Come with me down memory lane for a moment:
Shoals had one of those school setups where all of the kids from kindergarten through 12th grade went to school on the same piece of property, in one big complex. There was no "Westside Junior High" or "Larry Bird Elementary School" on a separate side of town feeding into the high school - there was Shoals Elementary and Shoals Junior-Senior High School.
Before the extensive remodeling and renovation they did after my graduation from there, there was a room just downstairs from the cafeteria. I don't know if it still exists, or if it met the wrecking ball when the school decided to join the 20th century (just in time for the 21st).
The room consisted of a smallish, non-regulation basketball court, a couple of locker rooms and a supply room. We had P.E. in there, and I also recall some fire safety talks being held there, not to mention dances after basketball games. When the main gym was in use by the boys varsity basketball team, this room would be where the other teams would hold practice. We also occasionally held baseball practice there. (Really.) It had a hard concrete floor and concrete walls, both conducive to concussions, as well as insulation hanging from the rafters about 20 feet in the air (conducive to mesothelioma and asbestosis, I imagine). When someone took a high-arcing jumper, it would hit the rafters and knock down some of that stringy brown insulation.
It was a room that served multiple purposes. It was called ... the Multi-Purpose Room.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
I'd rather push Gerald Ford than drive a Chevy.
This coming Tuesday is the National Day of Mourning for former President Ford. That likely means that any sort of government business will be postponed to Wednesday. It kind of puts me over a barrel, since I'm a contractor for the government and not an actual federal employee, and as such, don't receive admin leave for those days like federal employees do. I have to use a day of personal leave instead.
(An aside: It still boggles my mind that, even though I work for a defense contractor, we don't get Veteran's Day off. We're a defense contractor. WE'RE A DEFENSE CONTRACTOR. But, thankfully, if I wanted to take a floating holiday on Idi Amin's birthday, I could do that. Seriously. And I could take it for Veteran's Day, too, but that would shoot holes in my righteous indignation.)
Anyway. Before the edict came down from on high that Tuesday would be the day of mourning for Ford, there were rumors floating around to that very effect - that there would be a day next week that all of the government employees on the base where I work would likely get the day off.
Silly me - I made the joke that, since Ford only served half a term, that the government employees should only get a half a day off.
Silence.
There are some things you just don't joke about to federal employees, (chief among them being their seniority-based, not merit-based, promotion system), and one of those things is the occasional day of admin leave for things like presidents dying. It's a sacrament.
* The headline on foxnews.com the day after Ford's passing read, "America Mourns."
I think that's overstating the case a little bit. I imagine that a more appropriate headline would have been, "America Says, 'Huh.'"
Or, "America Thinks To Itself, 'That Guy Was Still Alive?'"
I confess to having both reactions.
(An aside: It still boggles my mind that, even though I work for a defense contractor, we don't get Veteran's Day off. We're a defense contractor. WE'RE A DEFENSE CONTRACTOR. But, thankfully, if I wanted to take a floating holiday on Idi Amin's birthday, I could do that. Seriously. And I could take it for Veteran's Day, too, but that would shoot holes in my righteous indignation.)
Anyway. Before the edict came down from on high that Tuesday would be the day of mourning for Ford, there were rumors floating around to that very effect - that there would be a day next week that all of the government employees on the base where I work would likely get the day off.
Silly me - I made the joke that, since Ford only served half a term, that the government employees should only get a half a day off.
Silence.
There are some things you just don't joke about to federal employees, (chief among them being their seniority-based, not merit-based, promotion system), and one of those things is the occasional day of admin leave for things like presidents dying. It's a sacrament.
* The headline on foxnews.com the day after Ford's passing read, "America Mourns."
I think that's overstating the case a little bit. I imagine that a more appropriate headline would have been, "America Says, 'Huh.'"
Or, "America Thinks To Itself, 'That Guy Was Still Alive?'"
I confess to having both reactions.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Furnace Follies.
Yesterday morning, both Wife and I separately noted the racket that our normally quiet, energy-efficient gas furnace was making. Neither of us was proactive enough to do anything about it beyond noting that it was making a rather ominous noise.
When I arrived home after work the same day, I made a note of the chill in the air and eyed the thermostat - 62 degrees. Rats.
Made a few phone calls to various heating contractors, none of whom returned the messages I left. Our normally reliable contractor didn't even have their answering machine on. So last night was spent in an ever-increasing chill. Thankfully, El Nino has made the winter generally mild thus far, and last night was no exception, though the temperature in the house had dipped to 59 by morning.
We did manage to get a call placed to our regular furnace-fixer this morning. He arrived within the hour and made a rather sad assessment: the motor to the blower had burned itself up. Swell.
Long story short, there is a new motor on order, but it's not scheduled to arrive ... till Tuesday. Argin' fargin'.
When I arrived home after work the same day, I made a note of the chill in the air and eyed the thermostat - 62 degrees. Rats.
Made a few phone calls to various heating contractors, none of whom returned the messages I left. Our normally reliable contractor didn't even have their answering machine on. So last night was spent in an ever-increasing chill. Thankfully, El Nino has made the winter generally mild thus far, and last night was no exception, though the temperature in the house had dipped to 59 by morning.
We did manage to get a call placed to our regular furnace-fixer this morning. He arrived within the hour and made a rather sad assessment: the motor to the blower had burned itself up. Swell.
Long story short, there is a new motor on order, but it's not scheduled to arrive ... till Tuesday. Argin' fargin'.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Toys (not necessarily in the attic, but in something else)
Two nights ago, I was putting some laundry in the washer. My little shadow came up behind me and said, “Tractor hot. Tractor hot.”
I thought nothing of it, really – I repeated what he said: “Tractor hot?” And he nodded. Me – I’m just proud when he strings together semi-coherent words. It doesn’t really matter if the context doesn't make sense. (After all, it’s almost winter, and we don’t own a tractor. But I'm quibbling.)
So I’m standing at the washer, minding my own business, putting the rest of the whites in. And he repeats himself and starts tugging at my pants: “Tractor hot. Daddy, tractor hot.”
“Tractor hot? Better go cool it off!” I told him.
Suddenly, my wife SPRINTS down the hallway and starts spouting obscenities like she’d just hit her toe on the end table. I find this a little odd, so I closed the lid of the washer and saunter into the kitchen. The visual inventory I took:
- One (1) chair at the kitchen counter in front of the microwave
- One (1) microwave door, open
- One (1) small metal tractor, about an inch high and two inches long, in the middle of the microwave, with semi-melted wheels
- One (1) small hay wagon, about a half-inch high and two inches long, also in the microwave
- Timer on the microwave read 1:26.
Tractor hot, indeed!
I thought nothing of it, really – I repeated what he said: “Tractor hot?” And he nodded. Me – I’m just proud when he strings together semi-coherent words. It doesn’t really matter if the context doesn't make sense. (After all, it’s almost winter, and we don’t own a tractor. But I'm quibbling.)
So I’m standing at the washer, minding my own business, putting the rest of the whites in. And he repeats himself and starts tugging at my pants: “Tractor hot. Daddy, tractor hot.”
“Tractor hot? Better go cool it off!” I told him.
Suddenly, my wife SPRINTS down the hallway and starts spouting obscenities like she’d just hit her toe on the end table. I find this a little odd, so I closed the lid of the washer and saunter into the kitchen. The visual inventory I took:
- One (1) chair at the kitchen counter in front of the microwave
- One (1) microwave door, open
- One (1) small metal tractor, about an inch high and two inches long, in the middle of the microwave, with semi-melted wheels
- One (1) small hay wagon, about a half-inch high and two inches long, also in the microwave
- Timer on the microwave read 1:26.
Tractor hot, indeed!
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Monday, December 18, 2006
My son's first swear word.
There exists an anti-Disney bias in our house, mostly perpetuated by me. In the great Warner Bros. vs. Disney debate, I come down firmly on the side of Bugs Bunny, Yosemite Sam, Wile E. Coyote et al. (Although if I never saw a Tweety Bird cartoon again, it'd still be too soon.) I have little use for most of the cartoon characters that Disney created. I like screwball humor; I don't like "cute," and as such, I have a preference for "Merrie Melodies" over "Silly Symphonies."
***
Tonight, one of my tasks upon getting home was to go upstairs, bring down about 6 rolls of wrapping paper and various other yuletide detritus. I managed to bring it all down in one trip, and Son was there to help once I got to the bottom of the stairs. We tossed it all in the recliner, and I came into the office to do some work.
I didn't notice this at the time I brought it down, but one of the unopened rolls of wrapping paper, much to my eternal chagrin, had a Disney Christmas motif on it, upon which the various WD characters were posed in various Christmas scenes. I suppose it got picked up by accident at a past day-after-Christmas sale, at which you can pick up wrapping paper and other gifting items for pennies on the dollar.
Son brings me the roll of Disney wrapping paper, points to a character on it and says, "Mee Mouse?"
"Mickey Mouse?" I said to him.
He nodded happily.
"WHERE DID YOU LEARN TO SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT?"
***
Tonight, one of my tasks upon getting home was to go upstairs, bring down about 6 rolls of wrapping paper and various other yuletide detritus. I managed to bring it all down in one trip, and Son was there to help once I got to the bottom of the stairs. We tossed it all in the recliner, and I came into the office to do some work.
I didn't notice this at the time I brought it down, but one of the unopened rolls of wrapping paper, much to my eternal chagrin, had a Disney Christmas motif on it, upon which the various WD characters were posed in various Christmas scenes. I suppose it got picked up by accident at a past day-after-Christmas sale, at which you can pick up wrapping paper and other gifting items for pennies on the dollar.
Son brings me the roll of Disney wrapping paper, points to a character on it and says, "Mee Mouse?"
"Mickey Mouse?" I said to him.
He nodded happily.
"WHERE DID YOU LEARN TO SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT?"
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Sickness (redux).
Uh-oh.
Today’s been a little more of a struggle than I would have liked. You know how, just before the flu manifests itself into full-blown mode in your body, there is a faint achy haze emanating from your bones and enveloping everything around you? That’s what Tuesday’s felt like.
I can’t decide if it’s actually illness, or if it’s because it’s cold and rainy out and I left my coat at home because it was supposed to be in the 50s today. I can’t decide if the aching is due to American influenza settling into my body, or that old car-wreck injury I aggravated this weekend by sneezing. I’m no hypochondriac, but I fear that it’s the former, seeing as how I didn’t hurt my hands in my accident some three years ago, and they dully ache. (Not to mention duly.)
I’m going to go home tonight and have a cup of Airborne, with a side of Airborne. Too little, too late, I'm sure.
Because our son got out of his routine over the last five days - staying home with me last Thursday and Friday, going to my mom's yesterday - this morning's fight to get him ready for daycare was a spirited one, for he is a spirited little 2-year-old. I guess we're back to square one as far as his eagerness to spend his days at the daycare (or "school," as we sometimes call it) is concerned. Wonderful!
Today’s been a little more of a struggle than I would have liked. You know how, just before the flu manifests itself into full-blown mode in your body, there is a faint achy haze emanating from your bones and enveloping everything around you? That’s what Tuesday’s felt like.
I can’t decide if it’s actually illness, or if it’s because it’s cold and rainy out and I left my coat at home because it was supposed to be in the 50s today. I can’t decide if the aching is due to American influenza settling into my body, or that old car-wreck injury I aggravated this weekend by sneezing. I’m no hypochondriac, but I fear that it’s the former, seeing as how I didn’t hurt my hands in my accident some three years ago, and they dully ache. (Not to mention duly.)
I’m going to go home tonight and have a cup of Airborne, with a side of Airborne. Too little, too late, I'm sure.
Because our son got out of his routine over the last five days - staying home with me last Thursday and Friday, going to my mom's yesterday - this morning's fight to get him ready for daycare was a spirited one, for he is a spirited little 2-year-old. I guess we're back to square one as far as his eagerness to spend his days at the daycare (or "school," as we sometimes call it) is concerned. Wonderful!
Yes, but was there milk in the toes?
Dumbest quote in this article – and I’m no expert on pit bulls, having never owned one because I value my limbs and appendages too much, but I think that they’re not as gentle and peaceful as their owners tend to say:
"This puppy might have been trying to nurse on the toes of this baby," veterinarian Michael Dale speculated.
Which begs the question: Are animals smart (as their defenders and my mom believe), or mindblowingly retarded (as the “nursing on the toes of this baby” comment might suggest)? Cause, you know, you can’t have it both ways. Either they can reproduce the history’s great works of art or Edison’s myriad inventions, or they are dumb. (That was, of course, a blanket statement about animals that I don’t really believe, but I’m just trying to prove a point. Humans, after all, aren't either smart or not. There are shades of dumbness.)
Oh, and before you ask, “Where were the parents?” – they were sleeping nearby on a mattress on the living room floor. Hippies and pitbulls don’t mix!
"This puppy might have been trying to nurse on the toes of this baby," veterinarian Michael Dale speculated.
Which begs the question: Are animals smart (as their defenders and my mom believe), or mindblowingly retarded (as the “nursing on the toes of this baby” comment might suggest)? Cause, you know, you can’t have it both ways. Either they can reproduce the history’s great works of art or Edison’s myriad inventions, or they are dumb. (That was, of course, a blanket statement about animals that I don’t really believe, but I’m just trying to prove a point. Humans, after all, aren't either smart or not. There are shades of dumbness.)
Oh, and before you ask, “Where were the parents?” – they were sleeping nearby on a mattress on the living room floor. Hippies and pitbulls don’t mix!
I'll have to reign you in if you loose again!
