Try the Veal and Tip Your Bartender

Rose Puddles

2012-01-15T15:07:00.001-08:00

The Christmas plans were coming together, and began to resemble three Amtrak trains coming into a station within minutes of one another. One grown remote child here (+1) for just a few days, followed by another grown remote child (+1) - while the grown local child whines; “Why aren’t you taking ME out to fancy dinners?” (Read up on the prodigal child, Princess.) It meant not one, but three gift-opening rituals. It meant cars in our visitor spaces, offspring in my showers, and all the other joys of the season.

So I figure, hey. A great Christmas gift for the Bride would be an evening away before madness/joy sets in. A local hotel, with dinner reservations at a fancy restaurant (a tier 1 place, I wouldn’t even take the beloved Princess to this one). The plan the next day: a leisurely stroll through the One Percenter’s Mall to retrieve a bauble for the Bride.

A great plan. I recommend it highly. Just not for us.

The first part of the evening went well, with champagne and an enormous muffin creation greeting us in the room. Dinner went smoothly, with exquisite wine choices to accompany the tasting menu. Retire to the lounge, complete with fireplace and huddle spaces, for a delightful single malt. Ok, so perhaps you can see the pattern here - but this is all within the safe confines of the One Percenter’s Mall Hotel, our obligations resolved for the moment; the homage to Bacchus was completely in order and, after all, in the spirit of the first Christmas.

While at dinner, I briefly wondered if perhaps I hadn’t gone a little over the top in ordering the turn-down service with rose petals. This step, I do not recommend. The next morning, and I mean early the next morning, those petals are just little weird spaces throughout the bed, disturbing in both texture and their relatively cool temperature. Seriously, skip the petals.

We returned to the room around midnight, where I introduced the petal-covered bed with a flourish and a pleasantly familiar tune. Actually, I hadn’t planned the tune part. What serendipity! The Bride answered her phone, resolving that mystery.

On the other end of the phone, my mother. Mumsie, my name for the formidable intellect who challenges me often - a veritable force of nature wearing a Mom disguise. Who had fallen in her home around 6 pm, been transported to the hospital for observation shortly afterwards, but who waited until midnight to tell us of her situation - she was fully aware of the evening plans and didn’t want to ruin dinner. But now the news was updated: the early diagnosis was benign, the doctor would see her around 3 am to discharge her, and we would need to take her home shortly thereafter. At this point in delivering her news, my mother began to visualize the evening confronting the Bride. The mental image was too much for dear Mumsie, and she began to giggle. She was on a borrowed phone, next to the nurse’s station, and her laugh is (and always has been) infectious. My New York Irish mother, who taught me more Yiddish than one would reasonably imagine, began to riff for her audience. Mumsie acting out her inner Catskill comic.

“Tell John I hope he hasn’t already taken the Viagra!”

“Oh, tell me there aren’t rose petals on the bed. If there are rose petals, I think I’ll fall down again laughing. Are there rose petals?”

The Bride was stoic throughout. We resolved to grab a few hours’ sleep, and the fermented grapes in my belly agreed. Mumsie never did get a bed that evening; she had, of course, a much more unpleasant evening. (Thanks to socialized medicine, however, she got by more cheaply than me.) When the phone rang again around 6 am, the Bride answered cheerfully. My mother, still in the hospital hallway, greeted her with a giggly “Oh, don’t sound so put upon.” To be fair, she wasn’t sounding put upon, but also to be fair: Medicare doesn’t cover rose petals for Mumsie’s gurney.

We delivered Mumsie to the comfort of her home, and returned to the hotel. We had ordered late checkout, and had the room until 1 thirty. By 9 thirty, we were fast asleep, determined to enjoy a few hours in the luxury accommodations. Noon finds us enjoying the brunch, and by 1 we are strolling the One Percenter’s Mall - bleary-eyed but determined to look pampered and rested.

When the holidays began in earnest, Mumsie shared her end of the phone conversations, and two nuggets: 1) It turns out Mumsie used to print out these blog posts and share them with friends (who live, apparently, in the 19th century); and 2) she requested I not blog about this. As just the next battle in our ongoing mother-son wars, I decided on the spot to restart this moldering blog site, and include this very story early in the new year. Oh, and Mumsie? Your baby is still Viagra-free. Just saying.

iSick

2012-01-11T08:28:00.000-08:00

In the Facebook era, where I ‘shared’ this on my ‘wall,’ I have no idea where I got the accompanying graphic. I apologize to the original author, who by now has forgotten their Facebook password, no doubt. (Update: noted something similar on www.someecards.com, no idea which came first. Used without permission, contact me if you own this and object.)

ANYWAY.

I have attention deficit disorder. There, I said it. I have Adult Onsite ADD, or AO-ADD. Actually, when in the throes of distraction, I add rage. So, really: AO-ADD/R.

