Think yourself fat

It’s not chocolate and booze that are making me fat, it’s all the thinking.

A study in Canada has found that the more you work your brain, the more you want to eat. This is extremely bad news for a large segment of the New Internet Economy -- people who sit at computers all day, thinking about stuff. It’s not bad enough that we lead such a sedentary lifestyle. Now it turns out that the stress of mental work makes us want more food.

Researchers at Laval University reported the study in a recent issue of “Psychosomatic Medicine Journal.” (Don’t you love that there’s a publication called “Psychosomatic Medicine Journal?” I used to subscribe to it, but I thought it was making me sick.)

The researchers measured food consumption after subjects did reading/writing tasks or performed computerized tests. The study was done on 14 students (the white lab rats of humanity), who were turned loose on an all-you-can-eat buffet after performing the 45-minute tests.

Students who read a document and wrote a summary of it ate 24 percent more than students who simply rested in a sitting position during the test period. Students who did the computer test activity ate 29 percent more than those who rested.

“Those who had a more demanding mental task were more stressed and ate more,” said researcher Angelo Tremblay and, yes, that’s his real name.

Tremblay and his fellow researchers found that stress from mental work increased the hormone cortisol and also affected glucose levels, both of which can stimulate appetite.

Unfortunately, other studies have found that brainwork does nothing to burn calories. That seems unfair. Sure, our brains will spur us to visit the buffet again and again, but when it comes time to get rid of those accumulated calories, the brain can’t be bothered. It’s too busy pondering the infield fly rule or trying to remember the name of that cross-eyed kid we knew in third grade.

So what’s to be done? You already know the answer: physical exercise. Most of us don’t do enough manual labor to burn up the calories we consume; we’re too busy sitting at computers, playing Spider Solitaire. Since our brains won’t help burn calories, the only solution is to make our bodies do it through regular workouts, the researchers said.

They did find one glimmer of hope for the exercise-phobic, though that wasn’t their intention.
Because brain chemistry apparently can make us overeat, “mental work is a worse activity than simply doing nothing,” Tremblay said.

So there’s your answer. Stop using your brain so much, and maybe you’ll eat less. If you can stand to sit and stare into space without fidgeting or thinking, you’re all set.

This doesn’t explain why you run into so many stupid people who are also fat. But perhaps even a little bit of thinking is harder work for such mouth-breathers and therefore more stressful.

You’ll notice one important omission in the Canadian study: Television. Sitting and staring at TV is completely passive, but it clearly stimulates those same brain chemicals because nothing makes us want snacks more than televised sporting events. If sitting at a computer and thinking about stuff makes us fat, then sitting in front of a TV should make us HUGE. I know it’s working for me.

Anyway, that’s my theory about this new obesity study. I put a lot of thought into it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go eat. I’m starving.

Rubik's rube

Erno Rubik’s got nothing on me.

Rubik is the Hungarian sculptor and architect who invented the Rubik’s Cube and other games. It takes a special sort of mind to devise such clever, addictive puzzles.

I have two teen-aged sons, so naturally we have Rubik’s Cubes lying around the house. My sons busily work the puzzles while simultaneously watching TV, texting on their phones, scratching, playing video games, listening to music and eating. Such are the nimble minds of multi-tasking youths.

My experience with Rubik’s Cube has been less casual. I sit down and give the cube my full attention, and after turning the colorful tiles every which way for 24 seconds, I say, “That was fun,” and toss it aside. Because that’s enough for me. It would take me hours of concentrated effort to even sort of figure out how the danged thing works, to get some type of system going, much less solve the puzzle, and it’s not worth it. The payoff’s not big enough for the time wasted. Unlike, say, a crossword puzzle, which only takes me a few minutes to work and the solution of which makes angels sing.

Scientists call the ability to see and manipulate objects in two and three dimensions “spatial visualization.” The term comes from the Latin roots “spatia” (or “shoulder”) and “visuali” (“door jamb”).

Several experiments have found that men tend to be better at spatial visualization. Yay, men! No offense to women, but we men don’t get many wins in our column these days. Along with spatial visualization, scientists have found that men tend to be better at lifting furniture, stealing elections and competitive eating. That’s about it.

Men’s special adaptation for spatial visualization, which may go all the way back to the days of prehistoric hunters, certainly explains teen-aged boys’ affinity for video games. I’m no better at video games than I am at Rubik’s Cube, and my failures led me to doubt my spatial visualization manhood. I felt intimidated. My sons mocked me, saying within my earshot: “Imagine the hefty Hungarian brain of Erno Rubik!”

