The New Book Disease--Literally

I just heard about a new malady that none of us would have suspected—popcorn lung. Apparently, a significant number of employees in factories that produce microwave popcorn are suffering from symptoms of being able to inhale, but having difficulty exhaling. Obviously, both functions are necessary for the process of what we technically call “breathing.” Once, on a beach vacation I came down with a sudden case of severe bronchitis. Jack went to a nearby pharmacist who recommended an over-the-counter drug that disabled me from exhaling air properly. Fortunately I wasn’t inhaling the proper amount of air either. According to another pharmacist, consulted after my less than satisfactory reaction, I could have died because the medication was for asthma, not bronchitis. Anyway, the feeling was horrifying, to say the least, and I think worse because I was at the beach on VACATION.

Researchers pinpointed the problem of popcorn lung when a man with manifest symptoms revealed that he had eaten one to two bags of microwave popcorn per day for the past ten years. However, here’s the hitch: when he opened the bag, he allowed himself the innocent pleasure of sticking his nose in the bag, inhaling deeply, and saying, “Wow, that smells great!” Apparently the permanent damage to this man’s (and the factory workers’) bronchial tubes occurred due to intake of a chemical that makes the corn pop evenly. It’s the long-term inhalation that does the trick, but it made me think about how every once in a while I like to slightly burn a bag of the stuff and the stink floats around for a few days. So don’t stick your nose in the bag and don’t have it that often.

Then I started wondering about other seemingly innocuous habits of mine. I mean I have some habits that are blatantly bad for me, but I’ve been smelling books with a full -nose plunge into the bindings since I figured out the difference between cover and pages at approximately the age of four. In fact, I just received a new dictionary from Amazon today and the first thing I did was open it up, stick my face in the pages, and sniff. That scent of new ink and paper (coated or uncoated stock provide different highs) sends a chill through me. Comic books smell wonderful (especially the old ones); the newspaper exudes its own scent, and magazines (with the exception of those obnoxious perfume samples) can be intoxicating. The smell of the old "Reader's Digest, " for example, has retained its homey aroma somehow for decades. If I get a new novel, the first thing I do is breathe deeply the gathering tome. Up to now, I thought it was one pleasure that I shouldn’t worry about, but who knows? Can't anything be okay for God's sake?! "Everything gives you cancer; There's no cure, there's no answer." (That was a song on Atlanta's old Jazz Flavours radio station.)

Possible symptoms for such wordy snortings might include any of the following:

An inability to exhale coherent sentences
A tendency to physically assault others’ reading material with one’s face
A black (or comically colored) nose
Broken and/or abused book backs
Difficulty reading due to too close contact with the page
Ink addiction

I just got a new dictionary, because I realized that my edition was ten-plus years old and that the word "lifestyle" was still listed as two words. This new dictionary has moved on and made it into one word. I’ve already smelled my new dictionary twice. Am I a print-a-holic, a paper addict, or both? Can I sue the forestry foundation or the publications industry? I don’t know where to turn, but I do know that I don’t want to be the first case of Webster’s Lung. I guess I should pursue a healthier "lifestyle."

"Inhale my new dictionary," I said to Jack, pushing it into his nostrils.

"Hmm. Smells like new words," he said.

Junkies love company.