Local media roundup:
The secret lovechild that Wes Unseld and Donald Rumsfeld don’t want you to know about: “Donald Rumseld.” Nice work, Washington Times-Herald!
Minus 5 points to the Bedford Times-Mail’s Bob Bridge for getting on the “Michigan got screwed” bandwagon about a week after most sportswriters. Plus 100 points to the Bedford Times-Mail’s Bob Bridge for using the phrase “shot its wad” in said article.
The Evansville Courier had an Onion-sidebar-worthy headline splashed across the front page of its print edition this past Sunday: “Report: Trouble ahead.” Oh, pleasepleaseplease let it be on their website …….. yes!
Newspaper writes headline: In an effort to convey as little specific information as possible at a glance, the Seymour Tribune continues its long tradition of high-school-newspaper-level “Subject-verb-object” headlines.
A warning to all parents of teenage boys in Jackson County: Tell your sons to stay away from those Crothersville girls – they’re “fast”! I expect the next headline about them to read “Crothersville girls loose.” Will it mean they’re "fast," “relaxed and ready to go,” or would it actually mean that they lost, but the headline writer confused “lose” and “loose”? (Bonus points to the author of the article linked in the last sentence: he not only used “loose” twice when he meant “lose,” but he also said “… leadership must be reigned in.” A two-fer!)
“Hey, man, you drop a 302 into that Metro?”: Speaking of fast teens, the Indy Star reports that a police clocked a Valparaiso teenager at 142 mph. As a teen, I once did 80 in my mom’s Ford Escort, going downhill with a tailwind. Andy Granatelli would have been so proud.
The secret lovechild that Wes Unseld and Donald Rumsfeld don’t want you to know about: “Donald Rumseld.” Nice work, Washington Times-Herald!
Minus 5 points to the Bedford Times-Mail’s Bob Bridge for getting on the “Michigan got screwed” bandwagon about a week after most sportswriters. Plus 100 points to the Bedford Times-Mail’s Bob Bridge for using the phrase “shot its wad” in said article.
The Evansville Courier had an Onion-sidebar-worthy headline splashed across the front page of its print edition this past Sunday: “Report: Trouble ahead.” Oh, pleasepleaseplease let it be on their website …….. yes!
Newspaper writes headline: In an effort to convey as little specific information as possible at a glance, the Seymour Tribune continues its long tradition of high-school-newspaper-level “Subject-verb-object” headlines.
A warning to all parents of teenage boys in Jackson County: Tell your sons to stay away from those Crothersville girls – they’re “fast”! I expect the next headline about them to read “Crothersville girls loose.” Will it mean they’re "fast," “relaxed and ready to go,” or would it actually mean that they lost, but the headline writer confused “lose” and “loose”? (Bonus points to the author of the article linked in the last sentence: he not only used “loose” twice when he meant “lose,” but he also said “… leadership must be reigned in.” A two-fer!)
“Hey, man, you drop a 302 into that Metro?”: Speaking of fast teens, the Indy Star reports that a police clocked a Valparaiso teenager at 142 mph. As a teen, I once did 80 in my mom’s Ford Escort, going downhill with a tailwind. Andy Granatelli would have been so proud.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
I never met a day I didn't like ...
... though today hasn't been one I'll exchange Christmas cards with in the future.
Insignificant: At one point yesterday, had my arms up over my head while trying to put some plastic sheeting up over the windows in the boy's room. Sneezed. Threw something out of whack between my neck and shoulderblade. It hurt momentarily, but I forgot all about it till this morning, when I stepped out of the shower and was drying off. I haven't forgotten about it since then. It's a remnant of a car-wreck injury I had a few years ago.
Insignificant: The Colts made the Jaguars look like one of those high-school wing-T offenses that rushes for about 7,000 yards a game. I don't know why Jax even bothered suiting up QB David Garrard. These are your Super Bowl-contending Colts? Bah - they're barely playoff-worthy at this point. A crash course in the basics of, you know, TACKLING would be opportune before Indy's fanbase should even consider their team playing deep into January.
Significant: The boy was sick all weekend. After sleeping for about 14 hours last night and this morning, we thought he had it licked; he was up bouncing around this morning with a 98 temperature, and we were certain the worst had passed. As a special treat for his courage and bravery in the face of those nasty teeth poking through his gums and making his life generally unhappy for the last week, I drove to town to snag some McDonald's hash browns for him, as well as breakfast for my wife (for her courage and bravery in continuing to be married to me).
When I returned home, my wife said, "We need to run to the doctor. He just threw up." Swell.
Long story short, the fever detailed in my previous post did not stem, as originally suspected, from his teeth, but rather some unnamed viral infection that really didn't manifest itself in any other way besides the low-grade fever, as well as a rash that showed up on his face between home and the pediatrician's. Our daycare had warned of fever, diarrhea, vomiting and chest congestion being present in some of the kids there last week, but since Son showed none of those symptoms (save for the fever), and we could see his back teeth poking through at long last, we were confident that we'd dodged that threat. On what medical basis we made this assessment, I'm not clear.
Anyway, the pediatrician gave him a suppository for the vomiting, and gave us one extra to administer in case he threw up again. But all's well that ends well, we think; at the very least, he didn't throw up again, and was acting more like himself as the day wore on.
(I offered to stay home with him tomorrow if my wife would be on suppository detail today, but no dice.)
Insignificant: At one point yesterday, had my arms up over my head while trying to put some plastic sheeting up over the windows in the boy's room. Sneezed. Threw something out of whack between my neck and shoulderblade. It hurt momentarily, but I forgot all about it till this morning, when I stepped out of the shower and was drying off. I haven't forgotten about it since then. It's a remnant of a car-wreck injury I had a few years ago.
Insignificant: The Colts made the Jaguars look like one of those high-school wing-T offenses that rushes for about 7,000 yards a game. I don't know why Jax even bothered suiting up QB David Garrard. These are your Super Bowl-contending Colts? Bah - they're barely playoff-worthy at this point. A crash course in the basics of, you know, TACKLING would be opportune before Indy's fanbase should even consider their team playing deep into January.
Significant: The boy was sick all weekend. After sleeping for about 14 hours last night and this morning, we thought he had it licked; he was up bouncing around this morning with a 98 temperature, and we were certain the worst had passed. As a special treat for his courage and bravery in the face of those nasty teeth poking through his gums and making his life generally unhappy for the last week, I drove to town to snag some McDonald's hash browns for him, as well as breakfast for my wife (for her courage and bravery in continuing to be married to me).
When I returned home, my wife said, "We need to run to the doctor. He just threw up." Swell.
Long story short, the fever detailed in my previous post did not stem, as originally suspected, from his teeth, but rather some unnamed viral infection that really didn't manifest itself in any other way besides the low-grade fever, as well as a rash that showed up on his face between home and the pediatrician's. Our daycare had warned of fever, diarrhea, vomiting and chest congestion being present in some of the kids there last week, but since Son showed none of those symptoms (save for the fever), and we could see his back teeth poking through at long last, we were confident that we'd dodged that threat. On what medical basis we made this assessment, I'm not clear.
Anyway, the pediatrician gave him a suppository for the vomiting, and gave us one extra to administer in case he threw up again. But all's well that ends well, we think; at the very least, he didn't throw up again, and was acting more like himself as the day wore on.
(I offered to stay home with him tomorrow if my wife would be on suppository detail today, but no dice.)
Friday, December 08, 2006
Sickness.
Stayed home with the boy today. He woke up around 1 last evening just when I was up getting a bottle of water: "Daddy! I wake up!"
I sat in the living room with him - he requested to watch football on TV (again, it makes my heart swell) - when I noticed that he was a bit warm. I took his temperature under his arm. 99.5. (Add a degree for taking his temperature under his arm, and that brought his real temperature to 100.5. Crap. And football? Well, NFL Network was replaying the Titans-Colts game from this past Sunday. Crap again.)
After they replayed Bironas' game-clinching 60-yarder (yep, he hit it again - crap again), I started to snooze in the chair when Son got up and asked me to come lay down with him in his room. I obliged. We fell asleep to Thomas The Pain Train on the TV in his room.
Wife came to the bedroom door around 4:30 and woke me up; Son had crawled into bed in our room. "He wants Daddy," she said.
Crap again. His bed is so much more comfy than ours. Alas, I got up and went to our room.
He still felt warm when my alarm went off at 5:15. I laid there awake for awhile, dozed off once more, then woke up again at 6:30. His fever hadn't broken, so I called all of the people I have to call - the 4 people I have to report my absence to at work, plus the new daycare, the owner of which informed me that she had sent another child home yesterday with a 103 fever, diarrhea, vomiting and the creeping croup in his chest.
Oh no.
Fortunately, none of the other symptoms manifested themselves over the course of the day, though Son's temperature did creep up to the mid-102s about late afternoon. The fever can most likely be attributed to his back teeth finally starting to come in (seeing as how he's been complaining about his mouth hurting the last few days), as opposed to the exotic germ laboratory that exists when you put together a bunch of small children in a daycare.
I sat in the living room with him - he requested to watch football on TV (again, it makes my heart swell) - when I noticed that he was a bit warm. I took his temperature under his arm. 99.5. (Add a degree for taking his temperature under his arm, and that brought his real temperature to 100.5. Crap. And football? Well, NFL Network was replaying the Titans-Colts game from this past Sunday. Crap again.)
After they replayed Bironas' game-clinching 60-yarder (yep, he hit it again - crap again), I started to snooze in the chair when Son got up and asked me to come lay down with him in his room. I obliged. We fell asleep to Thomas The Pain Train on the TV in his room.
Wife came to the bedroom door around 4:30 and woke me up; Son had crawled into bed in our room. "He wants Daddy," she said.
Crap again. His bed is so much more comfy than ours. Alas, I got up and went to our room.
He still felt warm when my alarm went off at 5:15. I laid there awake for awhile, dozed off once more, then woke up again at 6:30. His fever hadn't broken, so I called all of the people I have to call - the 4 people I have to report my absence to at work, plus the new daycare, the owner of which informed me that she had sent another child home yesterday with a 103 fever, diarrhea, vomiting and the creeping croup in his chest.
Oh no.
Fortunately, none of the other symptoms manifested themselves over the course of the day, though Son's temperature did creep up to the mid-102s about late afternoon. The fever can most likely be attributed to his back teeth finally starting to come in (seeing as how he's been complaining about his mouth hurting the last few days), as opposed to the exotic germ laboratory that exists when you put together a bunch of small children in a daycare.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
The loss of a generation.
It's with a twinge of sadness that I read this story about the survivors of Pearl Harbor meeting for likely the last time at the site where almost 2,400 died 65 years ago today.
Couple that with the rash of recent stories about the last surviving veterans of World War I - there are fewer than 15 left - and you start to feel an emptiness, a sense that we are beginning to witness America's golden age disappear into history. In some 25-30 years, we'll see the last of the surviving WWII vets pass on, followed shortly thereafter by the last of the Korean War vets.
And that'll be it. Our last links to a different time and place will be dust. The '60s brought about a change in the perception of how and why wars are fought; the rise of a supposedly "loyal" opposition made Vietnam and all future wars greatly controversial and unpopular. Hanoi Jane, "No Blood For Oil!", Cindy Sheehan ... it's nearly impossible to consider that the whole mess of them could have thrived during the Great Wars and Police Actions of the 20th century. But we're hellbent on giving them "equal time" in the media, and people who are soft of mind and spirit look at them and say, "You know? They've got a point! End Bush's illegal war!"
I don't doubt that there existed an opposition to the wars in the first half of the 20th century, and not just among Quakers. Regardless, I'd hate to imagine how a "loyal" opposition would have undermined those efforts if it had at its disposal in those days the means of communicating its messages that exist today.
Anyway, I'm off-topic. The point is this: Please take a moment today to consider what happened in Hawaii 65 years ago.
May God bless all of those who served their country.
Couple that with the rash of recent stories about the last surviving veterans of World War I - there are fewer than 15 left - and you start to feel an emptiness, a sense that we are beginning to witness America's golden age disappear into history. In some 25-30 years, we'll see the last of the surviving WWII vets pass on, followed shortly thereafter by the last of the Korean War vets.
And that'll be it. Our last links to a different time and place will be dust. The '60s brought about a change in the perception of how and why wars are fought; the rise of a supposedly "loyal" opposition made Vietnam and all future wars greatly controversial and unpopular. Hanoi Jane, "No Blood For Oil!", Cindy Sheehan ... it's nearly impossible to consider that the whole mess of them could have thrived during the Great Wars and Police Actions of the 20th century. But we're hellbent on giving them "equal time" in the media, and people who are soft of mind and spirit look at them and say, "You know? They've got a point! End Bush's illegal war!"
I don't doubt that there existed an opposition to the wars in the first half of the 20th century, and not just among Quakers. Regardless, I'd hate to imagine how a "loyal" opposition would have undermined those efforts if it had at its disposal in those days the means of communicating its messages that exist today.
Anyway, I'm off-topic. The point is this: Please take a moment today to consider what happened in Hawaii 65 years ago.
May God bless all of those who served their country.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Meet the new daycare, same as the old daycare? No.
Day 1 at the new daycare went remarkably well, thanks for asking.
It didn't start that way, by any stretch. The routine used to be (used to be, mind you) that Wife would transport our son from his bed directly to his car seat, where he would be whisked in style to the sitter's house some 45 minutes away.
No longer.
