What we've learned, next edition.

1. Dark chocolate apparently does not contain all the benefits we thought it did. All this talk about phenols and anti-oxidants had us thinking the damn stuff was actually health food, but alas, on this day that accounts for 5% of annual chocolate sales, I regretfully need to debunk the myth. Most of the compounds that contribute to lowering your blood pressure, stimulating your brain activity and decreasing your cholesterol levels are found in the raw cocoa beans. Raw cocoa beans are inedible. They get boiled, roasted, blended with all manner of other ingredients. By the time the final product reaches your piehole as a "Lindt Excellence 90% Cocoa" bar, it's just something that tastes good and makes you fat. Eat and learn.

2. I have finally discovered the secret to a (reasonably) close shave, but it's literally a race against time. First, take a hot shower. A long, very hot shower. Immediately upon exiting the shower, head for the bathroom vanity, grab the shave foam and razor and lather up. With your free hand, wipe the mirror which has become completely fogged over, lest you risk slicing off your upper lip. Proceed with the actual shaving, rinsing the blade often. Mind you, all this is done while you are drip-drying and starting to shiver uncontrollably from exposure to the cold air of the bathroom outside the shower enclosure. When the fog finally clears, check results and do 'spot' work where needed. Shave, cut yourself, and learn.

3. "Rio", the second album from New Wave masters Duran Duran, with the monster single "Hungry like the Wolf", was not released until May of 1982, I thought it was released earlier in the year, but I was wrong. My, my, the knowledge that is out there, just waiting to be discovered.

4. Therapeutic massage actually rebuilds torn muscle tissue. We've been saying this for years, but now we've got the science behind us to back up the claim. Eleven intrepid volunteers had intense workouts, followed by a massage. They were then subjected to a muscle biopsy: imagine giving up a chunk of your quadricepts for science? A recent clinical study showed how the prevalence and activity of mitochondria (the "powerplants") in muscle cells was greatly increased, along with a significant decrease in the amount of cytokines, the cells in the body associated with inflammation. And, while reading this study, I learned a new word that I can use in conversation at a cocktail party: "maladaptive". Look it up, you might learn something too.

5. The world can be divided into two groups of people: those who replace the toilet paper roll so it feeds to the outside, and those who prefer it from the inside. Now that they've done the study on muscle tissue rebuilding, they should do psychological profiles starting with this criteria. Imagine what we might learn.

Guilty Pleasures.

In a perfect world, we would have no need to refer to something we enjoy as a 'guilty' pleasure. That world would be free of shame, ridicule, insecurity, highbrow snoots and nutrition fact labels. But alas, in this world, we have all of those things in copious amounts. We are made to feel bad about liking trashy novels, fatty foods and Nickelodeon so we keep these from view lest we endure the pitying scowl of those who read nothing but 19th century philosophy or who get their news only from NPR. So without further delay, here's my partial list, and I welcome submissions of yours; now's the time to emerge from hiding, all you Journey fans and Hostess Cupcake hoarders.

Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Laden with fat, salt, sugar, empty calories and bereft of any real value other than providing a huge smile on my face after raiding my nephew's trick-or-treat bag and stuffing my pie-hole with four of them.

Coldplay. They were once cutting-edge cool, but that was way, way back in 2000 before the planes hit the buildings and the banks robbed our wallets. Since then, we've become too cynical to listen to songs like "Speed of Sound" or "Paradise". Every time I play them, I make sure to turn around to see who's watching me, or listening, and I always think of that scene in "The 40-Year-Old Virgin".

Model trains. If Mike Myers noticed this one, he would yell out, "Nerd alert!". But, I have a secret love for model railroading. No, I don't have the room, the money or the patience to take it up as a hobby, I just can't get over the detail, craftsmanship and commitment that goes into it. I guess there's just "...something about a train...".

Penny loafers. I've owned a few pair of Bass Weejuns and Sebago loafers, but I've long since abandoned them for sportier, edgier footwear. I was originally inspired by "The Preppy Handbook" and a favorite uncle who always added a certain flair to the Oxford cloth shirts and grosgrain belts he proudly wore. I saw him recently, and he still sports a refined Ivy-League look, sans college professor rumple and frayed collar tips. He also taught me to always insert a penny in the cordovan-color pair, but a dime in the black.

