commenting on how much cooler it is tonight than it was last night.  A few nights ago I had to get into a hot tub (it was 97 at the time) because the pool was too chilly.  It’s funny.

The landscape here is a tinderbox, arid forest stretched thin over the skin of the rolling Texan hill country — quite beautiful, but with a strange air of fragility.  The property I’m on — the Wizard Academy — is breathtaking.  It has been built with a remarkable attention to and depth of detail.  Check out the pictures.

Anyway, the founder — Roy Williams — was talking about poetry to Poem and I (well, more to Poem — I tried getting my toe in the door a couple of times with no luck) about whether or not her name had conditioned her to live or occupy a certain identity, and whether some of that identity may be based on a misunderstanding of what poetry can or should be.  He recited an abominably fatalistic Frost poem which prompted me, in a few spare moments, to look up a few poems I used to love and whose titled happened, through some fluke of neurochemical luck, to stick.  Here’s the one that leapt out at me:

Stone
by Charles Simic

Go inside a stone
That would be my way.
Let somebody else become a dove
Or gnash with a tiger’s tooth.
I am happy to be a stone.
From the outside the stone is a riddle:
No one knows how to answer it.

Yet within, it must be cool and quiet
Even though a cow steps on it full weight,
Even though a child throws it in a river;
The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed
To the river bottom
Where the fishes come to knock on it
And listen.

I have seen sparks fly out
When two stones are rubbed,
So perhaps it is not dark inside after all;
Perhaps there is a moon shining
From somewhere, as though behind a hill—
Just enough light to make out
The strange writings, the star-charts
On the inner walls.
Good stuff.  I need more.

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