Thanks to our new daycare's rules, he is to be dressed and ready for the day when he arrives in the morning. It now falls on me to get him ready in the mornings, and he was acutely aware this morning of the change in the routine. I pulled him out of bed and put him on the changing table, changing his diaper and putting his shirt, pants and shoes on him. He knew something was up, because he immediately started saying, "Daddy's house." (That is to say, "If it is all the same with you, dear Father, I would prefer to stay here and spend the day playing with you." If he only knew that I would prefer the same.)
I tried to put his jacket on him, and he fought me. I promised him something – I don't recall what it was at this point – and he acquiesced, allowing me to slide his jacket on.
The 10-minute trip to the daycare was uneventful, save for the sight of a couple of deer alongside the road. Once we arrived, however, he began to struggle some more. "Daddy's house! Daddy's house!" He began crying as I tried to gather up his belongings for leave-behind at the daycare. We made it inside, and as much as the new sitter tried to put him at ease, he continued screamed bloody murder, at an even louder volume when I went out the door. I think a little bit of me died there – this is the first time I've ever had to leave him behind somewhere (besides with family).
The end of the day, however, brought about a 180-degree change in attitude. Son had a great time today playing with some new friends, and he was looking as content as could be when I arrived to pick him up. He was quite thrilled to see me, and didn't fight leaving at all (as I had feared he would).
We laughed and talked all the way home. We got behind a school bus (a big thrill for him) and he would narrate the bus' activities as well as the sights along the road. "School bus down hill! Daddy down hill! Dozer! Tractor! Horsie! School bus up hill! School bus out!" (he would say when it would stop to let kids off).
Later on, I asked him if he wanted to go back to the daycare tomorrow. "No," he'd reply. "Daddy's house."
It didn't start that way, by any stretch. The routine used to be (used to be, mind you) that Wife would transport our son from his bed directly to his car seat, where he would be whisked in style to the sitter's house some 45 minutes away.
No longer.
Thanks to our new daycare's rules, he is to be dressed and ready for the day when he arrives in the morning. It now falls on me to get him ready in the mornings, and he was acutely aware this morning of the change in the routine. I pulled him out of bed and put him on the changing table, changing his diaper and putting his shirt, pants and shoes on him. He knew something was up, because he immediately started saying, "Daddy's house." (That is to say, "If it is all the same with you, dear Father, I would prefer to stay here and spend the day playing with you." If he only knew that I would prefer the same.)
I tried to put his jacket on him, and he fought me. I promised him something – I don't recall what it was at this point – and he acquiesced, allowing me to slide his jacket on.
The 10-minute trip to the daycare was uneventful, save for the sight of a couple of deer alongside the road. Once we arrived, however, he began to struggle some more. "Daddy's house! Daddy's house!" He began crying as I tried to gather up his belongings for leave-behind at the daycare. We made it inside, and as much as the new sitter tried to put him at ease, he continued screamed bloody murder, at an even louder volume when I went out the door. I think a little bit of me died there – this is the first time I've ever had to leave him behind somewhere (besides with family).
The end of the day, however, brought about a 180-degree change in attitude. Son had a great time today playing with some new friends, and he was looking as content as could be when I arrived to pick him up. He was quite thrilled to see me, and didn't fight leaving at all (as I had feared he would).
We laughed and talked all the way home. We got behind a school bus (a big thrill for him) and he would narrate the bus' activities as well as the sights along the road. "School bus down hill! Daddy down hill! Dozer! Tractor! Horsie! School bus up hill! School bus out!" (he would say when it would stop to let kids off).
Later on, I asked him if he wanted to go back to the daycare tomorrow. "No," he'd reply. "Daddy's house."
Crimes Against Babysitting.
Tomorrow morning, our son goes to a new daycare. We're all very nervous and scared and excited - except for our son, who right now is treating tonight like any other.
It takes a certain level of trust to leave your pride and joy with strangers - a fact that had not hit me until the last week or so, when it became apparent that a change in child care was due.
While I was constitutionally required to call our now-former babysitter a "saint" for her deeds during the time our son was in her care, the fact that she is listed in the line above as "now-former" gets me off the hook. Besides, she wasn't my friend in the first place - she was my wife's. So I don't have a whole lot of interest in continuing to figuratively blow smoke up her butt.
Although I'm grateful for all that she did - especially on the cheap - I don't think I'm talking out of turn when I state that our child care situation could have been better over the last two-plus years. Many times, especially recently, we were left scurrying for a backup on short notice. And our son was the only child she watched (other than her own), which led to being regaled with stories about "your son did this" and "your son did that" (i.e., showing favoritism toward her own children). Which is to be expected, I suppose - a lot of parents have a sort of tunnel vision that shields their eyes from any wrongdoing on the part of their children. I don't doubt that the boy can do some fairly mean things when he wants to - after all, he has my wife's temper - but I don't really think he did them in a vacuum, you know?
At any rate, tomorrow begins a new era in his child care; hopefully we'll be able to stick with this daycare (an actual, licensed daycare where there won't be any favoritism toward the other kids! No stairs where he'll slide down them on his stomach and get carpet burns on his knee! etc. etc. etc.) until he reaches school age. My fingers are crossed, anyway, and if you get a second, if you could cross yours for me as well, I'd really appreciate it.
It takes a certain level of trust to leave your pride and joy with strangers - a fact that had not hit me until the last week or so, when it became apparent that a change in child care was due.
While I was constitutionally required to call our now-former babysitter a "saint" for her deeds during the time our son was in her care, the fact that she is listed in the line above as "now-former" gets me off the hook. Besides, she wasn't my friend in the first place - she was my wife's. So I don't have a whole lot of interest in continuing to figuratively blow smoke up her butt.
Although I'm grateful for all that she did - especially on the cheap - I don't think I'm talking out of turn when I state that our child care situation could have been better over the last two-plus years. Many times, especially recently, we were left scurrying for a backup on short notice. And our son was the only child she watched (other than her own), which led to being regaled with stories about "your son did this" and "your son did that" (i.e., showing favoritism toward her own children). Which is to be expected, I suppose - a lot of parents have a sort of tunnel vision that shields their eyes from any wrongdoing on the part of their children. I don't doubt that the boy can do some fairly mean things when he wants to - after all, he has my wife's temper - but I don't really think he did them in a vacuum, you know?
At any rate, tomorrow begins a new era in his child care; hopefully we'll be able to stick with this daycare (an actual, licensed daycare where there won't be any favoritism toward the other kids! No stairs where he'll slide down them on his stomach and get carpet burns on his knee! etc. etc. etc.) until he reaches school age. My fingers are crossed, anyway, and if you get a second, if you could cross yours for me as well, I'd really appreciate it.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Need some help, please!
I've got a stack of old 78s that I am selling on eBay, and a series of German records that I'm selling has me buffaloed. I turn to you, who I believe are the smartest readers in the world, for help.
I've usually been able to discern the age of the record by putting the label information into my favorite search engine and pulling the recording information that way ... but with these, despite the fact that most of them are on Columbia, I've had no luck.
The records are:
Columbia 5015-F - Bauern-Kapelle - "Kelfelver"/"Trompetenlander"
Columbia E-9005 - Pfalzer Strassenmusikanten - "Zecherfreuden Polka"/"Irma Walzer"
Columbia 5061-F - Franz Niernsee - "Mein Leibjodler"/"Erzherzog Johann Jodler"
Jumbola 1392/1393 - Theodor Peter - "A Lustigi Jasspartie"/"Der Wunderdoktor"
All I am looking for is date of recording for each of these songs. Any information you can provide would be extra-useful.
Any German record aficionados out there?
I've usually been able to discern the age of the record by putting the label information into my favorite search engine and pulling the recording information that way ... but with these, despite the fact that most of them are on Columbia, I've had no luck.
The records are:
Columbia 5015-F - Bauern-Kapelle - "Kelfelver"/"Trompetenlander"
Columbia E-9005 - Pfalzer Strassenmusikanten - "Zecherfreuden Polka"/"Irma Walzer"
Columbia 5061-F - Franz Niernsee - "Mein Leibjodler"/"Erzherzog Johann Jodler"
Jumbola 1392/1393 - Theodor Peter - "A Lustigi Jasspartie"/"Der Wunderdoktor"
All I am looking for is date of recording for each of these songs. Any information you can provide would be extra-useful.
Any German record aficionados out there?
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Psyche Snapshot: my favorite Pollard songs
(self-indulgent listmaking)
For anyone who cares – and I can think of only one who might – this snapshot of my psyche reveals my 30 current favorite Guided by Voices/Robert Pollard songs. Numbers 1-7 or so are fairly constant – ask me again in a month and I’ll reveal those same 7, probably in that order.
This is, of course, completely subjective, so if I’m a tool for not including “I Am A Scientist” or “Time Machines” (rats, I forgot “Time Machines”), then you’re a tool for bringing it up. Start your own blog and make your own list.
Enjoy.
1. Game of Pricks
2. Buzzards & Dreadful Crows
3. Smothered in Hugs
4. Echos Myron
5. Psychic Pilot Clocks Out
6. Huffman Prairie Flying Field
7. I Am A Tree
8. Don’t Stop Now
9. Wished I Was A Giant
10. The Brides Have Hit Glass
11. Hardcore UFOs
12. I’m A Widow
13. Color of My Blade
14. Picture Me Big Time
15. Shocker in Gloomtown
16. Systems Crash
17. Bally Hoo
18. Subtle Gear Shifting
19. Island Crimes
20. Back to Saturn X
21. Everyday
22. Over the Neptune/Mesh Gear Fox
23. Crocker’s Favorite Song
24. Supernatural Car Lover
25. (I’ll Name You) The Flame That Cries
26. Mr. Japan
27. Towers and Landslides
28. June Salutes You!
29. Accidental Texas Who
30. Blatant Doom Trip
(Most egregious omissions: the aforementioned "Time Machines," "Subspace Biographies.")
For anyone who cares – and I can think of only one who might – this snapshot of my psyche reveals my 30 current favorite Guided by Voices/Robert Pollard songs. Numbers 1-7 or so are fairly constant – ask me again in a month and I’ll reveal those same 7, probably in that order.
This is, of course, completely subjective, so if I’m a tool for not including “I Am A Scientist” or “Time Machines” (rats, I forgot “Time Machines”), then you’re a tool for bringing it up. Start your own blog and make your own list.
Enjoy.
1. Game of Pricks
2. Buzzards & Dreadful Crows
3. Smothered in Hugs
4. Echos Myron
5. Psychic Pilot Clocks Out
6. Huffman Prairie Flying Field
7. I Am A Tree
8. Don’t Stop Now
9. Wished I Was A Giant
10. The Brides Have Hit Glass
11. Hardcore UFOs
12. I’m A Widow
13. Color of My Blade
14. Picture Me Big Time
15. Shocker in Gloomtown
16. Systems Crash
17. Bally Hoo
18. Subtle Gear Shifting
19. Island Crimes
20. Back to Saturn X
21. Everyday
22. Over the Neptune/Mesh Gear Fox
23. Crocker’s Favorite Song
24. Supernatural Car Lover
25. (I’ll Name You) The Flame That Cries
26. Mr. Japan
27. Towers and Landslides
28. June Salutes You!
29. Accidental Texas Who
30. Blatant Doom Trip
(Most egregious omissions: the aforementioned "Time Machines," "Subspace Biographies.")
Child update.
"How's the boy?" you ask.
He's well. He's 2 1/2 now. This is a really special time, because he is learning so much every day. He's really a sweet little boy, and I hate to think that in future years, he'll be corrupted by the world and by other kids. Regardless, I cherish these times greatly. Three snippets that may or may not provide insight into our day-to-day:
He loves Thomas the Pain Train. We put one of his Thomas DVDs into the player and set it to "extended babysitter version" (continuous play), and he seems to be pretty content. "Choo-choo!" he'll say.
Last weekend, some football game was on, and he came into the living room, looked at the TV, and said, "Football!" My heart swelled.
Last evening, I was giving him a bath, and he would take a plastic bowl, fill it with water, then ask me if I wanted chocolate milk. He asks this by saying, "Chocolate milk?" I say, "Sure!" He goes, "oooOOOO-K!", pretends that the soap suds are chocolate powder, then scoops some into the bowl, "mixes" the concoction, then pours some into my cupped hands. "More?" he asks hopefully. "Yes, please!" I reply. And the scene repeats itself.
I'll try to think back on these times when he's yelling at me for not letting him have a cell phone when he's 12.
He's well. He's 2 1/2 now. This is a really special time, because he is learning so much every day. He's really a sweet little boy, and I hate to think that in future years, he'll be corrupted by the world and by other kids. Regardless, I cherish these times greatly. Three snippets that may or may not provide insight into our day-to-day:
He loves Thomas the Pain Train. We put one of his Thomas DVDs into the player and set it to "extended babysitter version" (continuous play), and he seems to be pretty content. "Choo-choo!" he'll say.
Last weekend, some football game was on, and he came into the living room, looked at the TV, and said, "Football!" My heart swelled.
Last evening, I was giving him a bath, and he would take a plastic bowl, fill it with water, then ask me if I wanted chocolate milk. He asks this by saying, "Chocolate milk?" I say, "Sure!" He goes, "oooOOOO-K!", pretends that the soap suds are chocolate powder, then scoops some into the bowl, "mixes" the concoction, then pours some into my cupped hands. "More?" he asks hopefully. "Yes, please!" I reply. And the scene repeats itself.
I'll try to think back on these times when he's yelling at me for not letting him have a cell phone when he's 12.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Here's what I think of your retirement gift!
Dang, I love the Seymour Tribune’s website. I’ve detailed in the past their overzealous use of the acronym “SOB” when talking about a sexually-oriented business that was started in Uniontown.
