KBTV::Are Love-Handles Contagious? Part II
Welcome to the second installment in our two-part series: “Obesity: Is it Contagious?” … as we survey new, ground-breaking research … that explores a revolutionary idea … that obesity may not just be genetics, the quality of the food you eat, even whether or not you exercise … but a function of your social network … more precisely … WHO YOU HANG OUT WITH!
Researchers say they got the idea to start looking at how a person’s social environment affected weight gain after seeing all the headlines … in the newspapers, on television … that referred to America’s obesity problem as an “epidemic.” It got them wondering if obesity should be classified differently … instead of a condition … if it should be thought of more as a virus … something that could spread like the flu. This, they thought at the time, would explain the exponential explosion of the obesity statistics in this county.
Americans are getting fatter. In the last 25 years the number of obese people in the U.S. has DOUBLED. One-third of all American adults are overweight … and that number is expected to grow 40 percent in the next eight years. For years public health experts have called obesity an epidemic … proving that America’s weight problem is leading to even greater and more catastrophic health issues -- an increase in diabetes, heart disease and other chronic conditions.
Let’s take a closer look at a study funded by The National Institute of Aging … because the departure from the norm here … is that researchers did not look at obesity as the problem of the individual – genetics, quality of food, exercise, etc … they instead, looked at obesity as the problem of the collective … the “social network” so to speak. They studied a network of more than 12,000 people over a 32-year period to discover how obesity spread … through this network.
Using data from a decades-old Framingham Heart Study … which colleted information on health, diet, exercise, family ties and friendships of residents in Framingham, Massachusetts … They judged whether a person was obese measuring his or her body mass index … the ratio of a person’s height to weight. A person with a score of 30 is considered to be obese. The group also took a close look at other factors that influence weight … such as gender, socioeconomic status, location and smoking habits. Here’s the kicker … which makes this research … just published in the New England Journal of Medicine …. and I quote from experts here … “Revolutionary” … because they found that the influence of friends was AS POWERFUL as genetics in determining weight gain. Yikes. When your parents told you be careful who you hang out with, they were most likely talking about cigarettes, alcohol, drugs and crime. Do you think they ever thought about obesity?
KBTV:: Are Love-Handles Contagious?
I love to write about dieting in America. Americans are obsessed with their health and our infant mortality rate just hit 37th in the world. Just above Slovenia. We’re fanatical about being thin, and in the past 25 years the number of obese people in this country has DOUBLED.
Sometimes the information in the scripts is so fascinating that I just run the script — it says it all:
“Obesity: Is it Contagious?” … This ground-breaking – potentially landmark – research shows that weight gain may have just as much to do with who your friends are as what you eat and how much you exercise. Some researchers say this study…which is the first if its kind…will “revolutionize” the way people approach weight loss. I found the research so compelling … specifically, its broader societal themes and implications … that I divided it into a two-part series!
The study was conducted by scholars at Harvard and The University of California, San Diego … the findings … remarkable … that if you have a close friend who’s overweight, you’re three times more likely to become obese. And the impact is so strong that distance doesn’t matter — you could live next door to the fat friend … or that that individual could live half way around the world..
The research …which was recently published in the New England Journal of Medicine … was led by Dr. Nicholas A. Christakis of Harvard Medical School and James H. Fowler of UC San Diego. The two are the first to document the spread of obesity through a social network. They’ve found that obesity follows the same pattern as contagious viruses such as the flu and AIDS. But it isn’t obesity “germs” that are spreading…it’s a person’s perception of weight. Dr. Christakis explained it this way…a man goes home to spend Thanksgiving with his family. During the meal he notices that his brother has gained some weight, so he concludes that it’s OK to be heavier. You can see already … how the impact of the dynamic … could make the growth … so to speak … exponential.
The researchers began with the philosophy that a person’s norms are set by the people around them … their peers. Just as a person’s attitude towards race or country is determined largely by upbringing … family and friends affect the size of a person’s waistline. And here are the stats … put on your seatbelt. So … who … or which factor … has the biggest influence on a person’s weight? Mutual friends. If one person in a “social network” becomes obese, the chances of the others … in that same social network … succumbing to the same fate of becoming obese … jumps to 171 percent…among siblings … the risk was 40 percent … and between spouses it fell to 37 percent.
Tune in tomorrow for part two, of our ongoing series … “Obesity: Is it Contagious?” … to learn how you might be affected not just by friends … but friends of friends … according to a study funded by the National Institutes of Health … a person who becomes overweight increases the odds of obesity in the 100 people connected to him or her … though family or friendship.To be continued …
KBTV::Barack Obama Got My Tongue!
After taking a shower with the former South Carolina governor at the FBO in Charleston, I wasn’t quite sure how I could top that this evening, the evening of the Democratic Presidential Debates — vis-à-vis storytelling later on. Or blog writing, even.
But just when I thought I’d faint from stimuli overload, I heard a shout. “Barack is coming! Barack is here!”
A few of us in the Google/YouTube entourage were making our way up the stairs to have some processed cheese and warm diet coke with the candidates. Suddenly, I plastered my back against the wall on the side of the stairwell and sucked in my stomach. I had to make way for the throng of Barack aides, handlers and advance team members!
Then I saw the top of the dapper candidates perfectly coiffed head as he bobbed up the stairs. Obama turned, grabbed the rail in the stairway and kind of hoisted himself around the bend. Then, all of a sudden, he was perched right in front of me. He stuck out his beautifully manicured, café-au-lait hand. “Hello,” he boomed in his purring baritone. “Barack Obama.”
