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Hunter Wood
Hunter Wood

Tracking The Diet ? Oh My WORD, You Wont Believe What I Found



Only three percent of subway tracks in 276 underground stations are cleaned to the MTA's own standards, which is at least once every three weeks. That's one finding in an audit released today by City Comptroller Scott Stringer's office. The report also finds 88 percent of stations are cleaned fewer than eight times a year, which potentially exposes millions of commuters to track fires, train delays and rat infestation in hundreds of stations. Auditors made several recommendations to the MTA, including allocating more funds and employees to improve cleanliness and buying more effective vacuum trains. For its part, the MTA says budgeted resources for station cleanliness have already increased 25 percent (from $111 million in 2008 to $139 million in 2014) and a $32 million contract for new vacuum trains was approved in March. What do you say? How dirty is your subway line? Which platform or station needs to be cleaned? Are you surprised to learn 88 percent of stations are cleaned fewer than eight times a year? How much of this problem is a result of discourteous straphangers? Would you welcome a ban on eating and drinking on subways?Jenni's Thoughts:I believe that it really is the responsible of bother MTA and straphangers to keep our system clean. Whether it's making sure that the cleaning employees are doing their diligently to making sure there are more trash cans, to encouraging the riding public to be courteous and not litter. Personally, I strongly believe people should refrain from eating or drinking other than water on the train. I've been to countries where eating and drinkins is actually prohibited and their transit system is sparkling clean. I know some people say that the grime of the City is what makes it unique and classic, but it's time to take some action and clean this City. Your E-mails:




Tracking the Diet – Oh My WORD, You Won’t Believe What I Found…



ShatziManhattanThe NYC subways are on par with the sewers of Calcutta. As a retiree in the city I get to see many lines and so far believe the E Lexington 53 St station ranks up there with the WORST. Look at what all businesses around you do....every night they PAY a crew to clean only one day's accumulation. The MTA should do the same instead of blaming those who pay their salaries. But that's the lesser problem. Look at the infrastructure...the brown stained walls, the crumbling ceilings, the visible neglect that surrounds you!


I have friends that have gotten rid of chronic headaches by eliminating gluten or dairy. I know people that have had great success on the keto diet. Others have found Weight Watchers works best for them.


Robey tried hard to be cheerful; preparing to turn forty was a sour portion for him. He believed that at one-sixty-five he was about twelve or fifteen pounds overweight. His wife disagreed--much too gaily, he thought--saying he ought to lose closer to twenty. The Rogaine with minoxidil that Foote had encouraged him to obtain and apply two weeks before had not visibly arrested, much less reversed, the gradual but alarming recession of his coarse reddish hair. His dentist had admonished him to see a periodontist for attention to what he diagnosed as advancing gum disease that otherwise would leave him toothless before fifty, "unless I have the good sense to die first."


"I can't believe it. Why go to all this trouble? There're plenty of places you can drive to and walk up to and jump off and kill yourself, if that's what you want to do. Don't need any training to do that. All the lessons; the classroom instruction; the tethered training jumps from that steel tower they've got up there: what is it, three or four hundred feet off the ground, and they take you up there and you jump? Forget it. I'm finished right there. I wouldn't dare to climb that high, never mind jump off. You want me to conclude he did it all in order to kill himself in style? All the supervised practice jumps with the instructors: everything was preliminary to the big day when Nick Hardigrew got himself killed? Nobody was negligent? No one failed to exercise due care? It wasn't anyone's fault?"


Rina: So, first of all, women interact more with the medical industry. They go to the doctor more than men starting from when they're teenagers (visiting the gynecologist, for example). And as you mentioned, women and mothers are still burdened with the second shift. But also, if you're to believe the polls, women are more stressed than men, particularly because they don't have institutional support and they don't have child care policies or you know, whatever it is, pick your poison.


Sara: YES. I always come back to motherhood, but the promise of certainties is so tantalizing for mothers in particular. Say your toddler is having meltdowns at bedtime every night. If somebody told you it was as simple as cutting gluten from the toddler\u2019s diet, um, you will cut gluten from that screaming toddler\u2019s diet! You want to believe something will fix the problem. And you\u2019re right \u2013 a doctor is much more likely to mention bedtime meltdowns as a symptom of any number of causes. It could be a developmental delay OR it could be totally typical. Often you leave the pediatrician with a vague book recommendation feeling like, Well the doctor\u2019s answer is Who Knows, but I\u2019m fried and want to sleep so I\u2019m listening to the wellness influencer and cutting out gluten.