Just as I was wondering whether there was a cure for my spatial visualization shortcomings, a mental Viagra, if you will, I had a breakthrough. I saw that non-Hungarians such as myself face spatial visualization puzzles all the time in everyday life and manage to solve them just fine.

Take, for example, our laundry room. We have two (usually full) laundry baskets. We have a washer and dryer, the tops of which serve as the work surface. The washer’s a top loader. The dryer’s a front loader. No problem, the baskets sit on the dryer, right? Except the lint trap is on top of the dryer. So I have to move baskets to put clothes in or out of the washer and to start each new load in the dryer. Back and forth, open and close. I’m so accustomed to this routine, I do it without thinking. My movements are polished by repetition. The baskets slide back and forth and lids slam and, ba-da-bing, new loads of laundry are under way.

Take that, Erno.

Don’t even get me started on the proper way to load a dishwasher. Oh baby, we could be here all day. Nothing arouses my manly spatial visualization skills like a sink full of dirty dishes. The geometry of loading the big stuff and filling in with the smaller items. The proper tilt to catch the best spray. The ups and downs of silverware.

Whew.

Maybe I’ll try that Rubik’s Cube again.

Showing off their smarts

We were sitting around the dinner table as our two teen-aged sons discussed their annual federally mandated math tests, and up jumped the subject of quadratic equations.

One son says to the other, "You don't know that formula? That's an easy one. It's--" And he proceeded to spew a series of letters and numbers that, to my untrained ears, sounded like "booga-booga-booga-googly-moogly."

Yes, my sons were showing off. Yes, they know Dad barely passed algebra in high school and that was more than 30 years ago. And, yes, they like to rub his nose in it occasionally.

Being a mature adult, I threw food on them.

Kidding! Instead, I subtly cocked an eyebrow at my wife, in the international parenting signal for: "They're doing it again." She gave me her usual saintly smile, and we went back to chewing while the boys vigorously debated coefficients.

This incident illustrates one of the Basic Facts of Parenting. Children learn things their parents a) don't know, b) have forgotten, or c) never wanted to know in the first place, and the kids can't keep this knowledge to themselves. When they realize they know something we adults don't, they're compelled to share it, so we'll feel a) stupid, b) annoyed or c) homicidal, depending upon how much smirking is involved.

With our sons (and maybe with all kids), it started at an early age. When they were mere toddlers, they were enthralled by an inane TV show called "The Power Rangers," and they lorded it over me that I couldn't remember which Ranger wore which color Lycra costume.

"No, Dad!" they'd say, shaking their heads in disgust. "Jason was the green Ranger. Then he morphed into the white Ranger. Everybody knows that."

Once, when our younger son was around four, he raised his tiny fists at the breakfast table and loudly declared, "I am made of unstable molecules!" This, apparently, was a line from a superhero cartoon, but I didn't recognize it and couldn't hear the explanation over the hacking that followed ejecting coffee out my nose. The kids rolled their eyes at the idiot in their midst.

These days, their knowledge tends to be more esoteric (algebra) or picayune (rock band trivia) or absolutely useless (computer game cheats), but they still enjoy showing it off, especially if dumb old Dad will be left in the dark.

We were driving home from music lessons (one son plays guitar, the other plays the bass; Dad plays the radio), and I overheard a conversation that centered around "pickups" and "humbuckers." Had my sons acquired a sudden interest in rodeo? Monster trucks? Prostitutes? No, those terms refer to parts of the electric guitar, as the boys were delighted to inform me after I calmly interjected, "Say what?"

The trick for parents is to channel the children's interests into areas that might do the family some good, such as computer repair.

When I'm having computer problems, I summon our older son. He knows more about computers than I do, and he's only too happy to stand around, making suggestions and spouting jargon.
I gladly pretend to listen, smiling blankly, while in my head, I'm hearing, "Boogity-boogity-boo." He might as well be talking algebra or unstable molecules.

Whatever. If he can save my hard drive, the little humbucker can show off all he wants.

Brain sweat

Like many of my fellow bloated Americans, I exercise daily in an attempt to shed pounds and to keep my stressed heart from one day popping like a balloon.

Many people pay for memberships to gyms, where they at least have the distraction of other members, including some in leotards. But those of us who work out at home are constantly reminded that exercise is boring.