As you may have guessed, I have never been diagnosed with anything along these lines. But in this age of iSick, who needs doctors? The internet meme matches my self-image, ergo ipso facto. I download apps to keep lists of what I fail to achieve in the Cloud. My failure to tend to these lists, until I clear all tasks as “completed” six months later (which gives me a dopamine kick, I can’t lie); reinforces my self-diagnosis. iSick. My doctor has recently added a pricey option to send him (up to) three emails a month; but WebMD is much easier and rarely asks me to bend over and hold on.

My latest attack (of AO-ADD/R, not bending over...focus!) came while trying to book airline travel to Reno, Nevada for April. Online booking is one of the great innovations of our age, but for The Distracted it is a minefield of mistakes. “Shall I email your itinerary to the Renault Winery, located in the South Jersey Pine Barrens?” AUGH! I am also traveling to Boston in March, and came VERY close to being in the right places at the wrong times. Twice. Must focus. I read once of a man who booked a flight to Oakland, CA and woke up in Auckland, NZ. I wonder what level of R he reached that day?

The Bride wanders over, our ears feeling one another’s heat. “You’re hovering, love.” “I’m just...” There is no verb in this sentence, really. Helping? No. Looking? Obvious. Testing your ability to concentrate? Most assuredly. Monitoring? Honest. “Why didn’t you choose that cheaper flight?” “Because it routes through Chicago, the same airport that featured prominently in my 26-hour travel day from Poland to DC. Love the city, despise the airport.” “Oh.” And I return to my task, trying to recall the airport code for Gdansk.

Then this: “Hey, Lynne says there will soon be direct service from Reagan to Little Rock!” My brain is derailed utterly. “New information, must process! How does this help our task for April travel? Is it cheaper to go through Little Rock? What’s the Polish demographic in Boston? WHY IS SHE TELLING US THIS?”

There is no answer. Soon, cranial vapor lock (CVL) sets in. A faint cloud of R begins to seep around the edges. Oddly, I have a hard time hiding this from her. And now I have a new problem, for which I apologize quickly. I once saw a friend of mine, let’s call him Peter because that’s his name, at an ATM machine. I noted him quietly navigating the screen, then as I passed, he suddenly screamed “ENGLISH!” Now, Peter is not xenophobic, rather he is a talented software engineer who knows the following:

The ATM software is smart enough to read your name from the magnetic strip in the card and display it to you.
The ATM software knows enough that, if you prove you own the card with a simple four-digit response, it can access all of your money, display recent transactions, and turn into a magic currency dispenser.
This same ATM software believes, every time, that you may suddenly have changed your native language.

So while we are focused on “which account, how much cash do I need, how much cash should I take out to make the absurd fee worthwhile, I can see myself in the screen how many chins do I have now...” we are forced to declare our native tongue - something that neuroscientists tell us is established in utero. Derailed brains rage on.

We are blessed by technology. And wives, even though when notified of this blog posting, my Bride asked if I could, in honor of Phyllis Diller, just start calling her Fang. Anyway, we are blessed by technology. That’s what I’m trying to say.

Baby Steps

2012-01-04T16:17:00.000-08:00

When we got the last of the three grandchildren launched from a manageable state of belly wobble, through a pathetic crawl state that consisted of her dragging a leg behind her a la “Christine’s World,” then pulling up, and finally into her fully mobile walking stage, we all cheered her first uncertain steps. I will never understand parents who rush this stage, in fact I know a few who would gently and discreetly engage in toddler-tipping to delay the inevitable, but as grandparents - that’s why we’re here. We never tire of watching our kids become as ragged and as gray as they made us. If you live that long, you win.

But this isn’t what drives me to the keyboard today. Rather, it is another of my personal baby steps, achieved earlier today. You see, I unclogged a drain. Those who know me have fallen from their chairs, Let’s give them a second to recover.

The Bride was cleaning up after an epic holiday week that featured assorted loin-fruit from each Coast, and the ritualistic eating and imbibing that accompanies, by necessity, said visits. The week featured several present-opening occasions, an episode of grilling, much pasta, and the dreaded shrimp mold. It is this last that forced me to take another of my baby steps towards Manhood. After sitting and plotting against me for days in the fridge, it was one of the Forgotten Tupperware Dishes that were piled high on the counter, awaiting its destiny with the disposal. Because it is shrimp mold, suitable for use as building material, its time in the disposal consisted of traveling a foot or so, then adhering to the pipe and then to passing debris. Before long, none passed.

Sheepishly, the Bride retrieved me to review the damage. A sink half filled with pink fluid, in which floated bits of horror, and a smell that unleashed itself and headed directly for the couch. Soon, the house smelled like the inside of a dead prawn. And not in a good way. “Get the Drano,” says I, treating every household problem as an excuse to engage in chemical warfare. I am the Chemical Ali of my home, assaulting so much as ladybug with a white layer of Raid death, and possessing the highly-sought after wasp-killing variant as well - which kills at 30 feet. Trust me.

Once the Drano did its part to reduce the half-life of my plumbing, to no avail, I consulted the Googles. They told me an interesting fact: Baking soda and vinegar can be used, along with a plunger, to remove clogs. The effect resembles a science-fair volcano, but the homeowner is advised NOT to release the volcano; instead you are expected to send it flying into the pipes, where you are assured it will take out any clog, including - I hoped - prawn puree. “Call the plumber,” said the voice of reason in my head, but for some reason I heard myself say: Do we have baking soda and vinegar?

