There's an intriguing article in the month's Annals of Internal Medicine about the effectiveness of leech treatment for arthritis of the knee.
Yep, leeches.
Hey, if it works..."In this randomized, controlled trial, patients with osteoarthritis of the knee who were treated with leech therapy experienced clinically significant improvements in self-perceptions of pain for a limited period. Moreover, a single application of leeches improved functional ability and joint stiffness for at least 3 months."
One thing the ancients didn't quite get with leeches is that it wasn't the blood-letting, it was the saliva that provided the benefit. Leech spit contains anticoagulants hirudin and hemetin as well as other chemicals, including anesthetics.
You don't lose that much blood, only 5 to 15 mL a leech. Of course if you do try this, for heaven's sake practice safe leeching: bacterial and viral infections can be transferred from an infected person. Don't share leeches!
If you don't have a handy leech-filled creek by your house, you can always go on line.
It's natural. It's been around since 1500 BC. What more can you want in a medical treatment?
I really don't understand anything about electronics, microprocessing, semiconductors, programming, or anything that makes my computer work. Really, for all I know that tan thing at my feet is a Magic Box, and I should be in awe of it as if I were a serf from the Dark Ages.
Then my Magic Box stops working and I curse my cruel fate. Why, Magic Box, do you punish me so? What did I do to bring down your wrath?
I'll burn some offerings later and hope it has mercy.
Anyway, since Ted's rocket launch was scrubbed, I spent Saturday morning doing yardwork...pulling weeds and dead annuals, raking leaves, and dividing day lillies and black-eyed susans that were out of control.
I live in a townhouse. It doesn't have much of a yard. But since I hate yardwork and only do it oh, twice a year, the semi-annual cleanup took me about three hours. The worst part is that my hamstrings are so sore from it that I'm hobbling around here today like a...much much older person. Obviously I should have warmed up and stretched before I got to work. (Yeah, that's it. I'm sore because I forgot to stretch, not because I am woefully out of shape from being so slackass lazy all summer.)
The Terps were my bright spot for the weekend, although the Caps did win on Friday night. Saturday night was a different story. Victor went on at some length about their woes in a post the other night, and the Halloween win doesn't change what he said.
And the less said about the Redskins the better.
And I did have SPAM! SPAM and eggs, to be exact. But because of the Magic Box's caprice, I don't have the mouth-watering pictures.
I am listening to the local oldies radio station, which does a request show on Saturday nights.
Some guy just called in to request Honey by Bobby Goldsboro.
If Honey is not the most mawkish, dismal, over-orchestrated pop song ever, it must at least be in the top 10...what kind of freak calls to request Honey? He was home alone and depressed on a Saturday night and wanted to bring the rest of us down with him?
(Incredibly, Honey was a number one on the charts for five weeks in 1968. Well, maybe not incredibly...1968 wasn't all fun and games, come to think of it.)
Anyway, if by chance you are too young to remember this sentimental little tune, it's about a nice young couple, she wrecks the car, he buys her a puppy for Christmas...then she dies.
It is a song for people who lack the attention span to read Love Story.
I hate this song.
I hate this song because it is maudlin.
I hate this song because it has lame lyrics with first-grade rhymes.
I hate this song because it makes me cry.