In the screen capture below, the Tribune details in loving detail the end result of a Seymour school librarian’s gratitude toward the student body for … well, you just have to read the caption and compare it with the obviously incorrect picture, which appears that McIntosh was … errrr … decidedly less than grateful.
“Here’s what I think of your golden leaves!” McIntosh was rumored to say while loading them into the shredder truck. “35 years and all those little shits give me is a golden leaf. A golden fucking leaf! Thanks a million for 35 years, assholes! I can't exactly take this shit to the casino, can I? 'Here, I'd like to cash in this golden leaf for $100 in chips.' NO! I don't think it works like that, fuckers!"
In the screen capture below, the Tribune details in loving detail the end result of a Seymour school librarian’s gratitude toward the student body for … well, you just have to read the caption and compare it with the obviously incorrect picture, which appears that McIntosh was … errrr … decidedly less than grateful.
“Here’s what I think of your golden leaves!” McIntosh was rumored to say while loading them into the shredder truck. “35 years and all those little shits give me is a golden leaf. A golden fucking leaf! Thanks a million for 35 years, assholes! I can't exactly take this shit to the casino, can I? 'Here, I'd like to cash in this golden leaf for $100 in chips.' NO! I don't think it works like that, fuckers!"
Thursday, November 16, 2006
March of the Pansies:
The yelling over the recent Bob Knight non-incident continues unabated.
MSNBC's Keith Olbermann was formerly a respected newsreader on ESPN before he decided to try his hand at real news and become the joke of the industry. Never missing an opportunity to make an ass of himself, he awarded Knight his nightly "Worst Person in the World" honor. On the other hand, Olbermann's program gets the worst ratings in the world, so it's not as though people are paying attention to him.
The Knight story was like a kick in the ovaries to FoxSports.com's Jeff Goodman.
This blogger - I don't know what the hell this blogger is all about. I can say with confidence that the future of Knight-centric journalism is in good hands, what with the ad hominem attacks and outright lies that his post "Bob Knight ... Need I Say More?" contains. I'd like him to detail Knight's "extreme violence" (!) - especially, but not limited to, that "toward opposing players." (!!!) Moreover, I can also point out that plagiarism is still alive and well, seeing as how the blogger lifted directly the AP-created list of Knight "controversies" that I linked to a couple of days ago, and passed it off as his own. Nice work!
The Chicago Sun-Times' Jay Mariotti stepped into the restroom for a moment, powdered up and shat out this masterpiece, in which he opens with, "Sorry to oppose the twisted mentality of his nationwide defense team ..." The arrogance of the media is astounding, and no finer example exists than in that line. You know why he has a "nationwide defense team," Jay? Because they're all common folks just like me, and they're tired of the constant haranguing of Knight in the media - and you're the media, Jay, given your position at the Sun-Times and frequent appearances on ESPN's "Around The Horn." This isn't Jay Mariotti's one-man crusade against Knight - this is Jay Marriotti in an echo chamber, part of a big sportswriter circle-jerk.
Meanwhile, Sports Illustrated's Phil Taylor adds absolutely nothing to the argument other than to drag out the tired old timeworn "bully" argument. In case you weren't aware that he thinks Knight is a bully, he titled his article, "A Big Bully." You can expect that later, Taylor will pen a thought-provoking piece titled "9/11 Was Bad."
Really, I could go on and on. But you get the gist. Sports journalists, many of whom couldn't cut it covering real news but are still inspired by the ghosts of Woodward and Bernstein, turn to the sports world for targets to pursue. A lot of them are bitter, failed ex-athletes who got cut from their junior varsity wrestling team because they just weren't tough enough, and they've held a grudge against men like Coach Knight ever since. Sure, there are some good sportswriters - usually the ones without agendas are the ones you can trust - but by and large, you can post a dozen of them on eBay and still not get a dollar out of them.
MSNBC's Keith Olbermann was formerly a respected newsreader on ESPN before he decided to try his hand at real news and become the joke of the industry. Never missing an opportunity to make an ass of himself, he awarded Knight his nightly "Worst Person in the World" honor. On the other hand, Olbermann's program gets the worst ratings in the world, so it's not as though people are paying attention to him.
The Knight story was like a kick in the ovaries to FoxSports.com's Jeff Goodman.
This blogger - I don't know what the hell this blogger is all about. I can say with confidence that the future of Knight-centric journalism is in good hands, what with the ad hominem attacks and outright lies that his post "Bob Knight ... Need I Say More?" contains. I'd like him to detail Knight's "extreme violence" (!) - especially, but not limited to, that "toward opposing players." (!!!) Moreover, I can also point out that plagiarism is still alive and well, seeing as how the blogger lifted directly the AP-created list of Knight "controversies" that I linked to a couple of days ago, and passed it off as his own. Nice work!
The Chicago Sun-Times' Jay Mariotti stepped into the restroom for a moment, powdered up and shat out this masterpiece, in which he opens with, "Sorry to oppose the twisted mentality of his nationwide defense team ..." The arrogance of the media is astounding, and no finer example exists than in that line. You know why he has a "nationwide defense team," Jay? Because they're all common folks just like me, and they're tired of the constant haranguing of Knight in the media - and you're the media, Jay, given your position at the Sun-Times and frequent appearances on ESPN's "Around The Horn." This isn't Jay Mariotti's one-man crusade against Knight - this is Jay Marriotti in an echo chamber, part of a big sportswriter circle-jerk.
Meanwhile, Sports Illustrated's Phil Taylor adds absolutely nothing to the argument other than to drag out the tired old timeworn "bully" argument. In case you weren't aware that he thinks Knight is a bully, he titled his article, "A Big Bully." You can expect that later, Taylor will pen a thought-provoking piece titled "9/11 Was Bad."
Really, I could go on and on. But you get the gist. Sports journalists, many of whom couldn't cut it covering real news but are still inspired by the ghosts of Woodward and Bernstein, turn to the sports world for targets to pursue. A lot of them are bitter, failed ex-athletes who got cut from their junior varsity wrestling team because they just weren't tough enough, and they've held a grudge against men like Coach Knight ever since. Sure, there are some good sportswriters - usually the ones without agendas are the ones you can trust - but by and large, you can post a dozen of them on eBay and still not get a dollar out of them.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Knight Fails to Flush; Media Histrionics Ensue
LUBBOCK, Texas (AP) - Texas Tech men's basketball coach Bobby (because he hates being called "Bobby") Knight today angrily defended himself against accusations that he intentionally failed to flush after leaving the men's room stall at a local restaurant.
Knight admitted no wrongdoing in the incident, saying that he "forgot" to flush the toilet after lunch at Lubbock's Big China Wok restaurant didn't particularly agree with him. He claims that he was just getting up from the toilet when he took a cell phone call from a recruit and lost his train of thought.
"This is not the way civilized society operates!" ESPN's Tony Kornheiser yelled on his nightly program "Pardon the Interruption." "It wasn't OK for George Patton, it wasn't OK for Woody Hayes, and it's not OK for Bob Knight to be so disconsiderate of others. To leave an unflushed present in the toilet for the next user merits a suspension or a firing, but as always, he's got the president and athletic director of the university covering up for him. When will this madness stop?"
When confronted with the allegations, Knight said "&%#$."
Knight admitted no wrongdoing in the incident, saying that he "forgot" to flush the toilet after lunch at Lubbock's Big China Wok restaurant didn't particularly agree with him. He claims that he was just getting up from the toilet when he took a cell phone call from a recruit and lost his train of thought.
"This is not the way civilized society operates!" ESPN's Tony Kornheiser yelled on his nightly program "Pardon the Interruption." "It wasn't OK for George Patton, it wasn't OK for Woody Hayes, and it's not OK for Bob Knight to be so disconsiderate of others. To leave an unflushed present in the toilet for the next user merits a suspension or a firing, but as always, he's got the president and athletic director of the university covering up for him. When will this madness stop?"
When confronted with the allegations, Knight said "&%#$."
Knight Takes 12 Items into 10 Items or Less Lane; Media Calls for Resignation
LUBBOCK, TEXAS (AP) - Embattled Texas Tech men's basketball coach Bobby Knight angrily defended himself today against accusations that he went through a local supermarket's express lane with more than the maximum number of items allowed by store policy.
When confronted with the video evidence of his obviously-intentional miscue, the fiery coach said, "I had one coupon for 4 2-liters of pop; I thought that only counted as one item."
On ESPN's "Around The Horn," a hysterical Woody Paige called for Knight's resignation from the Texas Tech head coaching position.
"He should resign, or at the very least, be suspended for the rest of the season," Paige shouted over the three other sportswriters who were also shouting on the program. "This is just the latest example of Bob Knight's disregard for the rules that common people should live by. He honestly believes that he is somehow 'above' Safeway store policy."
When told of Paige's comments, which were typical of the media reaction to the Knight mistake, Knight said, "$%#^."
When confronted with the video evidence of his obviously-intentional miscue, the fiery coach said, "I had one coupon for 4 2-liters of pop; I thought that only counted as one item."
On ESPN's "Around The Horn," a hysterical Woody Paige called for Knight's resignation from the Texas Tech head coaching position.
"He should resign, or at the very least, be suspended for the rest of the season," Paige shouted over the three other sportswriters who were also shouting on the program. "This is just the latest example of Bob Knight's disregard for the rules that common people should live by. He honestly believes that he is somehow 'above' Safeway store policy."
When told of Paige's comments, which were typical of the media reaction to the Knight mistake, Knight said, "$%#^."
Mountains out of molehills: same song, new verse.
Bob Knight doesn't need me to provide him a defense (there's some sort of defense-related punchline that would fit there), but I will anyway.
Surely, if you've been paying a minuscule amount of attention to the news in the last 18 hours, you've heard about the latest hubbub surrounding the Hall of Fame coach. To wit:
Texas Tech athletic director Gerald Myers insisted today that Bob Knight did nothing wrong when he “quickly lifted” the chin of Michael Prince in the latest clash between the hot-tempered coach and a player.
Prince and his parents also defended Knight, who confronted the forward and pushed his chin upward, as if to make him look the coach in the eye, during a timeout late in the Red Raiders’ 86-74 victory against Gardner-Webb on Monday night.
I'm flabbergasted that this is even an issue that merits the coverage it's received thus far. THIS WAS NOTHING. Nothing! Especially nothing that merits 11 minutes at the top of ESPNews' 4:30 CST airing - an amount of time usually reserved for the death of a very important sports figure or Super Bowl coverage.
You know something? It occurs to me as I'm writing this that the problem is not with Bob Knight. I think the problem is with the ESPN-ization of sports. They have 120 hours of programming per day (note: corrected from earlier version when I mistakenly said "week") to fill, with the five ESPN-branded networks, and it's inevitable that there will be folks there who will believe that they are Very Important Sports Journalists - a horseshit term if there ever was one - and the fact that Knight is anything but a white-bread, vanilla, plain ol' basketball coach leads some of these pantywaists to cry foul at the fact that he doesn't "play nice" as often as they'd like.
I have a great idea. Let's take some cameras and follow some ESPN journalists around at their job every day for a decade and see if we can find anything worth writing about. By applying the same heavyhanded horseshit standards, I'm sure we could uncover some supposedly aberrant behavior. (I suspect, for instance, that there is plenty of crack use in Bristol, given the Worldwide Leader's clouded judgment in continuing to allow the hemmorhoidal Bill Simmons to write for their website.)
Here's an Associated Press-compiled list of "controversies" surrounding Coach Knight over the last 30 years. You'll note that the further the timeline delves into the '90s, the more often that Bob Knight's every supposed misstep is meticulously detailed, which coincides with the meteoric rise of ESPN as an arbiter of "sports journalism." You'll also note that the bulk of these are nothing! "Playfully fires a blank shot at a reporter"? Hell, more journalists should have blanks fired at them - it's really the least they deserve, to have a target on their back for once. "Brought a donkey wearing a Purdue hat onto his television show"? Pretty funny, really! "Knight takes the public address microphone and recites a profane verse directed at his critics"? Cover the kids' ears - he said "ass!"
Knight didn't hit anyone (in spite of the banner headline on ESPNews that screamed "Bob Knight Strikes Player During Timeout"), didn't murder anyone, didn't advocate the destruction of the West in favor of a shari'a state. Not that you'd pick this up when you hear these angry failed athletes and pseudo-journalists tell it.
I'm so glad I'm out of the journalism business. I'd hate to think what kind of bitter, hateful person I'd be today if I stayed in it.
Surely, if you've been paying a minuscule amount of attention to the news in the last 18 hours, you've heard about the latest hubbub surrounding the Hall of Fame coach. To wit:
Texas Tech athletic director Gerald Myers insisted today that Bob Knight did nothing wrong when he “quickly lifted” the chin of Michael Prince in the latest clash between the hot-tempered coach and a player.
Prince and his parents also defended Knight, who confronted the forward and pushed his chin upward, as if to make him look the coach in the eye, during a timeout late in the Red Raiders’ 86-74 victory against Gardner-Webb on Monday night.
I'm flabbergasted that this is even an issue that merits the coverage it's received thus far. THIS WAS NOTHING. Nothing! Especially nothing that merits 11 minutes at the top of ESPNews' 4:30 CST airing - an amount of time usually reserved for the death of a very important sports figure or Super Bowl coverage.