A mission to obtain these materials was launched, and although I was given time to come to my sense and call the Real Men of Roto-Rooter, I began the recipe of death that would send my pink tormenter to Gray Water Hell. Add dry baking soda to the disposal. Then, prepared to cap both the disposal smell-hole and the connected sink, pour in the vinegar and seal with your body weight. I did this, feeling pressure on both hands pushing to be free as unmentionable horror gurgled below and threatened to paint my ceiling. “How long does this take,” I asked belatedly, arms quivering from the strain.

“30 minutes.” Oh.

Happily, the majority of the battle took only 10 or so minutes. During which time we brewed a kettle of water. This followed the first wave assault into the drain, and I heard Amityville Horror sounds from deep within a house for which I had never before used the word “bowels.” Manning the Play-tex gloves and a plunger with a feature I am not permitted to describe here, along with safety goggles, I leaned my weight into the sink. After 5 minutes or so, we heard victory. A gurgling, freeing sound that went on for far too many seconds, representing the beast’s descent into Hell.

I am far too pleased with this baby step. I saved coin, and not just any coin: Plumber’s coin. I cheered my victory, dumping milk over my head and embracing the Bride as if it were VE-Day in Times Square. I was along in this euphoria, but I didn’t care. I had vanquished pink death, and now savor my triumph, alone with my thoughts and a single question.

What else could go wrong? Happy New Year...

A Murder

2008-10-28T07:38:00.000-07:00

"Honey?"

"Yes?"

Silence. This the unmistakable sign that I am being summoned, this is not a conversation but a command appearance. I walk to the back of the house, where the Bride stands in the kitchen.

"Listen to the birds."

Sure enough, a monstrous flock of black birds are infesting every mother-loving tree in my neighborhood - chatting up a storm.

Cool! An opportunity to observe flock adaptive behavior! Hey Bride, watch this!

I open the back door slowly, making not a sound. The din is quite impressive as I stand on my deck, decidedly under-dressed for the October morning air. Cupping my hands, I clap three times in rapid succession, my best impression of a semi-automatic rifle.

The twittering stops immediately as the birds immediately depart their branches and fly off. Each bird instinctively moves away from the sound waves and converge quickly according to some mysterious force into a coherent fluid blob headed South. As one, their conversation is instantly less important than flight. Brilliant! (And yes, I intentionally just used the word "twittering" to test some human flocking behavior...)

I turn back to my Bride, who stands glaring. She Is Not Pleased. It appears this is another in a long list of situations for which I was summoned, but not for heroic action.

I still don't know why she summoned me, but I'm no longer certain I should ask.

It's quiet again. Too quiet.

Context

2008-10-11T08:23:00.000-07:00

"Did you set the alarm?"

Why no, honey. I didn't.

"Why not!?"

Because it's Friday night, and tomorrow is therefore Saturday.

"But you set it every night!!!"

No, that's not true. I telecommute, rarely have to get up early except for schlepping to meetings downtown. Also, sorry if I forgot this, but TOMORROW IS SATURDAY.

"Oh, I meant the door alarm, not the alarm clock."

Context. I spend much of my day begging for context.

My right shoulder has been in pain for about a year. Rotator cuff, according to my masseuses, but no official diagnosis. Comes and goes. I've learned to be careful with certain movements, and I reposition it when the pain wakes me up at 3 a.m. No biggie.

Yesterday, sitting on the deck as 17-month old grandchild stands at top of stairs leaning against plastic rail. Rail gives way (he's a big boy), and he begins to body surf down the stairs towards the bricks below. I watch fascinated as someone's right arm grabs his pants at the waist, and pulls him from the tumbling plastic.

This morning, I realize that arm was mine. The one I have been so careful with for over a year. In context, I'm OK with the "choice" made in a different context. The rotator cuff worked as needed. One purpose for my arms to keep my children and grandchildren safe from harm.

And their sole purpose, apparently, is to give me a fucking heart attack.

Lost in Translation

2007-05-17T07:59:00.000-07:00

I owe my small circle of gentle readers an update regarding the SouthEast Driving Tour of '07, but need to first get this one out. The tour ended in some tragedy, with a dear cousin of my bride's passing away suddenly, early on the morning of her daughter's wedding. That event overshadowed the comedy of the first nine days of the Tour, but I have been encouraged by a friend to document the days anyway.

Which I shall do.

But first.

We extended our Tour for one day to allow raw feelings to recover and reflect. However, this created a scheduling conflict, in that we would not be home for our appointed house-cleaning. My bride phoned the gentle lady from Bolivia who has cleaned our home for nearly seven years. Rather than simply saying "we need to reschedule," however, my beloved provided more detail than our gentle lady required. I was not present for the conversation, but the facts that were to have been conveyed were:

"My cousin passed away suddenly, and we will be staying here an extra day."