Our minds wander all over, getting as big a workout as our bodies. I've got my treadmill set up in the garage with all kinds of distractions handy -- a small TV, reading material, music. But my brain bounces from topic to topic like a pinball, always coming back to the fact that I could keel over from exertion any minute, resulting in the big "Game Over."

Random thoughts from a typical workout on the Dreadmill:

Remember when exercise was all about having fun? When did it become drudgery? Here I am, bored out of my skull, walking to nowhere. Let's not think about how that's a metaphor for Life.

God, my legs are going to fall off. If they did, could I get new ones grafted on? Ones that already had muscles? Then I could skip the workouts and still look better in shorts.

These days, doctors can transplant most anything, including faces, from one human to another. Too bad they haven't mastered personality transplants. I can think of some people who'd benefit from that.

What is that huffing sound? Oh, it's me.

If Americans keep living longer and longer, will huffing and puffing eventually become the background music of life?

You know you're older when "getting lucky" refers to the last piece of cake.

How come we have angel's food cake and devil's food cake and who decided which is which? Do they serve those in heaven and hell? If so, I'll go with the chocolate, even if it means eternal fire.

Mmm, cake.

What the heck is manna? You always hear about "manna from heaven." Does it come in chocolate?

How come Death's always pictured as a specter in a hooded cloak, carrying a scythe? At new year's time, the long-bearded Old Year carries a scythe, too. Is he related to Death? How do you use a scythe anyway?

What's that awful smell? Oh, that's me, too.

The bravest person who ever lived was the one who first ate a lobster. Here's this creature, looks like a big bug, comes armed with clacking claws. Drop it into boiling water and it turns bright red -- a sure warning sign. And yet, somebody was the first to say, hey, let's eat this thing.

Mmm, lobster.

Is that the phone? Probably another telemarketer. Here's the perfect thing to say to get rid of telemarketers: "So. What are you wearing?"

Is that a chest pain? Nah. But what if it was? I'm all alone here. Could I get to a phone and call for help before it's too late? Would my family find me here, hours later, facedown on the treadmill? Would I have big black rubber burns on my face? I'd better start keeping my cell phone nearby.

I could use my workout time to talk on the phone, if people didn't mind the puffing. They'd probably hang up, thinking it was an obscene call. "It's that breather again…."

Mmm, breathing.

Time's almost up. Just a few more minutes of agony, then I can get off this machine and get on with my day. Assuming I don't pass out first.

Wonder how much liposuction costs?

Full frontal

If teen-agers live in your house, then at times you probably find yourself thinking: How can any human with a functioning brain act that way?

For example, you might catch your teen-ager teetering on the roof or "surfing" on the hood of a speeding car or "chugging" soda pop until it spurts out his nose.

If you are of the parental persuasion, you will not be able to help yourself. You will ask, "What the heck do you think you're doing?"

And the answer will be, "I dunno."

That answer, no matter how unsatisfactory, is the truth. Teens truly don't know why they do the things they do. Because they don't have fully functioning brains.

Researchers using magnetic resonance imaging have found that the human brain isn't fully developed until the person reaches his or her early 20s. (If then.) Teens engage in risky behavior and emotional upheaval and impulsive soda-chugging because their brains don't warn them of the potential consequences.

"We found that the frontal lobes were the last to develop," UCLA brain researcher Paul Thompson said in a recent news article. "These brain regions control inhibition, rash actions, rage and anger."

(So not only will your teens do incredibly stupid things, they'll get really mad when you point that out. It's the perfect combination, really, to drive a parent insane.)

While they're waiting for their minds to mature, teens use a primitive part of the brain called the amygdala, researchers said. The amygdala -- from the Latin "amyg," meaning "wild apes" and "dala," or "under your roof" -- controls aggressive behavior and the well-known "fight or flight" response in teens and other beasts.

These new discoveries explain many of the puzzles of modern society, such as the popularity of skateboards and "monster" trucks.

The lack of inhibition in the primitive teen brain accounts for such look-at-me phenomena as "streaking," tattoos, mall loitering, nose rings and thundering auto exhaust systems. Impulse control problems include binge drinking, temper tantrums, text messaging and watching "That '70s Show" on TV. Underdeveloped frontal lobes might even explain why young males insist on wearing their baseball caps backward; it might truly be more comfortable for them that way.