The cat got my tongue. I couldn’t speak. I’ve met Clinton and both Bushes in my journeys on years and years of campaign trails. But for some reason — in this hot, humid, sticky stairwell at The Citadel — I couldn’t utter one word.
I took a deep breath and nearly said, “Hi, I’m Kate Bohner!”
Don’t worry, I didn’t. I just shook his hand and pumped it furiously while my face remained paralyzed. He moved on easily, but not without a quick, charming wink!
He stepped up one stair and shook the hand of the gentleman to my left. “Congratulations, Senator.” My date then turned to me and said: “What happened honey?”
NOT to be continued. I’m not sure I can take much more of this :-D
KBTV::The YouTube Debate
The plane had gotten hit by another plane, and we were going to have to take another plane in order to get from Savannah to Charleston in time for the debate. Okay, I thought. At least I’m alive. Move on. Next Chapter. Mentally tough, Kate, mentally tough. That has been my motto for weeks now — mentally tough.
3 p.m. Update: There was another plane available, and it would be ready to take us to Charleston in 15 minutes. It was a nineteen minute flight. The problem was I wasn’t going to have time to check into the hotel and shower and blow my hair dry and put on makeup before the debate. We had to be at The Citadel by 5:30 p.m., and the doors closed at 6 p.m.
“Do you think you could manage taking a shower at the FBO?” I looked at the man saying this to me and I thought ‘oh no, I hate looking ugly.’ It makes me feel insecure, and I present like a drowned rat.
But the Charleston, South Carolina FBO it was. Harrumph, I thought, mentally tough. I arrived and was whisked through a door marked “Pilots Lounge.” A nice lady with a nametag that read “Janet” with a thick Southern accent assured me that everything was going to be okay. She handed me a little bottle of Pert 2-in-1 Shampoo/Conditioner and another travel size container of BodySilk bath gel, a towel that looked like it had been washed a thousand times, a washcloth from the same era and she smiled, a big wide toothy smile. “Good luck,” she cooed.
“Thanks so much,” I said. I proceeded to turn on the water, strip down and scrub up with my makeshift bath products. I toweled off, put on my black pants, black and silver Tahari T-Shirt, slid on my silver Gucci mules and Voila! I was, at least, dressed … and clean. Clean-ish, anyway.
As I stood in the Pilot’s Lounge bathroom peering into the now fogged up mirror, I carefully concentrated on applying the black mascara to my eyelashes and the Dubonnet Red M.A.C. gloss to my lips.
Suddenly, the shower door to my right swung open (I had bathed in the shower to my left, apparently there were two), and a man with graying hair and ruddy cheeks wrapped only in a towel broke into a huge, warm, friendly Southern grin. My right hand hit the counter hard and the black mascara slid out of my hand into the sink.
“Why Hello Governor Hodges,” I heard myself say. “How are you?”
To be continued …
KBTV::Dispatches from Church
It was hot and damp and loud and maddening traveling to church this evening. Simply the act of getting to Joan of Arc by 6:30 made me want to explode – shriek at diminutive, innocent children and shove aside the darkly, tanned octogenarians blocking MY WAY in their squeaky, archaic wheelchairs. By the time I found the collection plates in the Art Room on the second floor, I felt about as spiritual as my Switch Box in the garage with the two blown fuses – fallout from the bloody electrical storm on Wednesday night that blew up the LED screen on my thermostat and scrambled my Internet access. My mood was foul.
I flopped down in the second row to hopefully hear a message of hope – something, please God anything, to get me out of my head. I know enough by now to know that my head mimics a dreadfully dangerous neighborhood … and I therefore should never go in there alone. Which is why at times like this, I always invite God to come in with me.
I looked up and saw a man in his mid-sixties with kind blue eyes, grey hair, a slightly ruddy face, and I couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t stop staring at him. I put my soda down, crossed my legs, crossed my arms, hunched over and waited for him to begin talking. (Isn’t this the body language everyone exhibits to welcome God into their hearts and “accept” a message of hope?) I laugh to myself, mocking myself, rather.
I tuned in some point near the very beginning of this man’s story … this man with the kind blue eyes who calls himself “Jack” … because he was in the middle of recounting an anecdote from when he was six years old – he had stolen his little brother’s bottle of periodontal anesthetic … downed it in three swigs … filled the bottle back up with water from the tap and carefully placed it back in it’s “proper place.” Later that evening Jack lay in bed listening to his little brother cry because the pain in the boy’s gums just wouldn’t go ease or ebb. Well, Jack thought, of course it wouldn’t, his mother was rubbing his little brother’s gums with water, not anesthetic. The anesthetic was in Jack’s six-year-old belly, making him stoned.
As I sat there … transfixed … I began to hear a message of deep spiritual love. He described lust, as a feeling made up entirely of power, control and manipulation … while love, on the other hand, only comes alive when you truly want something better for the other person, than for yourself.
He quoted Martin Luther King: “Everybody has the capacity for greatness because we all have the ability to serve.” And he talked about unconditional giving and forgiveness and having a handicapped child – or “challenged child” – by ending with the point that he feels it is we who are challenged … not his little girl. We are the ones who carry the burden of our resentments towards others day after day until we become toxic. His little girl begins each day with a clean slate. As we all should, too.