You know something? It occurs to me as I'm writing this that the problem is not with Bob Knight. I think the problem is with the ESPN-ization of sports. They have 120 hours of programming per day (note: corrected from earlier version when I mistakenly said "week") to fill, with the five ESPN-branded networks, and it's inevitable that there will be folks there who will believe that they are Very Important Sports Journalists - a horseshit term if there ever was one - and the fact that Knight is anything but a white-bread, vanilla, plain ol' basketball coach leads some of these pantywaists to cry foul at the fact that he doesn't "play nice" as often as they'd like.
I have a great idea. Let's take some cameras and follow some ESPN journalists around at their job every day for a decade and see if we can find anything worth writing about. By applying the same heavyhanded horseshit standards, I'm sure we could uncover some supposedly aberrant behavior. (I suspect, for instance, that there is plenty of crack use in Bristol, given the Worldwide Leader's clouded judgment in continuing to allow the hemmorhoidal Bill Simmons to write for their website.)
Here's an Associated Press-compiled list of "controversies" surrounding Coach Knight over the last 30 years. You'll note that the further the timeline delves into the '90s, the more often that Bob Knight's every supposed misstep is meticulously detailed, which coincides with the meteoric rise of ESPN as an arbiter of "sports journalism." You'll also note that the bulk of these are nothing! "Playfully fires a blank shot at a reporter"? Hell, more journalists should have blanks fired at them - it's really the least they deserve, to have a target on their back for once. "Brought a donkey wearing a Purdue hat onto his television show"? Pretty funny, really! "Knight takes the public address microphone and recites a profane verse directed at his critics"? Cover the kids' ears - he said "ass!"
Knight didn't hit anyone (in spite of the banner headline on ESPNews that screamed "Bob Knight Strikes Player During Timeout"), didn't murder anyone, didn't advocate the destruction of the West in favor of a shari'a state. Not that you'd pick this up when you hear these angry failed athletes and pseudo-journalists tell it.
I'm so glad I'm out of the journalism business. I'd hate to think what kind of bitter, hateful person I'd be today if I stayed in it.
Monday, November 13, 2006
IU Basketball: The Rebirth?
Wow - that escalated rather quickly, didn't it?
It's still a rather sad state of affairs surrounding Indiana's basketball program when I, as a fan who formerly bled crimson and cream and now don't bleed at all for them, took a break from watching tonight's IU-Lafayette season opener to check on my Internet profiteering interests. Even worse, I took that break when IU was up by a basket in the second half and looking to lose another game they shouldn't have lost.
I returned a few minutes later to see that the Hoosiers had blown the game open and were up by 24 in the last 6 minutes.
***
The last few years have brought about a 180-degree change in my enjoyment and fandom of IU basketball. True, maybe the previous coach's original sin was that he wasn't Bob Knight, which only exacerbated all of the other crap that he pulled in his short tenure at the helm. It had gotten to the point where I would even hold my nose and root for Purdue and Kentucky when they played IU, which was unthinkable a mere 10 years ago.
A new era began tonight for IU, as He-Of-The-Questionable-Recruiting-Tactics put an Indiana team on the floor for the first time. There was plenty to like and plenty to dislike, but for now, I'm going to give Coach Sampson the benefit of the doubt. No, he's also not Bob Knight, but he's not the previous coach either. As long as his kids play hard, they run an offense and he recruits well (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), and as long as he can get IU back to the Sweet Sixteen regularly while running a clean program, then he'll do OK in my book. That's a lot to live up to, but it's obviously been done before.
I did still catch myself rooting for Lafayette a time or two tonight, though. Time to relearn some old habits I once had, I reckon.
It's still a rather sad state of affairs surrounding Indiana's basketball program when I, as a fan who formerly bled crimson and cream and now don't bleed at all for them, took a break from watching tonight's IU-Lafayette season opener to check on my Internet profiteering interests. Even worse, I took that break when IU was up by a basket in the second half and looking to lose another game they shouldn't have lost.
I returned a few minutes later to see that the Hoosiers had blown the game open and were up by 24 in the last 6 minutes.
***
The last few years have brought about a 180-degree change in my enjoyment and fandom of IU basketball. True, maybe the previous coach's original sin was that he wasn't Bob Knight, which only exacerbated all of the other crap that he pulled in his short tenure at the helm. It had gotten to the point where I would even hold my nose and root for Purdue and Kentucky when they played IU, which was unthinkable a mere 10 years ago.
A new era began tonight for IU, as He-Of-The-Questionable-Recruiting-Tactics put an Indiana team on the floor for the first time. There was plenty to like and plenty to dislike, but for now, I'm going to give Coach Sampson the benefit of the doubt. No, he's also not Bob Knight, but he's not the previous coach either. As long as his kids play hard, they run an offense and he recruits well (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), and as long as he can get IU back to the Sweet Sixteen regularly while running a clean program, then he'll do OK in my book. That's a lot to live up to, but it's obviously been done before.
I did still catch myself rooting for Lafayette a time or two tonight, though. Time to relearn some old habits I once had, I reckon.
A thought about "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition."
It was the local angle on this particular episode that drew me in, but I allowed myself to sit down and watch an episode of ABC's "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" on Sunday night. The episode featured the Farina family from St. Meinrad, which is about 45 minutes from here.
The premise of the show is that Ty Pennington and his crew shows up, knocks down a crappy, rat-infested, or otherwise asbestos-laden house, and rebuilds on the site something bigger and better. Usually the recipients of this home makeover are folks that have been down on their luck, hit a rough patch in their life, or are otherwise deserving of a new home.
Pennington and Co. built a gorgeous new home for the Farinas, but the upgrade in living quarters is only half the point. The undercurrent of the family's story that ran throughout the show – Mom raises hundreds of thousands of dollars for Relay for Life, only to be end up fighting (and surviving) cancer herself – was one that would touch all but the truly heartless. And I'll be damned if I didn't get something in my eye on at least two different occasions over the course of the hour.
The "Extreme Makeover" crew really did good work, and not just with the new home.
No, I don't have much of an interest in the glut of home remodeling shows that are currently littering the airwaves, anymore than you might have an interest in an 8-hour "Beavis and Butt-Head" marathon. As such, I don't ever foresee the series becoming "appointment television" for me. But I can promise you this: I'll never knock or otherwise belittle the show again.
The premise of the show is that Ty Pennington and his crew shows up, knocks down a crappy, rat-infested, or otherwise asbestos-laden house, and rebuilds on the site something bigger and better. Usually the recipients of this home makeover are folks that have been down on their luck, hit a rough patch in their life, or are otherwise deserving of a new home.
Pennington and Co. built a gorgeous new home for the Farinas, but the upgrade in living quarters is only half the point. The undercurrent of the family's story that ran throughout the show – Mom raises hundreds of thousands of dollars for Relay for Life, only to be end up fighting (and surviving) cancer herself – was one that would touch all but the truly heartless. And I'll be damned if I didn't get something in my eye on at least two different occasions over the course of the hour.
The "Extreme Makeover" crew really did good work, and not just with the new home.
No, I don't have much of an interest in the glut of home remodeling shows that are currently littering the airwaves, anymore than you might have an interest in an 8-hour "Beavis and Butt-Head" marathon. As such, I don't ever foresee the series becoming "appointment television" for me. But I can promise you this: I'll never knock or otherwise belittle the show again.
Friday, November 10, 2006
A night with the Captain Emeritus.
Last evening was the first night of Robert Pollard's tour to support his new Normal Happiness album. Captain and I made the trip to Bloomington to take in the show and spend the evening with our friend who just got back from Iraq.
I hadn't seen Pollard since Guided by Voices' Do The Collapse tour, some 5 or 6 years ago, so I was very excited to see my Rock Hero #1 live and in person again. Pollard didn't disappoint, mixing songs from his recent solo work with some more obscure GbV tunes that were probably about the last ones I would have ever expected to see live ("Drag Days," "Ghosts of a Different Dream") before encoring with a set of old GbV "hits" ("Motor Away," "Game of Pricks," etc.).
For me, the highlight from Pollard's more recent work were my two favorite songs off Normal Happiness - "Rhoda Rhoda" (which really stoked the Captain's embers also) and "Supernatural Car Lover," a song that evokes genuine feelings of happiness in me, moreso than any other tune in Pollard's oeuvre.
There weren't really any clunkers in last night's 2-hour set. Pollard has surrounded himself with an able supporting cast that he calls the Ascended Masters (though I made the joke at one point that we were seeing Robert Pollard and the Interns). Deeper theories, I suppose, could abound about the impetus for dissolving GbV yet continuing to make music with an entirely new cast of characters; why not continue to make music under the GbV name, since the band was really Pollard and a mostly-interchangeable group behind him (not unlike his current setup)?
At the end of the day, The Old Grunt just likes to make music. Whether it's Guided by Voices, or Robert Pollard and the Ascended Masters, or Robert Pollard and The Assistants to the Deputy Shit-Scrapers, Pollard still has a compulsion to Rock. One can hardly fault him for that.
I hadn't seen Pollard since Guided by Voices' Do The Collapse tour, some 5 or 6 years ago, so I was very excited to see my Rock Hero #1 live and in person again. Pollard didn't disappoint, mixing songs from his recent solo work with some more obscure GbV tunes that were probably about the last ones I would have ever expected to see live ("Drag Days," "Ghosts of a Different Dream") before encoring with a set of old GbV "hits" ("Motor Away," "Game of Pricks," etc.).
For me, the highlight from Pollard's more recent work were my two favorite songs off Normal Happiness - "Rhoda Rhoda" (which really stoked the Captain's embers also) and "Supernatural Car Lover," a song that evokes genuine feelings of happiness in me, moreso than any other tune in Pollard's oeuvre.
There weren't really any clunkers in last night's 2-hour set. Pollard has surrounded himself with an able supporting cast that he calls the Ascended Masters (though I made the joke at one point that we were seeing Robert Pollard and the Interns). Deeper theories, I suppose, could abound about the impetus for dissolving GbV yet continuing to make music with an entirely new cast of characters; why not continue to make music under the GbV name, since the band was really Pollard and a mostly-interchangeable group behind him (not unlike his current setup)?
At the end of the day, The Old Grunt just likes to make music. Whether it's Guided by Voices, or Robert Pollard and the Ascended Masters, or Robert Pollard and The Assistants to the Deputy Shit-Scrapers, Pollard still has a compulsion to Rock. One can hardly fault him for that.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
A Daylight Saving Time conspiracy theory:
Sitting here at 4:30 in the afternoon - here in the post-Daylight Saving Time era in southwest Indiana, that means it's getting dark already.
I really didn't give two poops about the time zone/Daylight Saving Time debate until this past weekend, when the state of Indiana as a whole "fell back" an hour. So it got daylight about an hour earlier on Sunday, which wasn't too much of a big deal ... but then I noticed that, at around 4:45 in the afternoon that day, it was practically dusk.
"... the hell?" I thought to myself.
So, it's going to get dark even earlier up until the first day of winter on December 22 or 23. And I am pissed.
Yeah, it's daylight an hour earlier around here - but I don't do anything outside in the mornings! I get up and go to work. Like most of you do as well, I'm sure.
Anyway, standing in front of my house in the dark on Monday afternoon, a little after 5:30, it all became crystal clear to me. Follow along if you're willing - this has a little bit of "conspiracy theory" to it, but play along!
1. Before running for and attaining the governorship, Mitch Daniels was formerly on the board of a major pharmaceutical concern in Indianapolis - I believe it's Eli Lilly. We'll say, for argument's sake, that it is Lilly.
2. It's assumed that Governor Daniels is still in Lilly's good graces. He probably still eats at White Castle with his colleagues there.
3. The Governor was adamant about shoving Daylight Saving Time down an unwilling populace's collective throat - a populace that, really, was doing just fine without moving its clocks twice a year. The reasons were stated as purely economical - to make Indiana a more business-friendly environment. But it runs deeper.
4. The board of directors at Eli Lilly looked at their sales of Prozac - an Eli Lilly product! - and determined that sales of the drug in southwest Indiana and northwest Indiana weren't nearly as strong as they could be.
5. Hence, Daylight Saving Time was legislated in Indiana, and the time zone boundaries were set, with blocks in southwest and northwest of the state being placed in the Central Time Zone, while the rest of the state ends up in Eastern.
6. With an hour at the end of day lopped off - where it is now dark at 5 in the afternoon in my county - even earlier in the middle of December - the residents of southwest/northwest Indiana will be more susceptible to seasonal depression, or seasonal affective disorder, thereby increasing the number of Prozac prescriptions, and in turn, Lilly's revenues - all because the Governor wanted to help out his pals at Lilly!!!
Sure beats any nebulous "to make the business climate in Indiana better" argument, I think.
I really didn't give two poops about the time zone/Daylight Saving Time debate until this past weekend, when the state of Indiana as a whole "fell back" an hour. So it got daylight about an hour earlier on Sunday, which wasn't too much of a big deal ... but then I noticed that, at around 4:45 in the afternoon that day, it was practically dusk.
"... the hell?" I thought to myself.
So, it's going to get dark even earlier up until the first day of winter on December 22 or 23. And I am pissed.
Yeah, it's daylight an hour earlier around here - but I don't do anything outside in the mornings! I get up and go to work. Like most of you do as well, I'm sure.
Anyway, standing in front of my house in the dark on Monday afternoon, a little after 5:30, it all became crystal clear to me. Follow along if you're willing - this has a little bit of "conspiracy theory" to it, but play along!
1. Before running for and attaining the governorship, Mitch Daniels was formerly on the board of a major pharmaceutical concern in Indianapolis - I believe it's Eli Lilly. We'll say, for argument's sake, that it is Lilly.