Hubert Granice, pacing the length of his pleasant lamp-lit library,paused to compare his watch with the clock on the chimney-piece.Three minutes to eight.In exactly three minutes Mr. Peter Ascham, of the eminent legalfirm of Ascham and Pettilow, would have his punctual hand on thedoor-bell of the flat. It was a comfort to reflect that Ascham was sopunctual -- the suspense was beginning to make his host nervous. And thesound of the door-bell would be the beginning of the end -- after thatthere'd be no going back, by God -- no going back!Granice resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the end of theroom opposite the door he caught his reflection in the Florentine mirrorabove the fine old walnut credence he had picked up at Dijon -- sawhimself spare, quick-moving, carefully brushed and dressed, butfurrowed, gray about the temples, with a stoop which he corrected by aspasmodic straightening of the shoulders whenever a glass confrontedhim: a tired middle-aged man, baffled, beaten, worn out.As he summed himself up thus for the third or fourth time the dooropened and he turned with a thrill of relief to greet his guest. But itwas only the man-servant who entered, advancing silently over the mossysurface of the old Turkey rug."Mr. Ascham telephones, sir, to say he's unexpectedly detained andcan't be here till eight-thirty."Granice made a curt gesture of annoyance. It was becoming harderand harder for him to control these reflexes. He turned on his heel,tossing to the servant over his shoulder: "Very good. Put off dinner."Down his spine he felt the man's injured stare. Mr. Granice hadalways been so mild-spoken to his people -- no doubt the odd change inhis manner had already been noticed and discussed below stairs. And verylikely they suspected the cause. He stood drumming on the writing-tabletill he heard the servant go out; then he threw himself into a chair,propping his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his locked hands.Another half hour alone with it!He wondered irritably what could have detained his guest. Someprofessional matter, no doubt -- the punctilious lawyer would haveallowed nothing less to interfere with a dinner engagement, moreespecially since Granice, in his note, had said: "I shall want a littlebusiness chat afterward."But what professional matter could have come up at thatunprofessional hour? Perhaps some other soul in misery had called on thelawyer; and, after all, Granice's note had given no hint of his ownneed! No doubt Ascham thought he merely wanted to make another change inhis will. Since he had come into his little property, ten years earlier,Granice had been perpetually tinkering with his will.Suddenly another thought pulled him up, sending a flush to hissallow temples. He remembered a word he had tossed to the lawyer somesix weeks earlier, at the Century Club. "Yes -- my play's as good astaken. I shall be calling on you soon to go over the contract. Thosetheatrical chaps are so slippery -- I won't trust anybody but you to tiethe knot for me!" That, of course, was what Ascham would think he waswanted for. Granice, at the idea, broke into an audible laugh -- a queerstage-laugh, like the cackle of a baffled villain in a melodrama. Theabsurdity, the unnaturalness of the sound abashed him, and he compressedhis lips angrily. Would he take to soliloquy next?He lowered his arms and pulled open the upper drawer of thewriting-table. In the right-hand corner lay a thick manuscript, bound inpaper folders, and tied with a string beneath which a letter had beenslipped. Next to the manuscript was a small revolver. Granice stared amoment at these oddly associated objects; then he took the letter fromunder the string and slowly began to open it. He had known he should doso from the moment his hand touched the drawer. Whenever his eye fell onthat letter some relentless force compelled him to re-read it.It was dated about four weeks back, under the letter-head of "TheDiversity Theatre.""My Dear Mr. Granice:"I have given the matter my best consideration for the last month,and it's no use -- the play won't do. I have talked it over with MissMelrose -- and you know there isn't a gamer artist on our stage -- and Iregret to tell you she feels just as I do about it. It isn't the poetrythat scares her -- or me either. We both want to do all we can to helpalong the poetic drama -- we believe the public's ready for it, andwe're willing to take a big financial risk in order to be the first togive them what they want. But we don't believe they could be made towant this. The fact is, there isn't enough drama in your play to theallowance of poetry -- the thing drags all through. You've got a bigidea, but it's not out of swaddling clothes."If this was your first play I'd say: try again. But