He spoke of his – former, mind you – “What’s in it for me?” filter … that admittedly, everyone suffers the defect of being selfish to a degree … but he, in his prior life, had PERFECTED the art of being selfish. Until 24 years ago … he said he didn’t know any other way to live. Information came to him in bits … then those nuggets of content got pressed through the filter which gave the information a rating based on the following: “What can I get from this person? How can I benefit from this situation? How much is it going to cost me?” It took a long time to change, he assured the 100 or so folks in the crowd. But today he lives a rewarding life and he adores his wife and he aims to serve and preserve a message of hope and faith and honesty and openness and willingness … and service. “I have no money to give; I therefore donate my time.”
After cleaning up the rooms and returning the collection baskets to the Art Room on the second floor, I snuck out the side door of the church and started heading for my car. I hit the remote on the key chain. Beep beep. The lights on the car flickered – and I picked up my pace, almost trotting at this point … then I heard a now familiar, sweet, low voice boom from behind me: “Where are you going young lady?” I swivel around on my heel to face the voice. It was Jack. Jack with the kind blue eyes and the gentle, courageous voice. “Why are you in such a hurry?”
We stop … completely still … and calibrate that wrinkle in time … when nothing happens … it’s as if the world stops with you.
“I don’t know, Jack.” I said slowly shaking my head back and forth, stepping forward, and reaching out my hand to shake his -- to formally introduce myself. “I don’t know – that’s the answer to both those questions.” I smile and shrug.
Jack stepped forward, swatted my hand away, and opened up his arms … I stepped up and he gave me a big bear hug. “You’re going to be okay, young lady.”
I grinned and giggled. “I know I’m going to be okay, Jack … I’m just a little scared about how I’m going to get there.”
We shared a conspiratorial chuckle. His kind blue eyes twinkle – as if he knows a secret that I don’t yet know but will someday find out. I jumped into my car and sped South down A1A. What a wonderful night, I thought. What a magnificent life. ;-)
KBTV::Neighbors, Romance & A Fried A/C Unit
On Wednesdays I usually don’t have to wake up at dawn to shoot, so I often sleep in. Not so, this morning. I awoke at 5 a.m. with a start, in the heart of a nightmare. Apparently, someone I love passionately had left me for Hilary Clinton. Yuck.
I tumble out of bed and waddle into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I glance up at the mirror. Ugh, I look terrible. Hair in ponytail, I pad down the stairs to grab a chilled, peach Fresca from the fridge. It was then that I noticed it was a little stuffy and dank in the house. Hmmm. On the way back upstairs I realized lightning had hit something, and my townhouse had convulsed in a massive power surge. There I was in the middle of a beautiful 3,200 square-foot townhouse, virtually camping. No lights. No Internet. And — once again — no air-conditioning.
I made a courageous attempt to go back to sleep. No go. So I slipped on my navy suede Ugg clogs and clumped up to the roof, gazing out on a soon-to-be fabulous sunrise gently peeking up from the horizon. Got it. Now I remember. This is why I live down on Florida’s Gold Coast. Serene, beautiful, peaceful, quiet. No drama.
I amble out to the edge of my roof deck and rest my elbows on the concrete ledge. My thoughts turn to the sheer insanity I’m sure to leap into as the commercial contractors’ world opens its doors. I should call my guy at the A/C company. Vern and I should call him now.
Do I even have a Service Contract with Perfect Cooling? God, I hope so. I lower my head and mutter a quick prayer. God understands “mutter-speak,” I hope.
I lean over the edge of the pale mustard, solid concrete barrier to catch a couple kissing goodbye. It’s the guy who lives at the end of the dead end street on the East side of my townhouse. His cottage is a pigsty and an eyesore. I finally felt compelled to call the Broward Sheriff’s Office so they’d give him a warning and get him to vacate his illegally parked, mobile dumpster.
I later apologized for being such a bitch, and he and I have since become friends. He’s hoping to get bought out by the developers, who are building the Parking Garage across the street, because, he tells me, he knows his house is a teardown and he wishes they’d get it over with already. He’s broke and ready to move. Then I remembered his girlfriend is a flight attendant for American Airlines. I’d never seen her around, so I thought he was making her up so I wouldn’t think he was gay. (I did think he was gay, by the way.) Well, I guess he’s not gay, the flight attendant is indeed real, and this –— perched below me now — must be her.
She is in an American Airlines Flight Attendant costume, with wild wet hair. She bursts out laughing at that very moment, and they fall into each other’s arms. The dawn is breaking and the orange and peach light begins to deepen as it creeps across the sky. He grabs her around the throat with his left arm into some kind of a chokehold and begins rubbing his balled-up fist in a twisting motion on top of her head. It’s called a “nuggie,” I think. She is giggling and gasping for air and trying to kick him in the shin. He finally let’s her go, and she feigns a slap across his face. He intercepts her open, swinging palm, turns it face down and gently kisses her knuckles.
I’ll miss you, she whispers, pushing out a pouting lower lip. I’ll miss you, too, he mouths. He then grabs her in a big bear hug, and they say goodbye over and over again. The goodbye takes on a honey-I’m-going-off-to-war type parting. Finally she breaks free, rolls her smart, black — but beat up — overnight bag and throws it in the back of her beige and green, two-toned Pinto and sputters off. He waves at her. He stands, mesmerized in her wake. His mint-green hospital scrubs, tied at the waste, begin to droop as he shifts about in worn thin flip-flops, no shirt.