2. It's assumed that Governor Daniels is still in Lilly's good graces. He probably still eats at White Castle with his colleagues there.
3. The Governor was adamant about shoving Daylight Saving Time down an unwilling populace's collective throat - a populace that, really, was doing just fine without moving its clocks twice a year. The reasons were stated as purely economical - to make Indiana a more business-friendly environment. But it runs deeper.
4. The board of directors at Eli Lilly looked at their sales of Prozac - an Eli Lilly product! - and determined that sales of the drug in southwest Indiana and northwest Indiana weren't nearly as strong as they could be.
5. Hence, Daylight Saving Time was legislated in Indiana, and the time zone boundaries were set, with blocks in southwest and northwest of the state being placed in the Central Time Zone, while the rest of the state ends up in Eastern.
6. With an hour at the end of day lopped off - where it is now dark at 5 in the afternoon in my county - even earlier in the middle of December - the residents of southwest/northwest Indiana will be more susceptible to seasonal depression, or seasonal affective disorder, thereby increasing the number of Prozac prescriptions, and in turn, Lilly's revenues - all because the Governor wanted to help out his pals at Lilly!!!
Sure beats any nebulous "to make the business climate in Indiana better" argument, I think.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
"Borat": not funny. "Borat" in the wood chipper: also not funny.
The proud Kazakh people appear to be up in arms about "Borat."
I don't know ... I suppose if I were a Kazakh, or of Kazakh heritage, I'd be upset too ... but not because of being offended about the movie's slurs, but rather that the movie is an unfunny piece of crap.
I swear, if you showed a continuous loop (as all loops are, I guess) of the "Borat" trailer and a random sampling of ads for that CBS turdfest "The New Adventures of Old Christine," you would end up with a night devoid of laughter. "Christine" is in its second season now, and they flog the show to death during football telecasts on CBS - and I've not laughed once when the ads run. You'd think that there would eventually be something shown on the ad that would tickle, or at least charm, my funny bone. Hell, even a blind dog finds the hole every once in a while, right?
I don't know ... I suppose if I were a Kazakh, or of Kazakh heritage, I'd be upset too ... but not because of being offended about the movie's slurs, but rather that the movie is an unfunny piece of crap.
I swear, if you showed a continuous loop (as all loops are, I guess) of the "Borat" trailer and a random sampling of ads for that CBS turdfest "The New Adventures of Old Christine," you would end up with a night devoid of laughter. "Christine" is in its second season now, and they flog the show to death during football telecasts on CBS - and I've not laughed once when the ads run. You'd think that there would eventually be something shown on the ad that would tickle, or at least charm, my funny bone. Hell, even a blind dog finds the hole every once in a while, right?
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
This is no time to get excited about your sports teams!
IU’s upset of Iowa this past Saturday makes those losses to Connecticut and Southern Illinois - Southern Illinois! - loom a lot larger, doesn’t it? Consider: if IU had had its crap together in those two gimmie games, they’d now be sitting at 6-1 – bowl-eligible for the first time since the Trent Green days.
Regardless, the 4-3 Hoosiers are still, phenomenally enough, listed in ESPN.com’s bowl projections for the first time. College football guru Ivan Maisel has the Hoosiers slated for the Motor City Bowl for a rematch with Central Michigan, while Mark Schlabach projects IU for the Insight Bowl against Oklahoma State.
You could knock me over with a feather right now. I suppose Maisel and Schlabach have started drinking the Kool-Aid that IU coach Terry Hoeppner is selling. (You know something? So am I.)
Foxsports.com is a little more realistic, I’m afraid. The Motor City Bowl pits a MAC squad against the No. 7 Big Ten team – and foxsports.com projects a Central Michigan-Wyoming matchup, as they don’t foresee a seventh Big Ten team (ideally Indiana) to be eligible.
What looms next for the Hoosiers? In spite of the fact that Coach Hep will have them taking the field believing they can win, they'll take their beating against top-ranked Ohio State this weekend. (Ohio State is favored by 31.) Afterwards, there's a schizophrenic Michigan State team that, depending on which Spartan squad shows up, is very beatable, followed by another winnable game against lackluster Minnesota. Another "L" will go on their record against Michigan, and then the Hoosiers close against a Purdue team that hasn't set the world on fire this year.
It's conceivable that IU could go into the season-ender against Purdue at 5-6, needing a W for a bowl berth, or even at 6-5, already bowl-eligible. Hard to imagine after they barely showed up in those two early-season losses to UConn and Southern Illinois (let me reiterate: Southern Illinois!). Still, knowing IU's tendency to lean toward "suck" deflates any of my expectations that were built up after the Iowa win. I'll get excited when I see it.
****
My beloved St. Louis Cardinals gave me a childhood's worth of thrills, but managed only a world title in 1982, followed by heartbreak in 1985 and 1987. They limped home with an 83-79 record this year, and were expected to be put away handily by San Diego in the first round.
Yet, here on October 18, they're one win from the World Series. (Where, if they make it, they will promptly get trounced by Detroit.)
I'll get excited when I see it - I still foresee the ass falling out of their season over the next two nights, and I also expect their bullpen to turn into a pumpkin over same. But I'd love to be wrong.
****
Regardless, the 4-3 Hoosiers are still, phenomenally enough, listed in ESPN.com’s bowl projections for the first time. College football guru Ivan Maisel has the Hoosiers slated for the Motor City Bowl for a rematch with Central Michigan, while Mark Schlabach projects IU for the Insight Bowl against Oklahoma State.
You could knock me over with a feather right now. I suppose Maisel and Schlabach have started drinking the Kool-Aid that IU coach Terry Hoeppner is selling. (You know something? So am I.)
Foxsports.com is a little more realistic, I’m afraid. The Motor City Bowl pits a MAC squad against the No. 7 Big Ten team – and foxsports.com projects a Central Michigan-Wyoming matchup, as they don’t foresee a seventh Big Ten team (ideally Indiana) to be eligible.
What looms next for the Hoosiers? In spite of the fact that Coach Hep will have them taking the field believing they can win, they'll take their beating against top-ranked Ohio State this weekend. (Ohio State is favored by 31.) Afterwards, there's a schizophrenic Michigan State team that, depending on which Spartan squad shows up, is very beatable, followed by another winnable game against lackluster Minnesota. Another "L" will go on their record against Michigan, and then the Hoosiers close against a Purdue team that hasn't set the world on fire this year.
It's conceivable that IU could go into the season-ender against Purdue at 5-6, needing a W for a bowl berth, or even at 6-5, already bowl-eligible. Hard to imagine after they barely showed up in those two early-season losses to UConn and Southern Illinois (let me reiterate: Southern Illinois!). Still, knowing IU's tendency to lean toward "suck" deflates any of my expectations that were built up after the Iowa win. I'll get excited when I see it.
****
My beloved St. Louis Cardinals gave me a childhood's worth of thrills, but managed only a world title in 1982, followed by heartbreak in 1985 and 1987. They limped home with an 83-79 record this year, and were expected to be put away handily by San Diego in the first round.
Yet, here on October 18, they're one win from the World Series. (Where, if they make it, they will promptly get trounced by Detroit.)
I'll get excited when I see it - I still foresee the ass falling out of their season over the next two nights, and I also expect their bullpen to turn into a pumpkin over same. But I'd love to be wrong.
****
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
More self-indulgence until you are hammered into submission …
Every now and again (and this is one of the "nows"), I feel this pang in my gut because of all of the people I've screwed over in my life. I suppose that "screwed over" is the improper choice of words. Perhaps "tossed aside" or "grew apart from" is the more accurate terminology.
Thanks in part to my recent bad poetry postings and other minutiae that I won't bog you down in, I got to thinking today about friends past and friends lost.
I determined that, after all these years, I have approximately three friends – one's the Captain, as you might have guessed, one's in Iraq and one's a girl. Bubbling just below that top level is a category of acquaintances that I have – folks I'd definitely have multiple beers with if the opportunity arose (hi Jason!), and I'd like to think they'd be happy to do the same with me, but I've not exactly been busting my ass to make the opportunity arise.
Come to think of it, almost every relationship I've ever had – family, friends, romantic – has been tainted or, in some cases, destroyed by my abject laziness (I've detailed this previously). In the current Great Household Liquidation that has pulled me away from this blog and caused me to slip into "The Way We Was" mode, I found among the detritus of my past a birthday card I got for my 18th birthday from my now-former-stepdad. It was one of those cards that says how much you mean as a son to the sender. He hand-wrote on the inside, "You do mean as much to me as any son could be. Love and best wishes, John."
God.
If I hadn't had the dad I had – and my father is as close to Superman as I could ever have asked for in my life - John would have definitely been my second choice. He was as decent to me as he didn't have to be, to borrow a Brad Paisley lyric.
Of course, John and my mom divorced around the time that that card was sent to me, maybe even before that. (Sad that I can't even recall it, but my head was squarely in my ass at that point in my life.) And, of course, how often have I spoken with him in the last 14 years or so? Zero.
"But the phone and the mail service works both ways, Brandon. You can't blame yourself for your relationship with your former stepdad disintegrating like that."
To which I say, "Eat me." More politely, I can blame myself, and I do.
I really need to look him up.
Every now and again (and this is one of the "nows"), I feel this pang in my gut because of all of the people I've screwed over in my life. I suppose that "screwed over" is the improper choice of words. Perhaps "tossed aside" or "grew apart from" is the more accurate terminology.
Thanks in part to my recent bad poetry postings and other minutiae that I won't bog you down in, I got to thinking today about friends past and friends lost.
I determined that, after all these years, I have approximately three friends – one's the Captain, as you might have guessed, one's in Iraq and one's a girl. Bubbling just below that top level is a category of acquaintances that I have – folks I'd definitely have multiple beers with if the opportunity arose (hi Jason!), and I'd like to think they'd be happy to do the same with me, but I've not exactly been busting my ass to make the opportunity arise.
Come to think of it, almost every relationship I've ever had – family, friends, romantic – has been tainted or, in some cases, destroyed by my abject laziness (I've detailed this previously). In the current Great Household Liquidation that has pulled me away from this blog and caused me to slip into "The Way We Was" mode, I found among the detritus of my past a birthday card I got for my 18th birthday from my now-former-stepdad. It was one of those cards that says how much you mean as a son to the sender. He hand-wrote on the inside, "You do mean as much to me as any son could be. Love and best wishes, John."
God.
If I hadn't had the dad I had – and my father is as close to Superman as I could ever have asked for in my life - John would have definitely been my second choice. He was as decent to me as he didn't have to be, to borrow a Brad Paisley lyric.
Of course, John and my mom divorced around the time that that card was sent to me, maybe even before that. (Sad that I can't even recall it, but my head was squarely in my ass at that point in my life.) And, of course, how often have I spoken with him in the last 14 years or so? Zero.
"But the phone and the mail service works both ways, Brandon. You can't blame yourself for your relationship with your former stepdad disintegrating like that."
To which I say, "Eat me." More politely, I can blame myself, and I do.
I really need to look him up.
Here’s what kind of day it is.
My wife is in Chicago again this week. (Hopefully no health crises for her husband while she’s gone, like last time.)
And the only thing left in the Coke machine at work is Vault. Fucking Vault. “Drinks like a soda, kicks like a horse’s ass!” Or something. It’s awful, regardless of how it kicks. Why don’t they just put skunk urine in a can and sell it? (Oh, wait, they already do – it’s called Red Bull.)
Ugh. It’s got “long day” written all over it.
*****
I don’t think I want to live in Barrow, Alaska anymore. Still sounds like a great place to visit, though.
*****
Dumb things to do on your next officially sanctioned holiday (Veteran’s Day, for many of you; Thanksgiving for others):
71. Find songs that have the word “cocaine” in them. Replace with the word “propane.”
Aside from rechristening Eric Clapton’s classic song as “Propane,” here are other goodies that you can come up with:
“Be damned if I ever do anymore of that propane.” – Hank Williams Jr., “O.D’d in Denver”
“We reached that level of fame where people started dishing out free propane.” - John Walsh and the Sinkholes, “Better Off Dead”
“My only friends are these vitamins and propane.” - John Walsh and the Sinkholes, “Do You Wanna Save The World?”
(It’s also funny on that last one if, instead of propane being the substitute, you used the name of legendary New York industrial band Pro-Pain. It’s not funny for the other ones, though.)
My wife is in Chicago again this week. (Hopefully no health crises for her husband while she’s gone, like last time.)
And the only thing left in the Coke machine at work is Vault. Fucking Vault. “Drinks like a soda, kicks like a horse’s ass!” Or something. It’s awful, regardless of how it kicks. Why don’t they just put skunk urine in a can and sell it? (Oh, wait, they already do – it’s called Red Bull.)
Ugh. It’s got “long day” written all over it.
*****
I don’t think I want to live in Barrow, Alaska anymore. Still sounds like a great place to visit, though.
*****
Dumb things to do on your next officially sanctioned holiday (Veteran’s Day, for many of you; Thanksgiving for others):
71. Find songs that have the word “cocaine” in them. Replace with the word “propane.”
Aside from rechristening Eric Clapton’s classic song as “Propane,” here are other goodies that you can come up with:
“Be damned if I ever do anymore of that propane.” – Hank Williams Jr., “O.D’d in Denver”
“We reached that level of fame where people started dishing out free propane.” - John Walsh and the Sinkholes, “Better Off Dead”
“My only friends are these vitamins and propane.” - John Walsh and the Sinkholes, “Do You Wanna Save The World?”