According to Shannon Information Theory, there are several steps to communication, including "coding, transmission, decoding." Some, shall we say, 'packet loss,' occurred during one or more of those phases. When Arkansas chatted with Bolivia, the simple message above did not get through. I do not know what Bolivia heard, but Arkansas reported some confusion after the fact. The gentle Bolivian seemed genuinely alarmed, and - in the words of my bride - said something that sounded like "...so healthy!"

How do I know?

Because yesterday, in the mail, there came a lovely sympathy card, entitled: "With Sympathy: In the Loss of Your Husband." [emphasis mine, here and out loud at the time of the reading] I read the card in fascination, reading the kind words of someone who thought I was no more. Then I became seriously creeped out.

My bride dashed to the phone in horror and quickly corrected the confusion. For her part, the gentle lady was both relieved and apologetic - unnecessarily, of course we owe her an apology of some size. That said, it would be a much larger apology had I followed the advice of my daughter: "Why not just wait until the next appointment, and then just wander through the house wearing a sheet?"

I can't believe that little prankster is a mom now. I'm so very very proud.

Ask Not For Whom the Disc Chirps

2007-04-15T08:04:00.000-07:00

I have a very Compliant Home. Built after the Y2K cataclysms, it has Argon gas in the window panes, fire extinguishers on every level, and smoke detectors every ten feet.

It is this last fact that led to my grumpiness one day last week. As anyone who has lived in a Compliant Home can attest, smoke detectors are wired into the home's electricity, with a 9-volt battery for backup so we can be protected in the event of a power failure. (A cruel gesture, to my thinking, since my SUV will be trapped behind a garage door whose automatic door opener will be non-functioning during a power failure. What's the point of getting me out of bed if I can't flee in style?) While I have an portal clock in my bathroom that has been running on the same batteries since 1990, these backup smoke detector batteries - who by definition are called upon to be ready to function not more than a few hours a year - need to be replaced every year.

And never during the day. No, these demonic discs are programmed to issue a single, high-decibel chirp when the batteries "need" to be replaced. Not a signal that's long enough to indicate which blasted disc is complaining, mind you, just an indication that one of the 200 devices in my home needs attention. Over the past six years, my wife and I have stood silent in stairwells during a half-dozen midnights, waiting for chirps so we could triangulate the signal and identify the malcontent. These are not regular beeps. There is no discernible pattern to the time in between the chirps, and the device continues to have a steady green light no matter its condition. So the only way to find the suffering disc is to be standing under it when it chirps.

As someone slightly familiar with technology, let me just say that if the evil detector manufacturers changed that helpful steady green light to a steady red during this condition, my life would be easier. Make no mistake, unlike driveway ice dams, this malady is avoidable.

So it was during one midnight this week, the chirps began. This time, however, it was coming from the detector located in my bedroom. This one is easy! Replace the battery, and I'm back under the covers in minutes.

chirp.

Oh. I guess it was the one located six feet from the first one, in the hallway outside the bedroom. No matter, replace that battery, and I'm back in minutes.

chirp.

The moment one loses emotional control is always an unsettling time. There is a high correlation between these moments and the second one begins to lose an argument. Decisions should not be made, and words should not be said following this tipping point of blood flow.

Following my decision to utter some of those ill-chosen words, my Bride quietly and reassuringly escorted me to a bedroom far from the idiotic chirping. I later learned she tried unsuccessfully to tape over the speaker for the device, and pulled them off the ceiling, but stopped short of disconnecting them from the wiring. She can be a saint some nights.

She joined me in the front bedroom, and closed the door. But somewhere during the early morning hours, my Compliant Home's technology opened up a second front in its attack on my REM cycles. The air conditioning stopped working. Well, that's a bit strong. Actually, the programmable thermostat decided to override its settings and go Green. To whit, it reset the meaning of "room temperature" to 80F. By 3:30 am, I was up again, quickly reaching the Bad Word threshold this time, throwing open the door to improve airflow.

chirp.

I storm from the front bedroom and stride manfully to the battlefield. Climbing the aluminum ladder, I (surprisingly) carefully disconnected both detectors and marched them down to our basement, placing them in the least desirable room in my home: the mechanical room, next to our water heater. (Days later, my Bride called me to ask where they were. I answered her, and she asked "Why??" I hung up on her.)

Returning to the doorway of my bedroom, with wires dangling from ceiling wounds. I then tackle the thermostat, and order it to achieve 69F immediately. Collapsing in my (own) bed, I smile at the carnage I have wrought and my renewed control of my environment.

chirp. chirp.

I am now in awe. I slowly climb the ladder to peer into the bedroom ceiling wound. Was there some other device up there? How on Earth can this sound still be happening? My scientific curiousity calmed my otherwise natural state of rage. As I examined bare wires, from behind me - not from the direction of the hallway detector hole - there came a sound.

chirp.

I slowly turned to the armoire. There, sitting atop that majestic edifice, sat the CO2 detector we placed there two years ago. The LED showed a picture of a battery with an X through it, clearly indicating its death rattle. Because my life apparently must be entertaining, the audible alarm is set to precisely the same duration and frequency of my 200 smoke detectors.