My eyes begin to sting with fatigue, or tears maybe? I’m so worn out it’s hard to tell. But there I stand, transfixed, somehow lost as the fly-on-the-wall voyeur, drinking in the moment. My neighbor in the mint-green scrubs suddenly looks up — steps back in surprise that I’m up, that I’m watching — and he raises his hand to toss me a somewhat awkward wave. I wave back.
Hmmm. I’m lonely. That’s it. I just must be lonely. I pivot in my Ugg clogs and saunter back in through the glass door. Whew. It’s hot. I hit “Vern, Perfect Cooling” on my phone list.
Game on.
KBTV::Richochet Presents
Ricochet presents. That’s what my brother used to call them — I think. Sometimes I attribute things to my brother that he never said. I’m not sure why I do this, but one thing I do know is that I only assign the really hip, cool, with-it stuff to him. My brother is very honest, anal, precise and wonderful, so I’m sure the fact that I do this would naturally piss him off. I’m going to have to put the “Don’t attribute things to Russ that he never said” in my “Things That Must Change” column. Harrumph.
I’ve spent my life nurturing a hero-worship thing for my older brother. But recently our relationship suddenly got a lot more real. It started happening this time last summer. I now think it must have been his everlasting dedication and loyalty to me with the sheer act of housing, feeding, driving and sitting with me a number of times over the course of the Fall of 2006 (and even into January of 2007) in the bowels of the Criminal Court House in Monmouth Country, N.J. — to painfully witness his little, baby sister nearly get sent to jail.
Back to
Ricochet Presents. First, I’m going to list some
RPs ; then you’ll guess the nature and/or purpose of the gift. Ready? Don’t peek.
Lingerie, stereo equipment, flat-screen televisions, a bottle of Jack Daniels, a membership to a health club, airplane tickets to see him when he’s stuck on a business trip, a Cuisinart, massage oil, a subscription to GQ.
You get the picture. They’re ricochet presents because when the guy gives the present to you, it comes right back at him — in a good way.
So, my boyfriend told me he had sent me a 50-inch flat screen television for Valentines Day — it arrived 67 days late — but that’s in another blog. Now I’m left with the Herculean task of actually mounting it on the wall.
And this is my experience today. Because of issues surrounding insurance, I have contracted with Magnolia, Best Buy’s installation vendor. I don’t know how much the television cost, but I will tell you exactly how much the mounting is going to set me back.
Panamax Power: $105.49. Harmony remote: $439.99. (I need the infrared eye because the cable box and the DVD player are hidden in an antique Indian throne of sorts.) RF extender: $131.99. Wall mount: $114.39. Installation: $500. Remote programming: $150. RF programming: $90.00. Denon DVD player: $179.99.
The grand total: $1,711.85.
He’s coming in this weekend, expecting to have it all mounted and working (hence the “ricochet” aspect to the gift).
What’s wrong with this picture?Welcome to my world.
To Be Continued…
KBTV::The Heavenly Bed
It all began this time last year. I had just obtained what I thought was a rock-solid signed letter of intent. It was nestled in my fax machine, detailing the specs for a writing job — a ghostwriting job, a very lucrative ghostwriting job — and I felt really rich. But don’t worry, it didn’t last long.
Anyway, I decided to go to City Furniture in Boca and see my friend Hal. After flopping on several beds in the showroom — bouncing up and down, celebrating my good tidings — then mimicking sleeping and lots and lots of smiling, I somehow settled on a $3,100 mattress.
What was I thinking? I threw down my credit card, promptly maxing it out, and left with the promise that the heavenly mattress would be delivered the next day. It was. And two days after that, the negotiation on the book contract fell apart. The letter of intent became just another page at the bottom of my shredder, and now I was stuck with a mattress that cost more than my annual health insurance and a maxed-out Capital One card.
Little did I know that I was, yet again, at the forefront of a trend — the luxury mattress trend. The problem was here I was, night after night, sleeping on a mattress that more or less guaranteed a great night’s sleep, but I couldn’t sleep because of the anxiety over the maxed-out Capital One card.
Camera pan forward to last week. I open up the
New York Times and there it was in the House and Home section — a whole article, a very good one I might add, on the new trend of the mega-mattress. My favorite part of the piece cites the craze over Ambien, the boomers’ last deep love, and the fact that it was derailed by a flurry of bad press about its potentially bizarre side effects, including sleep-eating and sleep-driving (a state that Representative Patrick J. Kennedy, Democrat of Rhode Island, may have experienced late one night in Washington last year).
Today, the
Times writer cheerfully states: the mattress industry is cheerfully hurling itself into the breach, marketing mattresses to cure every ill, claiming even to put the brakes on time itself.
There not even called mattresses anymore. The Swedish company Hollandia turns out to be a maker of adjustable “sleeps systems,” priced from about $15,000 to $50,000, that look and feel like nothing so much as high-end hospital beds. With their German motors and 12 massage programs, they acknowledge that a body ruined by stress can be only soothed, not remade. Its marketers also claim its beds cure snoring.
Six years ago, barely 2 percent of the mattresses sold cost more than $2,000, according to the International Sleep Products Association, a trade group for the industry, which had $6.7 billion in sales last year. By 2006, about 5 percent of purchases had crossed the $2,000 line.
