Dear Kombucha...

At first, I thought you were weird -- the odd duck of the beverage world. I mean, nobody hears "a drink produced by fermenting sweet tea with a culture of yeast and bacteria" and thinks "Oh YUM!" But after a little consideration, I thought, "Well, I like other fermented drinks, so why not give you a try?"

At first gulp, I thought you were a bit funky... and not figuratively speaking. You ARE a funky-tasting beverage. But I gulped down anyway, figuring your enzymes and probiotics would do me some good. After a few bottles, I started to appreciate those other ingredients with whom you were blended. Ginger, Turmeric, and Tart Cherry are a few of my favorites. These partners knock down your funk and replace it with zip and zing and pucker.

Now, as I enter my third week of gastronomic distress from a renegade chicken salad sandwich, I'm relying on your powers to refresh my intestines' ability to painlessly digest solid food. You and kefir have become the Batman and Robin in my fight against a no-joke parasite that steals my nutrition and also seems to fart a lot. Bam! Pow! Sock! Your PRObiotics dominate my gut's AMATEUR-biotics (on a good day).

You're not inexpensive, but then again, you're cheaper than beer, and we all know beer's price has never stopped me from knocking back a few. In fact, I'd be healthier and wealthier if I substituted a kombucha in place of Milwaukee's finest. (Sidebar: bars and restaurants, start offering Kombucha!)

I've become one of your biggest fans, so why do you tempt me to shake you before opening? Is this your idea of a joke? I mean, you're lightly carbonated, and we all know what happens when one shakes a carbonated beverage before opening, right? PFFFFFTTTTSSSSSHHHH!! You spray yourself everywhere. Oh sure, I often resist the temptation and gently turn and tap your sides gently first, trying to dislodge the sediment of probiotic and enzymatic goodness that lies solidified on your bottom, but it never fails: I overdo it. PFFFFFTTTTSSSSSHHHH!! Sprayed again.

Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. I'm now learning to open you first, take a drink, replace the cap, and then get jiggy with it. That seems to dislodge your good stuff at the bottom and keep the PFFFFFTTTTSSSSSHHHH!! factor to a minimum.

So anyway, keep fighting the good fight. I feel more parasitic flatulence coming on, so look up in the Gotham sky, the beacon is on. It's time for you to go to work and fight the evil-doing organisms in my belly.

Your pal,
Mike

P.S. - Any chance you've been honing your skills to take on another pesky microorganism?

Skin Cancer's No Joke

Didn't see this coming.

I made an appointment with a dermatologist because, three weeks ago, I noticed an odd little growth on the side of my head. The derm looks at it for three seconds and says, "Oh, that's nothing. That's just a something-something. It will go away on its own. Let's take a look at you while you are here. You sure are a mole-y son of a gun, aren't you?"

Anyway, after a five-to-ten-minute examination, she lets me know there is something of grave concern on my left arm. A thing that *could* be indicative of skin cancer. "We don't want to wait to have this removed," she says. "Let's get it out today."

Next thing you know, I'm under the knife and getting multilayers of stitches because she removed the malformity so deeply. Mid-slice she says, "Now, no golfing for at least a week."

So much for that late afternoon tee-time I had scheduled.

At least my mug-to-mouth ability is still intact.

Moral of the story? I'm not sure. I suppose it's to get checked out even if you don't have a growth on the side of your head. Skin cancer's no joke.

Oh, also, if you have moles that become asymmetric and/or discolored across their width (like the one in the pic), make an appointment with a dermatologist today.

I'm Totally Bummed

I'm down because of something that occurred this morning. I had an appointment to donate plasma at the Blood Center of Wisconsin and things didn't go exactly as planned. In fact, it was an abject failure and no fault of anybody.

I was one of the first appointments of the day. I arrived a few minutes before 7:45 and completed the usual preparations. Hemoglobin check, blood pressure, weight, height, and no, I have not had sexual relations with an HIV-positive prostitute since my last donation. I also answered no, too, to the all of the questions that pertain to the female gender. (This must confuse a lot of men, because every time I donate they tell me how to answer these questions in a manner that tells me these questions baffle other dudes.) I make my way to the chair and get hooked up. Made it right through the "light bee sting" pinch of the needle entering my vein. I glance over, the clear plastic tube is flooded ravishing red. I'm good to go. Just settle in and read a book for the next 30 minutes and my donation will be complete. Right? Right...

After about five minutes, Tiffany -- sweet, friendly, and cautious Tiffany -- asks me if I feel okay. Yep, I said. I'm good. Let's donate some plasma! But she said that she noticed something odd on the digital graph she was watching. I flat-lined for a moment, meaning, apparently, that stuff was either not going out or coming back properly.

She remained on standby while I kept squeezing the spongy green squeezing thingy.

Suddenly I yelped, "Ow. Oww! Owww!! OWWWWW!!!"

Everyone looks. What's with that dude?? Tiffany says I infiltrated. She shuts down the process and pulls the needle from my arm.

"Infiltrated? What the heck is that??"

She apologetically explains that it means the fluids, i.e., the red blood cells and stuff, that are being returned to my body are not reentering my vein. Instead they are being pushed into the tissues surrounding the vein. Hence the reason for the pain.

I can only describe the pain as an increasingly intense sting or pinch. Almost feeling like the needle was plunging further into my arm. Of course it wasn't, but because the flesh and nerves around the needle swelled, it probably made the needle feel larger.

She cleans me up and applies gauze. There would be no plasma donation today.

Thus, I am bummed. I went through all of the steps including the one that makes me the most woozy -- the needle insertion -- and nobody benefited. My instructions are to ice my arm and not do anything overly strenuous today. I can also expect a significant bruise on my arm.

Son of a gun. I can take the wooziness. I can take the bruise. I can take the pain. But dammit, I wanted somebody to benefit from it!

I can attempt donation again when the bruise and swelling disappear, but next time I thinking of only donating blood -- which is a one-way only process -- and skipping the plasma. Furthermore, I believe in vital fluids donation, I really do, but this is the second time in four attempts that the extraction has gone awry. It's so frustrating.

Lastly, please try to donate if you can. I was the poster boy for needle or syringe insertion panic attacks. The mere thought of it would make me woozy and I'd nearly faint, but I just kept going to overcome it. I mean, what's a little sting to save another's life? ("little sting" for a normal donation; today's donation attempt defied normal)

But I did get a free ticket to the Wisconsin State Fair! So that lessens the bum. :)

You Better Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself

I was only a Photoshop beginner when I crafted this homage of my pal, Bruce, imposed upon the late, great Bob Ross -- the creator and host of "The Joy of Painting." Being the last day of Movember -- a month dedicated to the growth of facial hair to raise awareness of men's health issues -- it was only fitting to post it before month's end. After all, Mr. Ross. passed from Lymphoma, a type of cancer that, while deadly, can have its effects mitigated if detected early.

Fellows, in good health and friendship, let's pledge to get regular checkups and indulge robustly, but smartly. It shouldn't take furry faces to make us aware of the risks that challenge our health and spirit.

For more information, visit the Movember website, whether it be the 11th month of the year or any other day, let's keep healthy.

In good health and in beer, your pal,

Mike