Life has returned to normal now. My Compliant Home is once again under control. Marshalling its forces, no doubt, for the next episode.

Ice Ice Baby

2007-02-15T17:11:00.000-08:00

The “wintry mix” fell on Wednesday, Valentine’s Day, and eventually resulted in two inches of a slushy frozen mess. I waited for the afternoon “sun” to “burn through” and soften the mixture before attempting to shovel. Even still, the best I could do without suffering heart failure was the requisite sidewalk effort and a narrow path to my door for my friends Fed Ex and UPS. I glanced at the ice berm that the road plow had thoughtfully created at the end of my driveway and idly considered the macho joy I would get from blasting through it on Thursday morning.

Thursday dawned at 19 degrees Fahrenheit. This is up from the 11 degree overnight low, but still – according to AccuWeather – damned cold. Late for a meeting, I opened the garage, warmed the car, and prepared for the cinematic-quality explosion of snow that would follow as I hurtled towards the ice berm at roughly 15 MPH.

As you can imagine, the ice won.

The SUV instead partially crested the immovable berm, and then ceased its progress as the rear wheels came to rest 18 inches above the street surface and the front wheels wisely decided to rescind that whole “All Wheel Drive” marketing hoo hah. Stuck. Perched. The final photo in one of those interminable emails, as in: “two inches of ice – free. Berm created by snowplows – included in HOA fee. SUV left high and silly – priceless.”

I called roadside assistance, and was forced to hold for a few minutes while my Indian friend put the call on speaker for his colleagues to enjoy (Just because I’m paranoid does not mean people aren’t laughing at me). I was told to wait patiently for two hours while my New Delhi buddy shopped the YouTube rights.

My neighbor is a Real Man. By this, I mean one of those guys who never found out that the Revenge of the Nerds should be seen now as the presage of the Knowledge Age. The Nerds really did win. A friend of mine graduated from Northwestern, back when they were horrendous in football. Successful teams would come to Northwestern to rack up an easy win, with taunting signs and chants. The Northwestern students eventually responded with signs that said, and I’m paraphrasing: “You should be nice to us, you’ll be working for us after you graduate.”

My Real Man neighbor chose a different path. Instead, he pursued a career that constitutes a Real Job. He’s an airline pilot, providing tangible value to clients every day. He ends each shift having helped people achieve their objectives, and I’m fairly certain he has never once used PowerPoint to do it. Can you imagine?

Meanwhile, the inside of my home began to get chilly. As my bride began to realize that her dinner plans may be disrupted, the temperature began to drop precipitously. Yes, I had a luxury SUV rocking atop an ice pedestal, but she received that news with relative calm. Once she realized that my failure to dig us out yesterday may interfere with her dinner plans – the conversation took an ugly turn.

I went outside to wait for the roadside assistance. Two hours in 19F weather was preferable to hearing bon mots such as “I notice our neighbors have not only cleared, but dry driveways.”
As I stood considered my SUV, tilting slightly to starboard, my Real Man pilot neighbor comes lumbering over with – I am not making this up – a pickaxe. Whereas I had been tickling the berm with my dirt shovel (I actually own two, what is that about?), RM arrived with the right tool. He began hacking into the two-foot ice berm, subduing it with each stroke. As he approached the car, I warned him back. After all, clearing the ice would re-introduce gravity to the equation, and I had no desire to see RM pinned under my menacing SUV. No problem, RM has another tool. He returns to his home, and reappears shortly (this itself is amazing, it would take me a few days to find most of my ‘tools’) with a “digging tool.” This is a five-foot iron pole that resembles a pike. The label said, “Digging Tool.” Which, I should add, is clearer than the US Army’s designation for shovels (‘entrenchment tool”). I asked why he had such a thing, and he responded incredulously: “I dig.”

Oh yeah. My Real Man neighbor also built his own deck. As he hoisted the (easily 20lb) pike, I hefted the pickaxe and tried not to think about the brick sidewalk that lay entombed under the ice monster I was manfully dismantling. My bride appeared at the door periodically, to thank him for helping and to remind me that I shouldn’t overexert myself. It’s entirely possible that I shared with RM the following: had he not shown up when he did, I may have been at his door requesting assistance with a more challenging, albeit shallow, digging project in my backyard.

She’s at dinner now, my slightly bruised SUV sits whimpering in its garage, and – as people have done throughout history – I sip my sauvignon blanc and thank the creator for Real Men.

Widow’s Pique

2007-01-21T10:24:00.000-08:00

Years ago, I used to be compared to Eddie Munster. I had a pronounced Widow’s Peak, a triangle of dark hair pointing down the slope of my nose – a NASCAR-worthy facial airfoil. I also used to have epidermal eruptions and a near-obsession with those exquisite and baffling creatures called “girls.”

Well, I’ve lost my Widow’s Peak. Androgenetic alopecia reared its ugly head. Literally.

(Quick poll, how many readers just took a quick Google/Wikipedia break?)