Let’s take a look at some of the top choices:
•
Casa Poggesi has been offering the $24,000 Magniflex Gold for a month and a half. The company has sold 53 Gold mattresses to individuals in Russia and one to a hotel in Dubai. Its cost, he said, is largely a result of the fact that its cover is woven with 22-karat gold thread — apparently “gold is a natural antimicrobial,” as well as a barrier against dust mites and bedbugs. The Mag Gold also has a cashmere under layer.
•
The Tempur-Pedic Grand Bed markets four layers, 14 inches, of high density “Tempur” material — then more and more layers of Tempur all encased in a high-resiliency base with a blended silk and an allergen-resistant cover.
•
The Holandia Gravity Zero Ultra runs between $15,000 and $20,000. It’s the mattress described above with the 12 German motors and two ergonomic remote controls. The marketing department even managed to include an eco-friendly vibe. It’s topped off with an array of coconut fibers and an aloe vera-treated cover.
Now for the
piece de resistance. The
Hastens Vividus mattress offers up a “sleep system” described as an exquisite cake — a layer cake, to be exact —layers of oak, flax, cotton, steel coils and hand-teased horse hair. All this for a mere $59,750. And what
really separates the Hastens Vividus from the rest (apart from the price)? Once a month you the customer will receive a phone call reminding you to “flip and massage” your precious mattress.
Ah! It doesn’t get any better than that!
KBTV::Science of Faith Shoot
As Barry and I were walking out to the dock this morning, I thought about the e-mail I sent after we shot our first piece. And it read:
Hiya, how did you sleep? Did you have fun at dinner?
The Science of Faith pieces came out wonderfully! I wore a brand new, bright, red tank with these little mirror circles around the neck for Part 1 … and an orange diaphanous number for Part 2 … I don’t know what it is but I think RED – maybe for blood – when I think of Faith!
The pieces came out soooo beautiful! We’re still having some audio issues, but I’m busting Barry’s chops as I write!
Have a wonderful day. Only one more piece to go – the Weekend Edition … Liquid Trust!
Write soon and let me know what’s up!
XoI reach around my back and switch on my mic. Shoot, I have the baggy Yoga Pants on again, and the battery-laden box is pulling my pants down in the back. I hike up my pants, stare straight into the camera, and let it rip!
Good morning, I’m Kate Bohner for KBTVonline. Welcome to the second part of our two-part series “The Science of Faith” … today we’ll explore the research findings of Dr. Andrew Newberg … he is in the Department of Radiology at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania with secondary appointments in the Department of Psychiatry and the Department of Religious Studies.
BREAK
Dr. Newberg’s research focuses on the underlying mechanisms which govern our spiritual, social, and individual beliefs …He argues that we are biologically driven to find meaning and wholeness throughout our lives. In fact, as I mentioned yesterday, his research has begun to show that our brains have the capacity to create and maintain a system of beliefs which can take us far beyond our survival-oriented needs. These belief systems not only shape our morals and ethics, but they can be harnessed to heal our bodies and minds, enhance our intimate relationships, and deepen our spiritual connections with others.
BREAK
At the University of Pennsylvania, Dr. Andrew Newberg is looking for an explanation for what most regard as inexplicable. Newberg is determined to unravel the relationship between faith and science by studying what happens in the brain during the deepest moments of faith. He's recently published a study looking at the brain activity of eight Americans who speak in tongues.
BREAK
Study participants like Donna Morgan – a congregant from Freedom Valley Worship Center in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania – listened to gospel music during the first scan. ABC News aired a story that showed Ms. Morgan dancing around the waiting room with head phones humming happily to some of her favorite verses. She was then place in an MRI machine – the one that looks like a coffin – and her brain activity was measured. A few days later, Ms. Morgan was asked to complete the same activity while speaking in tongues. The results were dramatically different … and let’s just say she was thrilled with the results … which showed that the frontal lobe … the part of the brain right behind the forehead that's considered the brain's control center … it went quiet. This, she happily claims, SCIENTIFICALLY proves that it is not SHE who is speaking, but that of the Holy Spirit.
BREAK
Dr. Newberg has been studying how faith is mapped on the brain for quite some time. In earlier studies, he looked at what happens in the brains of Buddhist monks meditating and Franciscan nuns praying. The results were quite different from what happens in the brains of people speaking in tongues, whose brains, as I already emphasized, went quiet in the frontal lobe. Dr. Newberg has recently published a book called "Why We Believe What We Believe." This innate power of our beliefs to heal or injure, to foster happiness or disease, or generate societal friction or peace is the underlying theme of this book.
BREAK
When Dr. Newberg asked if he was skeptical about what he'd find when he decided to study the brain at the moment someone is speaking in tongues, Newberg said, "If … the question is, is this a real phenomenon? Is this really the voice of God speaking through them? That's a much more problematic question, I think, and something that I'm not sure if we have specifically answered just by doing our study." … but … think about it … throughout Dr. Newberg’s experiment … while Ms. Morgan lay still … speaking in tongues … in the MRI brain scan machine … her frontal lobe was completely quiet. So … who WAS doing the talking?
BREAK
Thanks for joining today for our two part series “The Science of Faith” … I’m Kate Bohner for KBTVonline … for more information … or two view Part 1 of the series … click over to KBTVonline.com … Have a day. It’s 9:48 p.m. and I’m beat. Goodnight!
KBTV::Wow 5 a.m.!