(It’s also funny on that last one if, instead of propane being the substitute, you used the name of legendary New York industrial band Pro-Pain. It’s not funny for the other ones, though.)
Sunday, October 08, 2006
"But I'll tell you this. I have more strength in this hand than you 've got in both your hands. You won't believe it. Lemme show you something. Turn that recorder off. Gimme your arm a minute. [Walther proceeds to squeeze the interviewer's arm with his gloved hand.] That's without doing it hard. I've got unreal strength. 'Cause I do chin-ups and all that."
--Salt Walther, in 1977's "The Boys of Indy" by Phil Berger and Larry Bortstein
--Salt Walther, in 1977's "The Boys of Indy" by Phil Berger and Larry Bortstein
Friday, October 06, 2006
I’m sorry; your Rollins test has come back positive. (Or: I’ve got diamonds in my eyes!)
I’m not one to belittle anyone’s rage or otherwise make light of the awful things that one might have gone through when he/she was a kid ……
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m usually at the head of the line when it comes to poking fun at people and their “unresolved issues from their youth.” Don’t get me wrong. There are damaging things that happen to kids, both today and in the past. But just the same, there is a line that is often blurred, somewhere between “my dad/priest/neighbor/uncle/teacher beat/molested me” and “my parents didn’t do anything to boost my self-esteem.” The former group has my utmost sympathy as long as they don’t perpetuate their pain by damaging other kids; it’s the latter "self-esteem" group who are fair – and easy – targets.
Anyway.
My not-iPod kicked up a series of songs that included a Dwight Yoakam song, two Mudhoney tunes, a Neko Case song … and the apocalyptic closer* from Rollins Band’s landmark early ‘90s album The End of Silence. This very intense song is called “Just Like You,” and while it fits in with the overall theme and timbre of the album … as a standalone song, in the midst of Yoakam-Mudhoney-Mudhoney-Case, it’s hilarious.
Rollins is pretty full of rage on the whole album - I often joke that The End of Silence was the first album to be sung in all caps - and he's got some really great songs on it. "Low Self Opinion," for instance, is still as strong today as it was 13 years ago, and I still occasionally use it to kickstart my day.
"Just Like You" clocks in at around 11 minutes, a train-wreck of a song that serves as the perfect closer to the album. It's as cathartic for the listener as it was for Rollins, a song that detailed his trials and tribulations with his father, who may or may not have done unspeakable things to him. The chorus, if you can call it that, features Rollins howling "RAGE!" repeatedly.
However, not unlike the infamous "sex mixtape" I made some years ago that included Zeppelin's "When The Levee Breaks," it ... didn't necessarily fit in that sequence of songs. So "Just Like You" became, at that time, the funniest song ever. Not funny because of what happened to Rollins, but funny because there is a man in my stereo screaming "RAGE!" over and over.
* - "... the hell? Apocalyptic closer?" you might ask. This was a phrase used in several of the heavy-metal magazines that I read at the dawn of the '90s, used to describe a last song on an album that is particularly intense and terrifying and awesome. First used, I believe, to describe the album-ender on Megadeth's epic Rust in Peace album. Occasionally modified to "epileptic closer," when the last song on an album is so bad that it gives you the twitches.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m usually at the head of the line when it comes to poking fun at people and their “unresolved issues from their youth.” Don’t get me wrong. There are damaging things that happen to kids, both today and in the past. But just the same, there is a line that is often blurred, somewhere between “my dad/priest/neighbor/uncle/teacher beat/molested me” and “my parents didn’t do anything to boost my self-esteem.” The former group has my utmost sympathy as long as they don’t perpetuate their pain by damaging other kids; it’s the latter "self-esteem" group who are fair – and easy – targets.
Anyway.
My not-iPod kicked up a series of songs that included a Dwight Yoakam song, two Mudhoney tunes, a Neko Case song … and the apocalyptic closer* from Rollins Band’s landmark early ‘90s album The End of Silence. This very intense song is called “Just Like You,” and while it fits in with the overall theme and timbre of the album … as a standalone song, in the midst of Yoakam-Mudhoney-Mudhoney-Case, it’s hilarious.
Rollins is pretty full of rage on the whole album - I often joke that The End of Silence was the first album to be sung in all caps - and he's got some really great songs on it. "Low Self Opinion," for instance, is still as strong today as it was 13 years ago, and I still occasionally use it to kickstart my day.
"Just Like You" clocks in at around 11 minutes, a train-wreck of a song that serves as the perfect closer to the album. It's as cathartic for the listener as it was for Rollins, a song that detailed his trials and tribulations with his father, who may or may not have done unspeakable things to him. The chorus, if you can call it that, features Rollins howling "RAGE!" repeatedly.
However, not unlike the infamous "sex mixtape" I made some years ago that included Zeppelin's "When The Levee Breaks," it ... didn't necessarily fit in that sequence of songs. So "Just Like You" became, at that time, the funniest song ever. Not funny because of what happened to Rollins, but funny because there is a man in my stereo screaming "RAGE!" over and over.
* - "... the hell? Apocalyptic closer?" you might ask. This was a phrase used in several of the heavy-metal magazines that I read at the dawn of the '90s, used to describe a last song on an album that is particularly intense and terrifying and awesome. First used, I believe, to describe the album-ender on Megadeth's epic Rust in Peace album. Occasionally modified to "epileptic closer," when the last song on an album is so bad that it gives you the twitches.
Got the runs. No, not that kind.
If your mind is strong enough or weak enough, you can talk yourself into believing the most asinine shit.
My last serious athletic endeavor, other than the gymnastics required to help conceive our son, was some 13 years ago, and the last time I was really and truly in shape was probably 15 years ago. Then, I was a sophomore in high school, just coming off a season in which I was Most Valuable Runner for my high school’s cross-country team. That make-or-break winter – the winter that would determine whether I would continue my improvement and carry out my vow to my high school principal that he’d soon see my name on the all-conference team – I got my driver’s license and just stopped running.
By the time track season rolled around that spring, a season in which there were high expectations on me to carry our small distance-running corps, I was a lost cause. All of the previous two years’ work, in which I got my 5K time down from the 26s to the 18s, was for naught. The disappointment was crushing - crushing enough that I didn’t go out for cross-country or track my last two years of high school. Even at my small school, I didn’t feel like I belonged on either team.
Running was no longer an option as a result; I played baseball my last two years of high school, and that was the last time I had done anything even remotely resembling “exercise” on a regular basis.
Fast-forward to today.
You know about my recent cardiac scare, and the relief that ensued when I found out that I was in better shape than I feared. I’ve smoked a lot of cigarettes, drank a lot of beer, ate a lot of White Castle and watched a lot of TV the last 15 years. To learn that there were no arterial blockages or cardiac anomalies in spite of my sedentary lifestyle was like a last-minute death row reprieve.
And it’s not just a selfish concern about my health, either. It’s about my son growing up with a father, and my wife having someone around to keep her honest the next 50 years. It’s about not breaking my family’s heart by going to an early grave thanks to dumb lifestyle choices. It’s about sticking around to watch my kid beat up the Captain’s kid.
(Editor’s note – Before starting the next paragraph, Mr. Tamble was hit by a bus and, as he gimped to safety, was tragically obliterated by a wayward meteor. No other injuries were reported.)
Oh, I jest. Just wanted to illustrate what a crapshoot life can be, and how health zealots can often miss the big picture – that it doesn’t matter how clean you live your life, how much healthy food and drink you put into your system, how few cigarettes you smoke – if your number comes up, it comes up. I’m not saying that there are not risk factors that may or may not weigh into the final day of your life – I’m just saying that living right and staying off the crack doesn’t guarantee you’ll live to be the old person in one of those “five generations” pictures.
Anyway, my “new lease on life,” as it were, compelled me to purchase a cheap pair of running shoes that weekend.
Remember what I said in the opening paragraph about having a strong enough or weak enough mind can make you susceptible to talking yourself into the stupidest shit?
Before hitting the pavement for the first time in over a decade, I harbored no illusions about getting back to an 18-minute 5K – those days went out the window with my driver’s license vision test. I did, however, have a vision of running my way to good health, and it was that impetus that propelled one foot in front of the other in a faster-than-walking fashion on my country road last Sunday. “I’m going to run out to the end of my road and then turn around and run back, and that’ll be about eight-tenths of a mile, and that’ll be a great start!” I said to no one in particular.
Oh, how the running gods chortled. “You are retarded,” they said.
I felt great in the first 50 yards or so. “Hey, this isn’t too bad,” I thought. “I could do this!”
And, if I had stopped there, turned around and ran back to the house, I would have felt like a champion. A slow champion, like Bill Elliott these days, but a champion regardless.
Alas, I didn't stop. I continued running, well past that 50-yard mark.
At roughly a quarter-mile (well short of my original "end of my road" goal), I turned around and started back to the house. "Hey, I can still get a half-mile in," my last sentient thought for the next few hours went.
At 3/8 of a mile, my legs gave out. I walked a short distance before turning it back on the last 150 yards. And when I say "turned it on," I mean "gimped home like those guys who are still trying to finish the Boston Marathon 18 hours after the race is over."
In hindsight, it's a bad idea to start a full-on running program after taking 15 years off. Regardless, I'm going to modify my plan and ease back into it - total mileage for the week: 1 - stop smoking and perhaps attain all of those dreams I mentioned earlier.
Regardless, this scare has brought about what's going to be a pretty major sea change in my life.
There are things that I've taken for granted that I don't want to take for granted anymore, and I've already detailed those things here even before September 21.
I want to spend more time outside with the boy and less time inside trying to hear the TV over his requests for me to come play with him.
I want to spend less time looking at porn and more time looking at my wife. (Oh, I can do both.)
And if I never run a sub-20 5K, or even make it to where I can run a 5K without stopping to suck air, that's OK. I still feel like I'm already a hell of a sight healthier - and maybe even more exercise tolerant! - than I was when I transported myself to the emergency room two weeks ago. And hopefully I'll be around to pester my wife and keep my son out of the gutter for many years to come.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
"So, is this where it all ends???"
My recent obsession with my own mortality culminated in a day like two Thursdays ago.
That day started like any other day and quickly went down the drain in short order. Within about 5 minutes of waking up, I felt a pain in my chest. It wasn't a sharp pain - more of a dull, consistent ache - but something wasn't right. Naturally, I panicked and started getting somewhat short of breath as a result.
I tried to will the pain away and finished getting ready for work, but by the time I left the house almost an hour later, the pain was still there. I had taken my blood pressure twice in the interim - a little high, but likely due to my panic. The pain was definitely a distraction, but I decided to suck it up and make the trip to work.
On the way to work, I called Mrs. Tamble, who was in Chicago that week (sigh). Get thee to the doctor post-haste, she sort of said.
Me: "blah blah money, blah blah I'm sure it's nothing, blah blah it'll pass, etc."
Her: "Go now!"
Me: "K."
I turned my vehicle around and headed to the emergency room.
****
Driving in silence during the bulk of the near-30-mile trip and still in a panic, my mind kept reeling over the likelihoods of what I would hear once there. I know my weaknesses - poor diet, smoker, no exercise, mildly obese - and figured that the phrase "walking time bomb" would figure heavily into the day's events. I also imagined the phrase "90% blockage" and the question, "Are you familiar with the procedures for getting on a waiting list for a new heart?" would come into play.
Listen. I'm not Mr. Worst-Case Scenario or anything like that. I am, however, a generally happy-go-lucky person, probably to a fault - I don't get terribly upset about anything anymore, and probably haven't reacted negatively to things that I should be hopping mad, or at the very least, mildly concerned about for a good while now.
Which made my decision to go to the emergency room even the more harrowing - if I had an accident with a chainsaw where I would leave my arm hanging by a thread, I'd still probably rationalize not going to the doctor, since it was still hanging on by a corpuscle or a tendon or something. Long story short, I must be pretty concerned if I were giving in and going to a doctor.
I didn't have my radio on or didn't even bother to hook up my not-iPod to the stereo, but in my mind's ear, I kept on hearing The Postal Service song that goes "Would someone please call a surgeon who can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart?"
God. I don't want to go to the grave thinking of The Postal Service, I thought to myself. Even "Freebird" would have been more useful here. I don't care how trite or cliched it would have been.
*****
Once at the hospital, I erroneously parked on the far side of the parking lot and walked about an eighth of a mile to the emergency entrance.
"Yes, Mr. Tamble, what can we do for you today?" the matronly woman at the desk asked.
"Chest pain."
She called a doctor, or a reasonable facsimile, who pulled me into one of the triage rooms. We went over my vitals and the particulars of why I was there (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair), and I was whisked to Exam Room 3.
*****
My family was likely also in a panic by this point, and I couldn't pull a signal on my cell phone in the exam room to let them know I was still alive and not yet having my chest sliced open to repair any cardiopulmonary anomalies. I had called my parents and my wife on the way to the hospital, who all cried or at least seemed concerned. I told them not to get upset or otherwise panicked, but no one ever listens to me. Both parents asked if I needed them to come down to the hospital, and I vehemently rejected any notion of them dropping what they were doing to come be with me.
I meant it, too. I've made it a habit to not go out of my way for just about anyone anymore, and I fully expect the same when the shoe is on the other foot.
*****
The next hour was a blur. I was hooked up to an EKG machine, a nurse came in and pulled about a gallon of blood out of my arm ("Ahhhh, you're a bleeder!" she said happily), and a doctor who looked like he'd been in his share of bar fights came in to talk to me. We started conversing about the particulars of the morning (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair). He told me that it was unlikely I was having a heart attack, since it'd been about 3 hours since the pain started by that point, and it wasn't radiating into my arms or anything ominous like that. Doc put a stethoscope on my chest and back, gave my thump-thump a listen, and declared, "Your heart and lungs sound great." (!) He charted a course for my day, most of which involved the "low-risk cardiac track" and left me to continue the interminable wait.