The emergence of the unwelcome scalp began as a flanking maneuver, as the hairpoint retreated more slowly than its sides. Meanwhile, a rearguard action was underway at the crown, an unrelenting sweep across the top of my head that I first believed few noticed. Like many short men, this required a denial not only of others’ visual acuity but also of my relative position vis a vie their line of sight.

I realized a few years ago that my Widow’s Peak would someday become an island. Global warming would result in a rising scalp tide, covering the haired area with a pink sea and leaving only the highest points above water. Determined not to become a comb-over hero (admittedly, my only option would result in a look worthy of a bearded troll doll), I planned for a day when my personal Tuft Management would require not a comb, not clippers, but a genuine vibrating Gillette Mach 3.

Several things brought me to this day, obviously. But I blame one event over all others.
My daughter (yes, the married one!) is due in May. I will be a grandfather, a grandpa, a grampa, a pops, a papa, a peepaw, etc. To continue to maintain my fading Tuft Island is just silly, an immature grab on a vanished youth. So today, I took action. Tuft Island has suffered a tsunami.

Minutes later, as if nature and all her greenhouse gases had been waiting for this moment, it began to snow.

Ok, ok.

2007-01-06T14:23:00.000-08:00

So I have the honor of attending a memorial service today for a friend and mentor. After a few thoughtful folk shared their memories, the hostess asked if anyone else would like to say a few words. She then looked directly at me, and I wondered why. Then I saw my hand in the air. Must develop better gross motor skills in 2007.

One thing I had forgotten was that I had shared this little exercise in vanity with my departed friend. She had gleefully forwarded it on to some of her friends, and to her family as well. When she told me this a year ago, I briefly thought of past bloggings regarding certain medical conditions, and quietly hoped she had only shared the URL - not ever associating it with my name.

No such luck. After the service, as I departed, a strikingly beautiful and elegant young woman approached me with purpose. "Mr _____?" "Yes..." She then said neither hello nor her name, but instead said with a broad smile, "Try the Veal and Tip Your Bartender. You blog far too infrequently." My delightful friend had the last laugh. I expected nothing less.

So ok. I'm back. See you in a bit. And thanks, Melissie. For everything.

How Bored Are You?

2006-12-19T16:29:00.000-08:00

Hey. How ya been? Here's a holiday treat: Head over to Wikipedia. In the search box, enter your birth month and day - but not year.

See what's happened on your birthday. Pick out the highlights, list the top five momentous events.

Or, if you're lucky like me, perhaps it's best to not do this...

1) 1782 - Gnadenhütten massacre: Almost 100 Native Americans in Gnadenhutten, Ohio had their skulls crushed with mallets by Pennsylvanian militiamen.

2) 1906 - Moro Crater Massacre: U.S. troops occupying the Philippines massacre about 600 men, women and children taking refuge in a crater.

3) 1918 - The first case of Spanish flu occurs, the start of a devastating pandemic.

4) 1950 - The Soviet Union claims to have an atomic bomb.

5) 1965 - Vietnam War: 3,500 United States Marines arrive in South Vietnam, becoming the first American combat troops in Vietnam.

6) 1971 - Joe Frazier defeats Muhammad Ali in the first of three epic bouts. Frazier defends the world Heavyweight title in a star-studded Madison Square Garden. - Yay, I remember this one! Lying in my bed, with an AM radio pressed to my ear in the dark, listening to the bout as Joe FRAY-shur took on the mighty Ali. One of maybe three great childhood memories.

I know I said five, but I had to get to six in order to find one that didn't add to the argument that my date of birth should be expunged from all future calendars.

So. How YOU guys been?

Hey Kids, Lets Put On a Show!

2006-09-20T15:57:00.000-07:00

My bride attended a show yesterday. A small, intimate theater that apparently resembled one of those off-off Broadway settings. The props consisted of a medical table and associated gear, along with a large projection screen. The protagonists were a medical technician and our pregnant niece.

Yes. She attended a sonogram. A private firm offers this unique product, the opportunity to discover the sex of your child along with friends and family. The image is in “3D” and, as my bride related it, “4D!” I’ve been pondering that ever since. Perhaps the time dimension has been added, and the audience enjoyed watching the infant graduate high school? The tension built as the technician prodded and tickled the poor fetus, trying to get it into what was delicately termed “position.” “Come on, honey, show us what you’ve got…”

At long last, the technician smiled and said, “Well, *I* know what we have here. Let me try to get a better picture.” She would manipulate the machinery and the belly in front of her, occasionally freezing the snapshot when she had a good shot. Finally, she had her moment. The image froze, and she annotated for the audience: “It’s a girl!” The images will be, and I wish I were making this up, made available when the DVD is produced.