it has beenjust the same with all the others you've shown me. And you remember theresult of 'The Lee Shore,' where you carried all the expenses ofproduction yourself, and we couldn't fill the theatre for a week. Yet'The Lee Shore' was a modern problem play -- much easier to swing thanblank verse. It isn't as if you hadn't tried all kinds --"Granice folded the letter and put it carefully back into theenvelope. Why on earth was he re-reading it, when he knew every phrasein it by heart, when for a month past he had seen it, night after night,stand out in letters of flame against the darkness of his sleepless lids?"It has been just the same with all the other you've shown me."That was the way they dismissed ten years of passionate unremittingwork!"You remember the result of 'The Lee Shore'."Good God -- as if he were likely to forget it! He re-lived it allnow in a drowning flash: the persistent rejection of the play, hissudden resolve to put it on at his own cost, to spend ten thousanddollars of his inheritance on testing his chance of success -- the feverof preparation, the dry-mouthed agony of the "first night," the flatfall, the stupid press, his secret rush to Europe to escape thecondolence of his friends!"It isn't as if you hadn't tried all kinds."No -- he had tried all kinds: comedy, tragedy, prose and verse, thelight curtain-raiser, the short sharp drama, the bourgeoisrealistic andthe lyrical-romantic -- finally deciding that he would no longer"prostitute his talent" to win popularity, but would impose on thepublic his own theory of art in the form of five acts of blank verse.Yes, he had offered them everything -- and always with the same result.Ten years of it -- ten years of dogged work and unrelieved failure.The ten years from forty to fifty -- the best ten years of his life! Andif one counted the years before, the silent years of dreams,assimilation, preparation -- then call it half a man's life-time: half aman's life-time thrown away!And what was he to do with the remaining half? Well, he had settledthat, thank God! He turned and glanced anxiously at the clock. Tenminutes past eight -- only ten minutes had been consumed in that stormyrush through his whole past! And he must wait another twenty minutes forAscham. It was one of the worst symptoms of his case that, in proportionas he had grown to shrink from human company, he dreaded more and moreto be alone. . . . But why the devil was he waiting for Ascham? Whydidn't he cut the knot himself? Since he was so unutterably sick of thewhole business, why did he have to call in an outsider to rid him ofthis nightmare of living?He opened the drawer again and laid his hand on the revolver. Itwas a small slim ivory toy -- just the instrument for a tired suffererto give himself a "hypodermic" with. Granice raised it slowly in onehand, while with the other he felt under the thin hair at the back ofhis head, between the ear and the nape. He knew just where to place themuzzle: he had once got a young surgeon to show him. And as he found thespot, and lifted the revolver to it, the inevitable phenomenon occurred.The hand that held the weapon began to shake, the tremor communicateditself to his arm, his heart gave a wild leap which sent up a wave ofdeadly nausea to his throat, he smelt the powder, he sickened at thecrash of the bullet through his skull, and a sweat of fear broke outover his forehead and ran down his quivering face. . .He laid away the revolver with an oath and, pulling out acologne-scented handkerchief, passed it tremulously over his brow andtemples. It was no use -- he knew he could never do it in that way. Hisattempts at self-destruction were as futile as his snatches at fame! Hecouldn't make himself a real life, and he couldn't get rid of the lifehe had. And that was why he had sent for Ascham to help him. . .The lawyer, over the Camembert and Burgundy, began to excusehimself for his delay."I didn't like to say anything while your man was about -- but thefact is, I was sent for on a rather unusual matter --""Oh, it's all right," said Granice cheerfully. He was beginning tofeel the usual reaction that food and company produced. It was not anyrecovered pleasure in life that he felt, but only a deeper withdrawalinto himself. It was easier to go on automatically with the socialgestures than to uncover to any human eye the abyss within him."My dear fellow, it's sacrilege to keep a dinner waiting --especially the production of an artist like yours." Mr. Ascham sippedhis Burgundy luxuriously. "But the fact is, Mrs. Ashgrove sent for me."Granice raised his head with a quick movement of surprise. For amoment he was shaken out of his self-absorption."Mrs. Ashgrove?"Ascham smiled. "I thought you'd be interested; I know your passionfor causes celebres. And this