*****
Another few minutes passed when a knock came at the door. One of the attendants opened it up and said, "Mr. Tamble, your mother is here."
The shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhit, while kept solely in my inner dialogue in its initial moments, became audible seconds later.
I really didn't want anyone to make a fuss about it. But she was there, and she wasn't going anywhere. I begged and pleaded for her to go back to work. She refused.
*****
Shortly thereafter, Dr. Barroom Brawler came back in. He reiterated his initial diagnosis after reviewing my EKG, and sent me to X-Ray for ... well, you guessed it. The X-ray tech started talking to me about the events of the morning (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair), took a couple of snapshots of my innards and sent me back to my exam room.
*****
A short while later, a different heart doctor came in, dressed for golf, it appeared. He was apparently a big deal. We talked for a little while (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair), and he confirmed Dr. Barroom Brawler's diagnosis that I was not dying right there in front of their eyes. I made the mistake of asking where exactly in the chest the heart was - whether it was right underneath the skin or whether it was deeper - because I honestly didn't know. Apparently, Dr. Double-Bogey heard, "Where is my heart?" because he answered, "In the middle of your chest." (Great, I thought. This doctor must think I'm a raisin-brain.) I rephrased my question and got the answer I was looking for, because I honestly didn't know.
I joked with my mom thereafter about it. I started scratching my shoulder and saying, "Look - I'm scratching my butt because I don't know where it is!" Not exactly gallows humor, but I was headed there.
*****
Around 11, a toothy nurse appeared at the door of the exam room with a wheelchair in tow, ready to roll me to the cardiac ward for my stress test, which would be the last test ran on me that day if it went well. Upon arrival in the room, the tech asked me to take off my shirt, and Toothy began shaving various spots on my chest so as to facilitate the gluing of electrodes. I would have preferred that she went for the whole wax, but I wasn't in a position to argue. While they were being attached to my chest, the tech asked me about the events of the day (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair).
Dr. Divot arrived shortly thereafter, and I got on the treadmill. My goal was to maintain a rate of 160 bpm, and the machine would increase in speed and angle at various intervals, while the monitor in front of me measured my vitals. After the third increase, the task at hand began to get more laborious, and I really struggled to keep up. (Feel the burn!) Gulping as much air as my lungs would allow, I finally got Dr. 3-Iron to take pity on me and shut the machine off. I staggered back to the exam table and landed on my butt. (Or my shoulder; take your pick.)
*****
"Everything looks great," Dr. 3-Putt told me. "The only thing I would point out is that you have poor exercise tolerance."
(This is not something I didn't already know.)
"A man your age should be able to last at least 10 minutes on the treadmill."
"I wasn't that far off, was I?" I asked hopefully.
"You barely made it to 5."
Oh.
*****
There were various names given to the chest pain I had (and still have today) - "atypical chest pain," "chest wall syndrome." The general consensus was that I had sneezed something out of whack in my chest. Not unlikely, really. I have these awful sneezing fits every so often, and as the story goes, it's possible that one of my rib joints got knocked off-kilter where it attaches to my sternum, right in front of my heart. They told me to take Tylenol or Advil for the pain, and stop smoking.
Oh, and wear my seat belt when I leave the emergency room.
Thanks.
*****
There's a Part II to this story, but I wanted to share Part I with you to lay the groundwork as to why I've been absent from this blog for the last couple of weeks. More later.
That day started like any other day and quickly went down the drain in short order. Within about 5 minutes of waking up, I felt a pain in my chest. It wasn't a sharp pain - more of a dull, consistent ache - but something wasn't right. Naturally, I panicked and started getting somewhat short of breath as a result.
I tried to will the pain away and finished getting ready for work, but by the time I left the house almost an hour later, the pain was still there. I had taken my blood pressure twice in the interim - a little high, but likely due to my panic. The pain was definitely a distraction, but I decided to suck it up and make the trip to work.
On the way to work, I called Mrs. Tamble, who was in Chicago that week (sigh). Get thee to the doctor post-haste, she sort of said.
Me: "blah blah money, blah blah I'm sure it's nothing, blah blah it'll pass, etc."
Her: "Go now!"
Me: "K."
I turned my vehicle around and headed to the emergency room.
****
Driving in silence during the bulk of the near-30-mile trip and still in a panic, my mind kept reeling over the likelihoods of what I would hear once there. I know my weaknesses - poor diet, smoker, no exercise, mildly obese - and figured that the phrase "walking time bomb" would figure heavily into the day's events. I also imagined the phrase "90% blockage" and the question, "Are you familiar with the procedures for getting on a waiting list for a new heart?" would come into play.
Listen. I'm not Mr. Worst-Case Scenario or anything like that. I am, however, a generally happy-go-lucky person, probably to a fault - I don't get terribly upset about anything anymore, and probably haven't reacted negatively to things that I should be hopping mad, or at the very least, mildly concerned about for a good while now.
Which made my decision to go to the emergency room even the more harrowing - if I had an accident with a chainsaw where I would leave my arm hanging by a thread, I'd still probably rationalize not going to the doctor, since it was still hanging on by a corpuscle or a tendon or something. Long story short, I must be pretty concerned if I were giving in and going to a doctor.
I didn't have my radio on or didn't even bother to hook up my not-iPod to the stereo, but in my mind's ear, I kept on hearing The Postal Service song that goes "Would someone please call a surgeon who can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart?"
God. I don't want to go to the grave thinking of The Postal Service, I thought to myself. Even "Freebird" would have been more useful here. I don't care how trite or cliched it would have been.
*****
Once at the hospital, I erroneously parked on the far side of the parking lot and walked about an eighth of a mile to the emergency entrance.
"Yes, Mr. Tamble, what can we do for you today?" the matronly woman at the desk asked.
"Chest pain."
She called a doctor, or a reasonable facsimile, who pulled me into one of the triage rooms. We went over my vitals and the particulars of why I was there (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair), and I was whisked to Exam Room 3.
*****
My family was likely also in a panic by this point, and I couldn't pull a signal on my cell phone in the exam room to let them know I was still alive and not yet having my chest sliced open to repair any cardiopulmonary anomalies. I had called my parents and my wife on the way to the hospital, who all cried or at least seemed concerned. I told them not to get upset or otherwise panicked, but no one ever listens to me. Both parents asked if I needed them to come down to the hospital, and I vehemently rejected any notion of them dropping what they were doing to come be with me.
I meant it, too. I've made it a habit to not go out of my way for just about anyone anymore, and I fully expect the same when the shoe is on the other foot.
*****
The next hour was a blur. I was hooked up to an EKG machine, a nurse came in and pulled about a gallon of blood out of my arm ("Ahhhh, you're a bleeder!" she said happily), and a doctor who looked like he'd been in his share of bar fights came in to talk to me. We started conversing about the particulars of the morning (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair). He told me that it was unlikely I was having a heart attack, since it'd been about 3 hours since the pain started by that point, and it wasn't radiating into my arms or anything ominous like that. Doc put a stethoscope on my chest and back, gave my thump-thump a listen, and declared, "Your heart and lungs sound great." (!) He charted a course for my day, most of which involved the "low-risk cardiac track" and left me to continue the interminable wait.
*****
Another few minutes passed when a knock came at the door. One of the attendants opened it up and said, "Mr. Tamble, your mother is here."
The shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhit, while kept solely in my inner dialogue in its initial moments, became audible seconds later.
I really didn't want anyone to make a fuss about it. But she was there, and she wasn't going anywhere. I begged and pleaded for her to go back to work. She refused.
*****
Shortly thereafter, Dr. Barroom Brawler came back in. He reiterated his initial diagnosis after reviewing my EKG, and sent me to X-Ray for ... well, you guessed it. The X-ray tech started talking to me about the events of the morning (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair), took a couple of snapshots of my innards and sent me back to my exam room.
*****
A short while later, a different heart doctor came in, dressed for golf, it appeared. He was apparently a big deal. We talked for a little while (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair), and he confirmed Dr. Barroom Brawler's diagnosis that I was not dying right there in front of their eyes. I made the mistake of asking where exactly in the chest the heart was - whether it was right underneath the skin or whether it was deeper - because I honestly didn't know. Apparently, Dr. Double-Bogey heard, "Where is my heart?" because he answered, "In the middle of your chest." (Great, I thought. This doctor must think I'm a raisin-brain.) I rephrased my question and got the answer I was looking for, because I honestly didn't know.
I joked with my mom thereafter about it. I started scratching my shoulder and saying, "Look - I'm scratching my butt because I don't know where it is!" Not exactly gallows humor, but I was headed there.
*****
Around 11, a toothy nurse appeared at the door of the exam room with a wheelchair in tow, ready to roll me to the cardiac ward for my stress test, which would be the last test ran on me that day if it went well. Upon arrival in the room, the tech asked me to take off my shirt, and Toothy began shaving various spots on my chest so as to facilitate the gluing of electrodes. I would have preferred that she went for the whole wax, but I wasn't in a position to argue. While they were being attached to my chest, the tech asked me about the events of the day (chest pain started around 5:45, a dull ache, a 3 or a 4 on the pain scale, and I take Singulair).
Dr. Divot arrived shortly thereafter, and I got on the treadmill. My goal was to maintain a rate of 160 bpm, and the machine would increase in speed and angle at various intervals, while the monitor in front of me measured my vitals. After the third increase, the task at hand began to get more laborious, and I really struggled to keep up. (Feel the burn!) Gulping as much air as my lungs would allow, I finally got Dr. 3-Iron to take pity on me and shut the machine off. I staggered back to the exam table and landed on my butt. (Or my shoulder; take your pick.)
*****
"Everything looks great," Dr. 3-Putt told me. "The only thing I would point out is that you have poor exercise tolerance."
(This is not something I didn't already know.)
"A man your age should be able to last at least 10 minutes on the treadmill."
"I wasn't that far off, was I?" I asked hopefully.
"You barely made it to 5."
Oh.
*****
There were various names given to the chest pain I had (and still have today) - "atypical chest pain," "chest wall syndrome." The general consensus was that I had sneezed something out of whack in my chest. Not unlikely, really. I have these awful sneezing fits every so often, and as the story goes, it's possible that one of my rib joints got knocked off-kilter where it attaches to my sternum, right in front of my heart. They told me to take Tylenol or Advil for the pain, and stop smoking.
Oh, and wear my seat belt when I leave the emergency room.
Thanks.
*****
There's a Part II to this story, but I wanted to share Part I with you to lay the groundwork as to why I've been absent from this blog for the last couple of weeks. More later.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Dreamer in my dreams ...
After sleep visited last evening, I found my subconsciousness playing the same dirty trick on me that it has played on several occasions before.
It's a foreboding spring/summer day, and I'm outside doing something, though I'm never clear on what. To the east, I see funnel clouds forming, and then a tornado drops out of the sky and heads in my direction. I make my way to a shelter - in last night's dream, it was my house, but in the previous incarnation of the dream, it was the old Bedford mall, the west end of which had been converted into apartments or bomb shelters. I watch out the window, and tornadoes continue to drop out of the sky and skip past the house. Not, like, three or four tornadoes; the number was more in the neighborhood of 20 or 25, at the very least.
Since they're not doing damage to my environs, I decide to go back out to look the danger square in the face. I've since moved somewhere else, it's the same day, and I'm watching these big fluffy cumulus clouds morph into funnel clouds and fall out of the sky. Toward the end of the dream, the tornadoes would have a face in them that I didn't recognize, but they'd have a gigantic, booming voice that, had it been speaking at a normal volume, would have sounded like that of the automated voice on the weather radio.
It's good to have nice, rational, normal dreams.
***
For Christmas a couple of years ago, I bought my wife a dream dictionary. Talk about a downer; it seemed like every possible dream topic had some sort of negative connotation:
"Onions - When the dreamer dreams of onions, be forewarned of impending death by appendicitis, or of a future case of bursitis, or of the tax man coming to collect back taxes."
***
Isn't dream a funny word? dream dream dream
It's a foreboding spring/summer day, and I'm outside doing something, though I'm never clear on what. To the east, I see funnel clouds forming, and then a tornado drops out of the sky and heads in my direction. I make my way to a shelter - in last night's dream, it was my house, but in the previous incarnation of the dream, it was the old Bedford mall, the west end of which had been converted into apartments or bomb shelters. I watch out the window, and tornadoes continue to drop out of the sky and skip past the house. Not, like, three or four tornadoes; the number was more in the neighborhood of 20 or 25, at the very least.
Since they're not doing damage to my environs, I decide to go back out to look the danger square in the face. I've since moved somewhere else, it's the same day, and I'm watching these big fluffy cumulus clouds morph into funnel clouds and fall out of the sky. Toward the end of the dream, the tornadoes would have a face in them that I didn't recognize, but they'd have a gigantic, booming voice that, had it been speaking at a normal volume, would have sounded like that of the automated voice on the weather radio.
It's good to have nice, rational, normal dreams.
***
For Christmas a couple of years ago, I bought my wife a dream dictionary. Talk about a downer; it seemed like every possible dream topic had some sort of negative connotation:
"Onions - When the dreamer dreams of onions, be forewarned of impending death by appendicitis, or of a future case of bursitis, or of the tax man coming to collect back taxes."
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Isn't dream a funny word? dream dream dream
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