My bride, being among the more curious creatures, asked, “So is that the ‘W’ shape I’m seeing?” “Yes, ma’am. See, she’s laying on her side, and that’s what we like to call ‘the hamburger.’ Medical professionals should not say everything they’re thinking. Of all the professions among us, these folk need fairly strict filters. But no. “And that’s the fetal clitoris.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking. And I agree, that is a great name for a band. But if I wasn’t creeped out by the time she got to this part of the story, I promise I learned that last awkward phrase as I rocked under my chair, hands to my ears in alarm. Regarding the signs of the Apocalypse, an audience for your sonogram has to be at least in the zip code of the Beast. Identity theft? Privacy? How about Geraldo’s camera lights in the womb you’ve come to call home? Yes, I know no lights were used, but you can’t tell me the child wasn’t aware that she would learn to hate her parents a bit sooner than most of us. While my wife was learning new meanings for familiar food words, the rest of the assemblage strained to make out the details. Suddenly, the child turned and provided an unmistakable full frontal picture. In my mind’s eye, it was her first act of resignation to exasperating adults. “Fine, is that what you need to see? Will you leave me alone now?”

The next step was to film the child’s face. They got to count the requisite fingers and toes, which I suppose is a good thing. When my son was born, I did eventually count these things – although I first checked for opposable thumbs. My ex-wife’s family tree invited some random genetics, and let’s just say I was relieved to be wrong. This poor thing was twisting and turning her face “into the placenta,” refusing to be photographed. According to my bride, all concerned agreed that given her performance – she must have been embarrassed.

I’m going to get along with this kid after all.

Voir, Dear

2006-08-31T15:45:00.000-07:00

If you vote often enough, there is a prize: jury duty. The opportunity to become a minor god, and decide the fate of one of your ‘peers’ who has run afoul of the judicial system. We gather at 8 am, 80+ of us, surprisingly calm as we have all prepared ourselves to sit in a room out of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” and pray we aren’t selected as jurors for the next Moussaoui. Someone pointed out to me that this is one of the times you are forced to co-exist and interact (because we often endure the former while assiduously avoiding the latter) with citizenry that we would otherwise never notice on the street. Other times include nursing homes and high school. I’m picky, and I’m ok with that.

I have, stupidly, arranged a little weekend jaunt to Las Vegas to clear my head. The flight takes off around noon the day after my jury duty, meaning that if I am assigned to a trial, and that trial takes more than a day – I will be out some cash on my non-refundable ticket and grumpy. It’s not business travel, so I can’t in all honesty ask to reschedule. Instead, I roll the dice and hope I’m not picked.

We endure a brief absurd video, where far too much time is taken up explaining the steps necessary for us to successfully arrive by 8 am. It reminded me of the airline safety speeches, which always begin with telling a plane full of strapped in passengers how to strap themselves in. Back in the jury area, a friendly but armed man calls out names from his roster. I do not make the first list, a subset of which I later learn is assigned to a civil case that will last several days. Instead, I am on the other roster. Headed to the criminal floor. The first 20 of us are interrogated by the judge and counsels.

The Perky Prosecutor asks who among us has been the victim of a crime. Hands go up, and we are each questioned about whether our experience left us with “hard feelings” towards the police or judicial system. Oddly, most of my fellow potential jurors harbor ill will instead towards the people who committed the crime upon their person or property. Another thing you won’t learn on cable television.
The defense counsel does not plan to argue that his client is innocent, rather that he is a druggie and prone to stupid behavior. So his questions involve gems such as: “Has anyone ever been affected by someone in their lives who have used drugs or alcohol?” 19 hands shoot up, and he questions each of us in turn about our feelings regarding these situations. The client is accused of stealing a cheap item from a department store, so another one of his questions is: “Has anyone ever worked in retail?” I get the idea that this man would rather spend all day interrogating us than having to begin representing his hapless client. My only contribution is to reveal the blood chemistry likely coursing through the veins of two of my siblings, and honestly answer that no, this does not make me dislike drug addicts as a rule. The time comes to be chosen, and the clerk reads out the names of those who do not make the team. Human nature being as unpredictable as it is, I am delighted to be unnamed and therefore seated as part of this jury. A Vegas showgirl briefly whispers an epithet somewhere in my brain, but I shush her.

The only gentleman to never raise his hand, and therefore to never speak to either the prosecutor or the defense counsel, is dismissed. Let this be a lesson to you: Admit to having some life history if you want to sit in judgment of your fellow man.

It is surreal to leave my house in comfortable business casual wear, drive a few miles, read the paper and before lunch: find myself hearing the life details of a man who depends on 12 of us to find out how the rest of his life will go. Or at least the next 0-5 years. It does make one pay attention. It turns out this young man was discovered stealing a cheap item from a department store – but this wasn’t his first time. In fact, it wasn’t his second time. And if you do things like this more than twice in our jurisdiction, you graduate to Felony University. We must first decide his guilt after a very brief theatrical display of the obvious.

In the deliberation room, we first elect the foreman, a gentle and funny nurseman. We then face our decisions, is he 1) not guilty, 2) guilty of petty larceny, or 3) guilty of petty larceny with two or more priors? Actually, we were confronted with four priors, including two where our hero was more enterprising and stole items valued at more than $200. These events, because of their value, earned him convictions on grand larceny: which is a felony. The foreman begins signing the third option, looking up briefly to ask, “we agree, right?” Well, yes, but I would like to first be able to say I actually SAW the conviction paperwork. Call me crazy. So the prior convictions are passed around, and yes, this gentleman has been a guest of the court system for some time. And he has been sent to get his GED, to attend drug counseling, to complete an intervention program, etc. He even served a month in a jail. And yet here we are.

