One of the curious recent developments in the Atkins diet craze is the overwhelming abundance of low-carb and no-carb sweets and pastries at supermarkets. When I last did the diet, back in 2000, this was basically a cottage industry, with two hard-to-find brands. Now it’s a full-blown aisle in the supermarket. Just about every candy manufacturer has replicated their product in sugar-free form; all the bread makers have concocted low-carb loaves; and there are umpteen mixes and powders to make your own Atkins approved baked goods at home.

All of this perfectly logical. Atkins is a bitch of a diet to get the hang of, and given its rising popularity, naturally there are plenty of people wanting to join the craze but not wanting to abandon their favorite foods. (After all, I’m one of these weak-willed types.) But if there’s one thing I just don’t get about all this, its the quick ascension of maltitol to the top of the artificial sweetener heap.

You see it in just about every product on the market: from Carbolite sour patch kids, to Russell Stover sugar-free chocolates, to Atkins chocolate chip cookie mix. But, as far as I’m concerned, matitol has got to be one of the worst inventions in chemical engineering history. Say what you will about aspartame, saccharine, Splenda, and sucralose, but none of them have the unholy side effects of maltitol. Among the many that I’ve been blessed with are abdominal cramping, massive diarrhea, bloating, fatigue, and general indigestion.

I don’t know how I missed this one! On July 13′s Talk of the Nation, there was a fabulous episode called “The Politics of Hair,” with guest Peter Sagal, the follicly-challenged host of the NPR quiz show Wait, Wait… Don’t Tell Me. Most of the discussion was from the perspective of the bald voter—how he must weigh the Sophie’s choice of having to vote for one full head of hair or another. Seeing as how the chance of people actually listening to the RealAudio of the episode is slim, I’ll recap the high points in the extended entry, below. Among the issues tackled: How did Ike get elected with his barren scalp? Is Cheney the bald man’s candidate? The fake baldness of Jesse Ventura. And the real tragedy of Jack Ryan.

One of the best articles about hair politics I’ve read was a New Yorker Talk of the Town piece, “Al Gore’s Hair Problem,” which came out shortly after the 2000 election. In short, the article claimed that men who part their hair on the right are seen as wussies—”right-brain, guy-sensitive, talkative, and soft.” A left sided part, on the other hand, makes a man appear “left-brain, guy-forceful, logical, and gruff.” In other words, “Right part, zero; left part, hero.” Therefore, the article posits, Gore lost the election because he parts his hair on the right, while Bush is a strong, alfa-male left-sider. Similarly, Clinton, a lefty, was widely popular, and Carter, a righty while in office, only began to rehabilitate his legacy when switched his part to the left in 1979.

So, what does this mean for the current election? Kerry and Bush both part on the left—a wash. Cheney also favors the left, in as much as he can part that tiny tuft of gray in the back. Edwards, alas, parts on the right—which may negate whatever advantage he has over Cue Ball Cheney. One possible solution, as mentioned in the article, is a True Mirror, which produces an actual, not a flipped, image of anyone who looks into it. If only these mirrors didn’t cost $200 a pop, I’d buy one for Edwards myself.

Come to think of it, I could use one, too. This wussy right-side part that I’ve been sportin’ for 20-odd years has always seemed so boss (in my misleading, un-true mirrors). But clearly, upon re-reading this story, I realize how much it’s been holding me back.

Click “continue reading” to see the New Yorker story, below.

Over the July 4th weekend, I leaned an ugly truth about myself. In the course of walking about West Philly with my brother’s family, I realized how disgusting my sweat truly is. Thanks to massive salt stains circling my man tits and underarms, I now see that, with three months until the wedding, drastic measures are necessary. Surgery, as I’ll explain below, might be an option.

On the recommendation of my friends Pete and Kim, I downloaded the audiobook of Dr. Atul Gawande’s Complications last month, and have been listening to it on my iPod ever since. Gawande is one of the New Yorker’s two nonpareil medical correspondents (the other being Dr. Jerome Groopman), and the book is basically a collection of his essays from the magazine—most of which are drawn from his days as a medical resident. You get a peek into gastric bypass operations, Morbidity and Mortality (M&M) conferences, and the ever-so-pleasant discovery of Necrotizing Fasciitis (aka “flesh eating bacteria”) in a 23-year-old woman. But what fascinated me most was the story of a female TV news anchor who had a case of chronic blushing. Because the embarrassing redness was interfering with her career, she sought out an experimental Swedish surgery to sever the nerve that controls facial blushing. But, as luck would have it, cutting this fiber had an unintended, if convenient, side effect. It eliminated almost all of her upper body sweating!

(You can read the New Yorker incarnation of this particular story, “Crimson Tide,” here. Definitely the best part of the book, in my opinion.)

It’s been three years since I returned to Philly, but I still haven’t gotten used to this city’s inexplicable abundance of ‘possums. When Ana and I were living in the Art Museum area, the critters would routinely traverse the concrete wall in our backyard. It was always during our barbeques that one of the monsters (which bear a striking resemblance to the ROUS—Rodents of Unusual Size—from the Princess Bride) would trot along, oblivious to our company. “Oh, don’t mind him,” we’d say, as guests recoiled in fear and disgust. “He’s just passing through.”

When we moved to West Philly last year, I figured we’d moved out of ‘possum territory. I figured wrong. According to Penn’s pest management specialist, the beasts are “very native to West Philadelphia.” And the Inquirer says they’re completely harmless: “Opossums rarely carry rabies, they hardly ever knock over garbage cans, they love to eat rodents and insects, and they are not aggressive (when threatened, they just play possum). So why would a man chase a nursing opossum into a neighbor’s yard on Mother’s Day, beating it with a pipe, and leave it for dead with 10 tiny babies in its pouch?”

Um, I can think of at least on reason. When you go onto the porch at 1am to have a smokey treat, there’s nothing more freaky than having those evil green eyes staring down at you from a tree limb overheard.

—Petey, one of the many ‘possums that have been kind enough to grace our front porch.

After three years of being terrorized, I finally took it upon myself to visit the ‘Possum Network, a robust site filled with information on possums in poetry, literature, and music. It hasn’t exactly made me a fan, but it’s nice to know that, if nothing else, I can sing away my blues with “Possum, the Latest Craze”, by G.A. Scofield.