promises to be one. Of course it's out ofour line entirely -- we never touch criminal cases. But she wanted toconsult me as a friend. Ashgrove was a distant connection of my wife's.And, by Jove, it is a queer case!" The servant re-entered, and Aschamsnapped his lips shut.Would the gentlemen have their coffee in the dining-room?"No -- serve it in the library," said Granice, rising. He led theway back to the curtained confidential room. He was really curious tohear what Ascham had to tell him.While the coffee and cigars were being served he fidgeted about thelibrary, glancing at his letters -- the usual meaningless notes andbills -- and picking up the evening paper. As he unfolded it a headlinecaught his eye."ROSE MELROSE WANTS TO PLAY POETRY."THINKS SHE HAS FOUND HER POET."He read on with a thumping heart -- found the name of a youngauthor he had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a "poeticdrama," dance before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick, disgusted.It was true, then -- she was "game" -- it was not the manner but thematter she mistrusted!Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposelylingering. "I shan't need you this evening, Flint. I'll lock up myself."He fancied the man's acquiescence implied surprise. What was goingon, Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want him out of theway? Probably he would find a pretext for coming back to see. Granicesuddenly felt himself enveloped in a network of espionage.As the door closed he threw himself into an armchair and leanedforward to take a light from Ascham's cigar."Tell me about Mrs. Ashgrove," he said, seeming to himself to speakstiffly, as if his lips were cracked."Mrs. Ashgrove? Well, there's not much to tell.""And you couldn't if there were?" Granice smiled."Probably not. As a matter of fact, she wanted my advice about herchoice of counsel. There was nothing especially confidential in our talk.""And what's your impression, now you've seen her?""My impression is, very distinctly, that nothing will ever beknown.""Ah -- ?" Granice murmured, puffing at his cigar."I'm more and more convinced that whoever poisoned Ashgrove knewhis business, and will consequently never be found out. That's a capitalcigar you've given me.""You like it? I get them over from Cuba." Granice examined his ownreflectively. "Then you believe in the theory that the clever criminalsnever are caught?""Of course I do. Look about you -- look back for the last dozenyears -- none of the big murder problems are ever solved." The lawyerruminated behind his blue cloud. "Why, take the instance in your ownfamily: I'd forgotten I had an illustration at hand! Take old JosephLenman's murder -- do you suppose that will ever be explained?"As the words dropped from Ascham's lips his host looked slowlyabout the library, and every object in it stared back at him with astale unescapable familiarity. How sick he was of looking at that room!It was as dull as the face of a wife one has wearied of. He cleared histhroat slowly; then he turned his head to the lawyer and said: "I couldexplain the Lenman murder myself."Ascham's eye kindled: he shared Granice's interest in criminal cases."By Jove! You've had a theory all this time? It's odd you nevermentioned it. Go ahead and tell me. There are certain features in theLenman case not unlike this Ashgrove affair, and your idea may be a help."Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the tabledrawer in which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side. Whatif he were to try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he looked at thenotes and bills on the table, and the horror of taking up again thelifeless routine of life -- of performing the same automatic gesturesanother day -- displaced his fleeting vision."I haven't a theory. I know who murdered Joseph Lenman."Ascham settled himself comfortably in his chair, prepared forenjoyment."You know? Well, who did?" he laughed."I did," said Granice, rising.He stood before Ascham, and the lawyer lay back staring up at him.Then he broke into another laugh."Why, this is glorious! You murdered him, did you? To inherit hismoney, I suppose? Better and better! Go on, my boy! Unbosom yourself!Tell me all about it! Confession is good for the soul."Granice waited till the lawyer had shaken the last peal of laughterfrom his throat; then he repeated doggedly: "I murdered him."The two men looked at each other for a long moment, and this timeAscham did not laugh."Granice!""I murdered him -- to get his money, as you say."There was another pause, and Granice, with a vague underlying senseof amusement, saw his guest's look change from pleasantry to apprehension."What's the joke, my dear fel


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