Parents can make use of this new research. When our teens start acting crazy, we can remind ourselves that they can't help it; they're not playing with a full deck. We can stop asking them for explanations of their bizarre behavior. When they wheedle and whine, demanding that we let them stay out late or arguing for more freedom, we can say: "Hey, you're not ready yet. We'll talk about it when you've got a full set of frontal lobes."

The researchers haven't gone far enough. The next area to explore: Where do teens' fresh frontal lobes come from?

I have a theory: Teens are brain-sucking vampires, feeding on the gray matter of their parents. During adolescence, the kids slowly get smarter and more responsible, but we parents get more stressed-out, disconnected and stupid. Worrying over our teen-agers, we literally "lose our minds."

If I'm right about this shift in brain power, then it would explain the "mid-life crisis," when adults (especially males) start acting like irresponsible teens -- driving fast cars, acquiring younger spouses, taking up "extreme" sports and wearing their caps backward on their bald heads.

Often, when we see some so-called adult acting this way, we think, "It's as if he got a lobotomy."
Now we know why. His teens have stolen his brain. And they won't give it back until Geritol spurts out his nose.

With a song in my head

As I sit down to write this, I have only one thought on my mind -- the country-and-western song, "Stand by Your Man."

The song's been playing in my brain all day. Is this my favorite song? No, it is not. Yeah, yeah, it's a classic, but I'm not that fond of country music. I'm a fan of the blues and what my kids like to call "dinosaur" rock. Does "Stand by Your Man" have some special meaning for me? No. Have I even heard it recently? No, it's been months, at least, since I last encountered it.

Why, then, is that song going round and round in my head like Muzak from Hell? I don't know. If I did, maybe I could find a way to make it stop, because it's driving me crazy.

It's one of the great unsolved mysteries of psychology why one part of our brains always seems to be playing music. If you pause right now and let your mind drift, some song will pop to the forefront of your brain. Go ahead, try it. I'll wait.

Aha, you've got it now, don't you? Some song you probably don't even like, some song you perhaps haven't heard in years. But now it's stuck in your head like a 10-penny nail, and it'll probably be there for hours. Sorry.

Our brains have some sort of default mechanism for music. If they're not fully engaged with work or parenting or television or some other travail, our brains burst into song. Next thing you know, you're wandering around the house, humming the chorus of "Love Will Keep Us Together" or something equally nauseating.

Even people who have no strong connection to music report this problem. My best friend, who describes himself as "amusical," says his mind regularly slips into repeated replays of "Camptown Races," the song that gave us "Doo-dah, doo-dah." My mother, who admits she can't carry a tune in a washtub, hears "O, Tannenbaum" all the time, even when Christmas is months away. (Of course, she also concedes that, to her musically-challenged ears, every song sounds like "O, Tannenbaum.")

Imagine what it must be like for people who actually play music. Musicians, for instance. They must have a whole repertoire going in their heads all the time, probably in four-part harmony, distracting the heck out of them. How do they ever get anything done?

This mental soundtrack can cause problems in the workplace. If you go around humming or whistling or singing in your office, your co-workers eventually will snap and beat you senseless. Why? Because you're planting that song in their heads. And, unless you work for Seven Dwarves Inc., not everyone in the workplace wants to go around whistling the same tune.

Those of us who work alone have no such restraints. We can sing along all day if we wish, which means there's no getting rid of "Stand by Your Man," no matter how much we'd like it to go away.

Where do these songs come from? I blame car radios. If you listen to the radio as you're driving around, it becomes an exercise in punching buttons to escape familiar "oldies." Because it's usually the bad songs, the ones you really despise, that snag on your brain's antenna. Even if you hear only three notes of "Mandy" before you hit the button, you'll likely find yourself, days later, crooning like Barry Manilow, at least internally, and therein lies madness.

At our house, we've recognized this mental phenomenon and are learning to live with it. My wife regularly turns to me and says, "I need a new song in my head." This impels me to think up the catchiest song to inject into her brain, one that'll really make her crazy, something like "Bennie and the Jets" or "Copacabana" or "Up on Cripple Creek." She does the same to me.

This game tends to escalate, with each of us trying to top the other, until we're in an arms race of dreaded songs, a form of Mutually Assured Destruction.

Try it on your friends. Hum a few bars of some song, and you can feel confident that it'll drive them nuts for days. I recommend "Camptown Races."

Doo-dah.