Barney. I think Barney is great. I also loved Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, but that's almost considered "retro-cool" at this point. No, Barney still gets slammed and dissed by the hipper than thou. I guess it's just not trendy to be a positive-thinking, kind, loving, caring, parade-and-marching-band obsessed purple dinosaur, but I say these days, we need more Barnies and fewer Cartmans.

Downton Abbey. I started watching this PBS series midway through an episode in the first season, and I was immediately hooked. It's completely unbelievable in that the lords, masters and ladies of the manor offer so much respect and kindness to the handmaidens, footmen and various other slaves in their employ, while they bicker, backbite and gossip about each other. It's also chock full of cheap "rich man-poor man" themes and plots. Dame Maggie Smith is an absolute treasure, even though they feed her all the best lines. It is altogether very bad television, and that's what makes it so good.

C'mon, man.

Let's talk about sports this morning, why don't we. The Scatter-in-Chief (that would be me) and the Scat Staff (that would also be me) are sports fans, but in the wake of yet another New York Giants' Super Bowl victory, we have been scratching our heads over some recent and quite unpleasant encounters with fans of different colors.

This all started a few months back during an exchange with a good friend and business associate (let's call him Jimmy to protect the not-so-innocent). Jimmy lives down south, relocating several years ago from parts north and the Midwest. We communicate frequently via email and much of what we discuss involves sports, and hockey in particular. Jimmy happens to play the game and he also officiates in a club league so he feels uniquely qualified to comment on anything relating to it. I consider him my personal hockey guru, especially since he "skates on both sides of the ice" as I like to call it.

During one of our recent exchanges, I had become confused about his team loyalty, which seemed to be all over the place. He explained to me the reasons for his various and disjointed support for teams from Detroit, Boston, New York, California and, finally, North Carolina. His dad rooted for this team or that, so Jimmy followed suit, or he moved to yet another city, so he flew the local flag and remained a supporter until he moved to the next city. Fair enough, if a bit schizophrenic: I would have serious conflict issues if I found myself rooting for a team (any team!) from Philadelphia if I had just relocated from, say, Baltimore.

* * * * * * * *

In the run-up to Super Bowl XLVI, I began to notice an unsettling proliferation of New England Patriots paraphernalia cropping up in our leafy, and not so leafy, suburbs here in New Jersey, twelve short miles from New York City and about six clicks to the west of the $1.1 billion home of the Giants, the unfortunately-named MetLife Stadium. (The Jets happen to play there as well, but we consider them guests, reluctantly, at best.) Now, it's not too much of a stretch to be questioning the sight of jerseys, banners and caps sporting logos from teams around the nation here in our area; after all, it's not only a melting pot for people from other cultures and countries, it's also a destination for many folks moving around from other parts of the US. Spotting the occasional Seattle Seahawks hoodie on Main Street ain't so unusual when you consider that the metro area is home to nearly 22,000,000 people.

Even keeping this in mind, I found myself enduring a curious density of Patriots' supporters not only in town, but at our place of work. First, the odd spotting of cars with Massachusetts license plates and Pats flags affixed to the windows; I counted three of these in one day, and this in a town of only 38,000. Mind you, I had never before noticed this, so it had me thinking that some intrepid (and uniquely obnoxious) New Englanders decided to drive down for the day and parade around town in a futile attempt to psych us out. Then I deduced that we have families in town who own summer homes on Cape Cod, Nantucket or the Vineyard, and there is also a connection between the affluent suburbs here in New Jersey and the ivy-encrusted architecture in Boston, Cambridge and Holyoke, so that might have explained it. Either way, it was beginning to piss me off.