I sometimes ask myself if this is all sustainable – the sleep deprivation, the heat, the constant call for content, the phone calls, the humidity, the e-mails, appointments, and finally the Blackberry thumb – my painful right thumb.
I found myself shooting an e-mail to a friend at 5 a.m. this morning. It read:
Wow! 5 a.m.!!
I hope you got some sleep … I was thinking about you last night, and I was contemplating that question of how you can possibly garner any good, real sleep … and if the act of actually sleeping soundly was made more difficult by the fact that you are physically in different beds many nights of the week … I mean styles of beds, types of bedrooms, textures of covers, etc. Hmmm.
I feel pretty good and am excited about the shoot today. I haven’t been up on the roof, yet, but it’s supposed to be beautiful again today!
(OK, PUT ON YOUR SEATBELT)
On a somewhat reflective note, I believe that I see further evidence that this healthy eating/recurrent exercise/daily meditation/prayer/giving back/spiritual LIFE … that it works … because I manage to work these crazy hours – with no coffee, or caffeine of any kind – and be relatively even keeled and very, very happy and content . It’s interesting because when I was keeping the same types of hours at CNBC or CNN I was – quite literally – a VAT, a TROUGH, a BARREL of continual, never-ending complaints and gripes. I was just perennially dissatisfied. Just a thought …
That said, I know that MUCH OF THIS happiness, joy and contentment … I attribute to having a life where I don’t have to streak out of bed to the sound of a screeching alarm, dive into synthetic pantyhose, whip out of my apartment past my doorman, and go sit in an office, on a prestigious floor, in a company where there is no on I would ever possibly want to have dinner with ever again.
It might be 5 a.m., but the sun is rising, and the weather is warm and moist and I can simply slip on my big fuzzy pink slippers and pad across the hallway into my office and plop down at my computer and plot out a day where at least I’ll feel like at the end of it … that I’ve at least done something that I enjoy and that I believe in. I might be broke and exhausted, but I’m happy ;-)
Have a wonderful day! Love, Kate Hmmmm. Because now it’s 9:40 p.m. and I’m asking myself: “Hey Kate, where did all that peace, serenity, calm and gratitude go?”
Then I sit down and read my script for tomorrow, and I remember – ah! It always comes in the morning. (Stay tuned for tomorrow’s shooting script.)
Obviously, to be continued!
KBTV::Jog Bra or Feminine By-product?
As I explained yesterday, I live in a brand new townhouse that is smugly and snuggly equipped with state-of-the-art “low-flush” toilets. All of this hype is because I live in Florida, and we always seem to be hovering on the brink of some disastrous draught that is always expected to be worse than anything the weathermen have ever seen before.
I was told upfront, full disclosure, that no feminine by-products were to be flushed down the toilet … EVER. “You live in Florida now, girl,” said Ernie that NBA-star turned 4-Star Plumber (so he said). “You can’t flush it even if it says so on the outside of the box.”
Today my toilet is stopped up and it’s an emergency. Remember, “my friend” is coming in to town. I call 4-Star Plumbing – seeking the aide of my big pal Ernie.
“It’s an emergency,” I explain to Denise, his dispatcher, who has now become a friend and confidant.
“Ms. Bohner, I’ll send Ernie out there right now,” Denise seems exasperated and judgmental. “But it’s going to cost you double-time.”
(As I explained in yesterday’s blog, I had to get this done because “my friend”/boyfriend was coming in to town to stay for 28 hours. Presumably, he would have to use the loo at least once during his tenure in the townhouse.)Ding Dong!
Ah, Ernie! Whew. I don’t have to be at the airport for two hours. Terrific! Everything is going to work out just fine. I clunk down the stairs in my brand new olive green suede Ugg clogs. Clunk. Clunk.
“Hi Ernie!” I open the door and look straight up at the sky. Ernie beams down at me. He looks like the Seagram’s Building in Midtown Manhattan – a giant, black, plate glass skyscraper – but with a big inviting smile and bright white teeth.
“Girl, you’ve got to get your act together,” he says shaking his head, then hunching down and bowing his head – ducking, really – to enter the Townhouse. He walks right past me up the stairs and into the back, through the master bedroom and into the bath. I go back to my computer and keep tapping away.
Ten minutes later, Ernie emerges. “Ms. Bohner, I can definitely tell you that was no feminine product,” he says looking puzzled – not grossed out – perplexed. “It’s in the can.” He carefully places his tool box on the floor.
My curiosity is piqued by the expression on his face. I pop up from my computer and scoot straight back into the loo. There, in my Nicole Miller ceramic tile mauve-crème trash can lies a soiled …
… not-white-anymore jog bra.
I look at Ernie, my jaw dropping. I’m speechless.
Finally Ernie musters up the courage to speak. “Ms. Bohner what chu been doin’ back here?”
And that IS a wrap!
To be continued …
KBTV::My 'Friend"
I see a new and disturbing trend emerging in the vernacular of the dating arena, and I think it comes out of people’s incessant cravings for privacy. I continue to pick-up (no pun intended) on men now referring to girlfriends as “my friend.”
I first noticed it shortly after Paul Wolfowitz resigned as World Bank chief amid the furor over his handling of a bank pay package for his girlfriend. Wolfowitz courted controversy from the start because of his role in the Iraq war when he was deputy defense secretary. However, it was his role in arranging a hefty pay raise for Shaha Riza, his girlfriend (or “friend”) and bank employee, that forced his departure.
A friend of mine (no, a real friend, not a “my Friend” kind of a friend), told me that he had seen Wolfowitz at a cocktail party in Vienna and the man-with-apparently-nine-lives persisted in calling Ms. Riza “my friend.”
Well, last Friday “my friend” was arriving from out of town, and I was in a complete panic. The toilet in the master bedroom was stopped up, and I had no idea how it had gotten into that state. Well, I sort of might have known how it had gotten into that state, but I wasn’t sure.
You see I live in a brand new townhouse, and it’s equipped with these “low-flush” toilets because I live in Florida and we seem to live in this precarious state of perennial drought. I was told upfront, full disclosure, no feminine by-products were to be flushed down the toilet … EVER … even if the packaging said it was OK. Well, if you read this blog, you already know I keep horrific hours. Sometimes I shoot at dawn on three hours sleep. At dawn, I’m forgetful. Who isn’t? I thought I might have “slipped” – just once.
I call the plumber from Four Star Plumbing.
“It’s an emergency,” I explain to Denise, at the other end of the phone. “My friend is coming into town and I don’t want to be mortified and embarrassed with a stopped up toilet. Denise,” I plead. “I’ll pay anything! He absolutely cannot know I have a stopped up toilet.” Particularly, I think if he’d known how many days it had been stopped up. (I have two others, don’t worry.)
“Ms. Bohner I might be able to have someone out there today,” Denise tells me politely. “But it’s going to cost double-time.”
OUCH! “What’s that going to run me?” I’m squeaking like Tweety Bird.
“One-ninety-two,” Denise replies with that “unyielding” tone.
Double-time OUCH! “Shoot. I don’t know what to do!”
Denise exhales a huge sigh. “Ms. Bohner, why do you care if it’s just a friend? It’s not like it’s your boyfriend?”
But it is! And therein lies my frustration!
To be continued …
KBTV::Gaslight
I’m please to say that I’ve just completed a two-part series about the vagaries of deceit. It’s called “The Legacy of Lying.”
Again, it’s sweltering outside, and for some ungodly reason I’ve decided to wear a sleeveless, black cashmere sweater. I can feel it. I’m beginning to shine.
I’m Kate Bohner for KBTVonline. Welcome to the second installment of our two-part series “The Legacy of Lying.” Yesterday I broadcast the results of brand new study that basically contradicts what sociologists had believed for quite some time … that babies are born “guiltless” … therefore, by definition, they cannot lie! Today we explore the larger and much more complex side of this story … why do people lie, anyway?Over the past several months, there have been times when I think I’ve gone completely, stark, raving mad. I’ll have a conversation with someone about something that is seemingly innocuous. The facts derived from that conversation therefore become true – in my mind. I then proceed, operating within the confines of believing the facts that I now “know” to be true, only to be told something so entirely different that I begin to feel – not only that I’ve been lied to or that I’m just completely missing the point – but that I’ve begun to live in a entirely separate, parallel universe.
This is when the whole “Gaslight” reference emerged as a punctuation mark in my vocabulary. Conversations with my girlfriend Lori sounded something like this:
Lori: “Well, did you ask him?”
Me: “Of course!”
Lori: “Well, what did he say? Did he admit it?”
Me: “Gaslight.”
Lori: “Eek. I know … but, Kate, again?
Me: “Total Gaslight.”
Lori: “You poor thing.”The “Gaslight” reference began about two months ago after being on the phone with my mother, begging her to commit me to an insane asylum and her responding: “No, I won’t have you committed. But, it does sound eerily like that film noir from the ‘40s, dear. With Ingrid Bergman. Gaslight.”
Indeed. The film's plot, faithfully adapted by its screenwriters, was about a diabolical, Victorian criminal husband (Charles Boyer playing against type) who systematically and methodically attempts to torment, menace and drive his bedeviled, fragile wife (Ingrid Bergman) mad. Its title was derived from the frequent dimming and flickering of the gaslights. The phrase "to gaslight" someone (to deliberately drive someone insane by psychologically manipulating their environment and tricking someone into believing that they are insane) was derived from the film. Hence, my frequent usage of the term today.
I jolt back into reality for a moment because Barry is beckoning me – hand signals and waving arms. It’s time for me to shoot the second to last paragraph. “Hit it, Kate!” he says.
I take a deep breath and robotically articulate my perfectly rehearsed “chunk:”
Finally, there’s the most harmful, destructive and injurious group of all – the compulsive liars. These are people who lie even when it might not benefit them at all. Paul Ekman, a psychiatry professor from the University of California, San Francisco, calls it “duping delight.” For compulsive liars, lying is like a drug. It gives them an adrenalin surge or 'kick' sensation. Part of the appeal for them is the feeling of being able to control the person they are lying to.
“And that’s a wrap,” Barry exhales.
Barry and I return to the townhouse to begin the editing. I plop down at my computer and write the following words:
“Gaslighting.” Derived from the epic film noir “Gaslight,” is the act of ruthlessly manipulating an individual, for nefarious reasons, into believing something other than the truth.
And that’s a wrap.
KBTV::Welcome to My World
Bbbbbbzzzzzzzzzzzz. ZZZZzzzzzzzzzz. My left butt cheek is vibrating.
. Bbbbbbzzzzz. ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzz.
What is that? My eyes fly open. It’s still dark. I grab my magenta Razor Phone off the bed stand. It’s 4:30 a.m. I reach under the covers and grab the offending, buzzing object from inside the side pocket of my University of Pennsylvania sweatpants and pull out my Blackberry.