As I made my way up the stairs to our studio on another fine pre-Super Bowl day, I held the door for a middle aged woman who was sporting a Giants parka. I joked that I only held the door for her because of this; she laughed and said, "Oh, I'm actually a Patriots fan. This is my husband's jacket and I just grabbed it as I ran out of the house." Now it was really starting to reach me, and I was one more Tom Brady-jersey-wearing Beanhead away from losing my shit. I then worked on a client on the Saturday before the game, who I had assumed hailed from a family of Giants (or at the very least, Jets) fans, having grown up in southern Connecticut and maintaining residence here in NJ for more than 30 years. I had actually worked on her dad a few years back and I vividly recall having a lengthy discussion with him about the Giants. When she wished me, "Good luck tomorrow", I mentioned that her dad must be excited to have Big Blue back in the championship game; when she informed me that he was actually a Patriots fan, my face dropped and all I could manage to say was, "Really? That's too bad." I slammed the door behind her as she was leaving.

* * * * * * * *

But the piece de resistance happened this past Tuesday, as Giants fans were basking in the glow of a third Super Bowl conquest. I stopped in to pay a visit to a fellow tenant in our office building, who also happens to be an acquaintance (and an "arm's length" friend) for nearly ten years. Again, I had no firm idea of his team allegiance and at this point, I wouldn't have been shocked had he told me that he is a lifelong Cincinnati Bengals fan. But, he is a Yankees fan and a casual follower of the New Jersey Devils, so I at least expected an obligatory support for the Giants, especially in a Super Bowl. "So, buddy, that was some game, huh, what a win!". "Actually, I'm so disappointed." "What? You too???" "Yeah, man, I really wanted to see New England. I thought Brady and Belichick were overdue." "Overdue??? Overdue for what???" At that point, his phone rang and it provided me with the perfect excuse to leave lest I reach over the counter, lunging for his head to twist it clean off his fucking neck. I left glaring at him and muttering under my breath, "C'mon, man."

Shaking my head all the way down the hall to our studio, I could hardly believe what I just heard. Anybody who follows sports, and football in particular, and who thinks that the New England Patriots, one of the most successful franchises in the National Football League, winners of three out of four Super Bowls, with appearances in a total of seven, and with a future Hall of Fame quarterback and coach, a genuine dynasty by any measure thinks they were "overdue" for another victory cannot possibly have any conception of what has happened over the last decade-and-a-half and is therefore completely unqualified to offer any commentary on the subject. The only excuse I could think of was his reputation for being quite impressionable, you know, one of those guys who believes everything he reads if it suits the moment. I thought that maybe he had come across some editorial on The Boston Globe's website or some other regional media outlet that found itself licking the wounds left behind by a second meeting with a team that owns them, and he wanted to echo the sentiments.

* * * * * * * *

I have since been doing my level best to avoid this fellow, which is no easy task given that our offices are separated by about thirty feet of narrow corridor. His ridiculous and uninformed comments however provided the perfect ending to a ten day stretch that had me pondering what it is to be a fan, what makes people change their stripes and what would possess a Giant's fan to wear a Patriot's parka; I would have left the house in shirtsleeves before donning the colors of the enemy, but that's just me. As I told Jimmy, I couldn't possibly keep up with him, even if I found myself moving to another city, state or country. No, I keep it real: I was born in New York City, I've lived in New Jersey all my life. I "root, root, root for the home team." And when the Giants make it to Super Bowl XLVII, I might tell this story all over again.

Do the math.

The staff here at Scat Central (that would be me) is still recovering from the recent flood of creative output that resulted in five, count 'em, five, posts in seven days. The string reached its zenith, of course, with Tiger Scat Post #100, an absolute masterstroke by any measure. So I thought I might slow things down a bit, and ease my way into the 'next one hundred' by offering you a simple photo, making a comment on it and leaving you all to ponder your own mortality.

I found myself in an especially intergalactic mood this morning, inspired by the missus and her frequent photo manipulations that resemble planets, moons, stars and supernovas far and wide, so you could imagine my delight at the sight of this photo on the home page of my favorite newspaper, The Guardian UK. The Carina Nebula was recently captured on film through one of the world's largest telescopes, and it is an absolute beauty. For those of you in the dark (pun intended), a nebula is basically a cloud of cosmic dust and gasses that can be found many, many miles in the distant universe.

Just how many miles, you might be wondering? The Carina is estimated to be 7,500 light years from the earth. I already knew that a light year was equal to at least many millions of miles, but before I did the research (and by 'research', I mean Wikipedia), I had no idea just how many: it seems as if one light year equals 6 trillion miles. That's 6,000,000,000,000. If you multiply that by 7,500, I'm not even sure what the resulting total number is. When we start to get into that territory, you need to use terms like "quadrillion", "duodecillion" and "vigintillion"; that last one, for your information, is the number 10 to the 63rd power.

This is heavy stuff indeed, especially at eight in the morning and before a second mug of strong coffee. Astronomers are accustomed to dealing with numbers that are accompanied by 63 zeroes, but it's out of my scope of practice as a humble blogger; let them do the math. I'll just enjoy the Carina Nebula from a distance (ahem), and admire the pretty colors from this interplanetary gravy of organic matter and hydrogen in way-outer space. Nanu-Nanu!

Welcome to Tiger Scat Posting Number 100. Pink not welcome. The color or the singer.

It's days like this when I fully understand the old saying, "Hope springs eternal." I have been anticipating the publication of the 100th Tiger Scat posting and of course, I would want it to be of monumental proportions, and that my creative energies would collectively summon a blog entry worthy of consideration for the Blogging Hall of Fame. Well, here it is, fellow scatters.

I started to compose this entry last October, which, as most of you know, is "Breast Cancer Awareness Month". I let it sit for a few days, then weeks, then before I knew it, November had arrived. That month happens to be "National Diabetes Month", and I have no material yet gathered to rant on that particular subject. So, the post was eventually abandoned, exiled to the 'draft heap' until October 2012. But, lo and behold, like it is in Greenland, just as I thought the dawn would never again arrive, the headline that dreams are made of appeared like a beacon on the horizon: "Komen for the Cure, caving into political pressure, Pulls funding for breast cancer screening at Planned Parenthood." The gods of blogging were clearly watching over me; either that, or Tim Tebow put in a good word.

Ms. Komen's group is no stranger to controversy, especially in the health-activist and political extremist camps. She's even catching shit these days from some of her most loyal supporters who just might be growing weary of deflecting criticism over her shameless, aggressive marketing and questionable partnerships (Anyone remember last year's "Bucket for the Cure", brought to you by the fine people at KFC? That was a great idea: let's put some pink ribbons on a bucket containing GMO chicken parts coated with six inches of  carbohydrate-laden batter then plunged into a bubbling vat of carcinogen-creating oil. Belly up, ladies, but don't forget your mammogram appointment next Wednesday!).

It's no secret that "Big Pink" is the undisputed leader, a tour de force of not-for-profiteering, raking in over $400 million in 2010; over $140 million of that went into "awareness" campaigns. I think you would be hard-pressed to find the person living in America (or anywhere, for that matter) who is not already "aware" of breast cancer, mammography and the need for women in certain age groups to get regular medical breast examinations. No, I'm not convinced that Komen's group is hellbent on awareness. And, they're certainly not saying too much about prevention, but they sure know how to sell pink hair scrunchies. The New York Times published an article last October that cast a fair amount of skepticism on the organization by suggesting that it's massive marketing blitz every October is "just another excuse to go shopping".

In the 30 or so years that Komen has been raising "awareness", they've also been very busy raising funds...to the tune of over $2 billion, ostensibly through organized foot races and the sales of pink products. In fact, the color pink itself has become so directly associated with "the Cure" that anyone wearing the slightest hint of it might be considered a supporter. We might need to rethink "pink is for girls" when outfitting our newborns and toddlers; I vote for the color yellow, which is a whole lot easier on the eyes and matches so much better with blue.