Zzzzzzzzzz. I hit the track wheel and fall back into the pillow.
I fell asleep in my sweats? Yuck. That’s gross. How college. Even worse. How graduate school.
I look again. It’s still 4:30. Christy is coming to do my make up in 70 minutes.
* * * * *
“Barry, there’s no wind.” I’m standing outside an extraordinary house (more like a Miami-Vice-style mansion) in North Fort Lauderdale where my Creative Director, Andi Galpern, lives.
It used to be a nightclub built by a cocaine dealer, who, I think, is now in jail. Now Andi and her boyfriend Chris live upstairs where the bar was. A giant bar still rings the left side of the front room, with mirrors along the wall behind the bottles, bar stools and all.
Chris’ drum set is in the middle of the room. I stub my toe on the thing that holds the symbol. I think it’s a symbol. “Ouch!”
I’m worried about the stagnant air. Barry explains to me that Florida is a swamp, and there is no wind in swamps. It’s 103 degrees and I still have to shoot two pieces. Barry is really taking the brunt here today. I can go inside and cool off between paragraphs (so I don’t look too sweaty on camera). He has to stand by the camera and wait for my body temp to return to 98.6. After about 10 minutes, I reappear. Barry is drenched.
* * * * *
It’s nearly over; only one part “chunk” to go. (I shoot in chunks.)
Barry barks: “OK Kate, hit it!
I’m Kate Bohner for KBTVonline.
So what happened? This is where it gets really interesting … through the text messaging campaign the young activists were able to ignite public outrage into such a frenzy that it led to two enormous protests – both garnering national and international publicity. And this is what it looked … and sounded like. Loud warnings roared through the PA systems … bellowing out from loud speakers in the crowded streets. Police lined the side walks in riot gear. Despite all of this – the people were unyielding. About 8,000 to 10,000 people participated in both protests. As a result, the city government halted the plant’s construction, saying it “has listened to the opinions expressed and has decided, after careful deliberation, that the project must be re-evaluated.”
BREAK
OK viewer. Put on your seatbelt. This is where the irony becomes almost unbearable. Today, the Chinese government has chosen the following reason to condemn the proliferation of information through text messaging – not that it’s illegal – but “because it doesn’t serve the citizen well due to exaggeration and misinformation.”
BREAK
Apparently the activists who began the text message campaign did indeed exaggerate the inherent dangers of the soon-to-be-built chemical plant saying the paraxylene would “cause leukemia and deformed babies.” So what, say the activists? And … according to the young activists … since when does the Chinese Government care about misinformation?
Thanks for joining today … I’m Kate Bohner for KBTVonline … please leave any comments in the box provided or email us at www.KBTVonline.com … click contact … shoot us an email … we’ll be sure to get you back.
I found out later that one of the gardeners at Andi’s boyfriend’s parent’s estate asked:¿Siempre se habla con ella misma la mujer bonita con el tablero del clip?
The translation: “Does the pretty woman with the clip board always talk to herself?”
Welcome to my world.
To be continued …
KBTV::Awake Again
It’s 2:10 a.m. and I have to rise and shine at 4:30 a.m. For some reason I feel the need to pad over to my computer to check my e-mail. Precisely two and a half months ago, I broadcast a gigantic story about why checking your e-mail in the middle of the night is only the right thing to do if you have neither a need nor a desire to fall back to sleep, ever – period.
(Let’s just say I’m fairly certain I did not shoot the following section and have Barry shout “One Take Kate!” I think it was more like “Eight Take Kate!”)
I’m Kate Bohner for KBTVonline … and this is specifically how [checking your e-mail in the middle of the night] disrupts your sleep. A person’s body activity is regulated by something called circadian rhythms, which run on a roughly 24-hour cycle. These rhythms are controlled mainly by our internal biological clock – called the suprachiasmatic nucleus. Since this clock sits in a part of the brain just above the point where the optic nerves cross, it can be disrupted by light.
As light, from say a computer monitor or TV screen, enters the photoreceptors of the eye it sends a signal that travels along the optic nerve to the biological clock (that suprachiasmatic nucleus).
From there the signal travels to the pineal gland. This part of the brain responds to light signals by switching off the production of melatonin, the hormone that makes you sleepy. Well, I might as well surrender to that fact that now I’m in it. I’m sitting at my desk at 2 in the morning, and my pineal gland has put an arête! on melatonin production.
There is a note from Rachael, my Managing Editor of all KBTVonline content. Rachael Joyner is one of those rare birds. She’s just got it. I’ve been running in the journo-scribe game for 15 years now. I’ve studied with the best and the brightest at Columbia J-School; I’ve sat next to brilliant editors in the halls of Forbes, George, WSJ, Marie Claire – the list goes on and on. I know it when I see it, and I see it in Rache. To me, it’s simple. She’s going to be a star.
I had sent her some kind of a snippy note, I think, around 2 a.m., saying, “I had to be up in two hours!” She wrote back: “What are you doing up then???”
Smart Aleck.
Eh, she’s right though. Hmmm. That’s funny, Rachael’s often right. What was I doing up? A woman cannot live on two hours of sleep each night and Peach Fresca alone! Still, I’m the boss. I’m going to have to exact some form of revenge!
Aha! I’ll short-sheet her cubicle before the staff meeting tomorrow night! ;-)