Now the latest news comes hot on the heels of a big Mitt Romney primary victory in Florida and the timing has not been lost on anyone. Our friends in the Republican party need to close up ranks at every turn so their man Mitt will be able to bring the fight to a sitting President who himself has proven to be a disappointment but who remains the current favorite. Komen's organization, is arguably, one that attracts folks from both sides (or is it now three sides?) of the political barbed wire fence, but with the decision to no longer write checks to Planned Parenthood, watch that balance shift way over to the right. Or, rather, the wrong.

I could go on and on about the largely unpopular reports about the dangers that exist in receiving a mammogram. I could also talk about my belief that cancer is, and will always, be here to stay; after all, it makes a whole lot of money for a whole lot of people and it therefore has become a vital cog in the world economic machine. And I could preach to you that it costs a whole lot less money to live a lifestyle that prevents cancer than it does to diagnose and subsequently treat it. No, I will instead leave you with a passage from an essay that my wife (aka "the missus") wrote last year; she's a fellow ranter and raver, who last October challenged women to take the very serious matter of breast cancer into their own hands and implored them to focus their energies on the disease proactively. No amount of pink hair scrunchies is gonna improve on that advice:

"To women stuck on the pink thing: if we had clarity, there would be no need for organized charity... where your money goes, nobody really knows. Take back your power and forget about 'the cure', and instead focus on healing yourself, and others, every day of your life."

Shameless plug.

It's not often you'll find an unconditional product endorsement here on Tiger Scat, but two things converged today to inspire me to rave about Larabar, and the "Lemon Bar" variety in particular.

I found myself waiting on the checkout line at Whole Foods for an unusually long stretch, so in my growing boredom, my eyes scanned the shelves nearest the checkout area. They are stocked, of course, with all sorts of handy little items that are arranged to appeal to the impulsive behavior of shoppers. I knew I was being trapped, but when I noticed they moved the Larabars to a more prominent location, I temporarily abandoned my basket to grab a handful. It had been a while since I enjoyed one, so the timing was just right. Well, that, and I needed material for this post, the 99th here on the 'Scat.

I then noticed that a friend had posted a playful request on Facebook for someone to drop off a tasty treat to her workplace, but it had to fit her requirements: Non-GMO, vegan, dairy free and delicious. Well, look no further than the Larabar. These cute little numbers never contain more than four or five ingredients. The Lemon Bar variety proudly boasts only dates, cashews, almonds, lemon juice concentrate and natural lemon flavor. Just the right balance of tart and sweet, and just the right size for a midday snack; hell, it could even stand in for dessert, it's that good.

In addition to the above listed features, the Larabar is also gluten-free and Kosher. It contains 6g of protein, oodles of potassium and a smattering of minerals. I can't think of a better way to satisfy a sweet tooth craving when you just can't justify another chocolate chip cookie. I'm hoping the good folks at Larabar see this post and send me a check for my shameless plug. If it works, look for more of the same here at the home of integrity, Tiger Scat.

Any day now...any day...

We are closing in on the 100th post here at Tiger Scat. Just last week, we celebrated our 1-year anniversary, so it's been very exciting here at 'Scat Central, as you can see from the photo above.

I've been ruminating about the subject matter for the milestone entry, hoping that my creative powers will be at their absolute zenith on the day I decide to post, but as we all know, that's not how the artistic process works. I do have the luxury of working without a deadline so without that pressure, I'm free to just wait until the magic happens and make a beeline to my keyboard to bang out another priceless treasure. The best work often comes from spontaneous creation, so that's what I'm banking on.

I have been on a creative tear lately, and that's due in no small part to the extremely light work load during the past week or so. February is traditionally a 'soft' month in our business, as it is in many businesses. Oh, sure, we'll get the sudden rush of gift certificate purchases in the run-up to Valentine's Day but sessions are few and far between, especially in a massage practice that has become quite exclusive. A full 85% of our clientele are from direct referrals, and we do not advertise. I've started to refer to it as a private therapeutic massage 'club', and our clients like it that way.

So, in the meantime, I'll keep writing as long as the spirit moves me and I can still afford to pay the monthly FiOS bill, and I'll just hope that when the train does arrive for that 100th post, I'll have a duffel bag full of rants and raves slung over my shoulder, and I'll be ready to jump on board.