We come back in, and announce our verdict. No one displays emotion, but because I asked to see the paperwork I’m sure we took longer than anyone expected, and my Perky Prosecutor was no doubt beginning to consider other career fields. And now, it’s the sentencing phase. Which looks a lot like the trial phase, except this time the Prosecution offers no new evidence and the Defense finally presents theirs: the hapless defendant takes the stand.

This was an obvious choice, but nevertheless a bad one. He showed no remorse for his completely odd habit of stealing relatively cheap strange things so he could “sell it.” He not only admitted to drug use, but when the PP asked him what drugs he had tried, he was momentarily stunned by the amount of data flooding his brain. You could tell it would have been easier for him to name what he had NOT tried. “Oh, geez. Cocaine, heroine, you know. Pretty much everything.”

The jury is not expected to show any visible signs of life while in the box, but this tidbit did bring a “woah” from the gentleman to my right. No one reacted, probably because everyone in the room except the Hapless One realized at that moment that they would be on time for dinner. And I would make my Vegas flight. My showgirl resumed her dancing.

We find ourselves back in the deliberation room, where I make my stand: “Ok, this guy has tried rehab, counseling, school, and jail. Time for a new experience. As the judge told us, jail is for 12 months or less, prison for 1-5. I say one solid year in prison. It was a cheap item, but this guy needs to dry out. Maybe prison is different enough to get his attention” Six of us agree. Three are holding out for rehab. “I’d rather send him to in-patient rehab.” Well yes, and I would like to slap him with the PP’s pearls, but I’m pretty sure we have to stick to the instructions. Nevertheless, we send that to the judge as a question. The answer comes back as “the jury will pay attention to what I friggin told it to consider.” Well, not in so many words, but at least when people kept bringing that up I was able to tell them that we already tried that route. We also asked the judge what was actually going to happen to the man. See, in reading the priors, we noticed that when he stole this item, he was on probation. Seems a prior jury decided Hapless One was worth five years in prison; but a prior judge had apparently made that probation. Trouble is, when you get arrested and convicted while on probation, you go back and serve the original sentence. Whatever we did, it looked like HO was headed to the hoosegow through the end of this decade. We asked that question, and were told, no surprise, “the jury will focus on the case before it.” We were not going to make Jury of the Quarter at this rate.

So now nine of us agree: one solid year in prison. There are three holdouts. A grandmother, and two stay-at-home moms. I mention this only because they volunteered their status, and because they represent segments of the population with whom I have nothing in common. (My first wife was a stay-at-home mom. ‘Nuff said.) Comments from these folk include, “it was a cheap item! We’re sending him to prison for a year for this?” “No,” we say, “for the pattern of behavior.” “But it was a cheap item!” The gentle funny nurseman rises from his chair, takes the priors, and carefully lays them out in front of a mom. “The next time you feel moved to say ‘cheap item,’ please look down at this.” I love this man.

Finally, the most strident mom (who was sitting next to me and at one point looked at me in disgust and said, “you still here?”) commits her fatal error: “Are you telling me we are punishing him AGAIN for those prior misdemeanors?” Excellent. “Yes, yes we are. And you’ve identified a fascinating discussion point. I encourage you to take up the question of the ‘three strikes’ law with your legislator. Who, I may point out, wrote this law. So, you see, while it may seem unfair to be punishing him again, the law says his pattern of behavior amounts to a felony. And this is his third felony. You found him guilty, you decided he was a three-time felon. He already can’t vote, tried rehab and Outward Bound or whatever, and jail. When exactly will you send him to prison?”

Home in time for dinner, and writing this the next day from 36,000 feet on my way to Vegas. No regrets. But nevertheless a sobering experience. I wish HO the very best, I did enjoy the untalented overacting of the PP, and defense counsel desparately needs one of those Scotches that James Spader and William Shatner enjoy at the end of each Boston Legal episode. But I’m not placing any bets that he’ll enjoy that anytime soon.

Listen to Your Doctor

2006-07-07T13:52:00.000-07:00

The nose is a wondrous place, proof of the creator’s genius and devotion to self-correcting systems.  Modern surgery, likewise, is a marvel of biological engineering – man’s intervention to correct systems damaged by trauma or a creator who nodded off while crafting your septum.  Oops.
Here’s what the bad man did to me, I’ll use layman’s terms because I am a layman and my nurse daughter refuses to help me here.  I only learned this a few days ago, and spent the bulk of my recovery time dimly aware of the details regarding my assault.
The septum is essentially a Maginot line, evenly bisecting the schnozz and providing for even airflow into each sinus chamber, protecting air from entering your nose and getting lost.  It is cartilage, surrounded by bone as you work your way back towards the back of your neck.  Make no mistake, this line is perpendicular to the ground, it starts at the tip of your nose and shoots all the into your inner thoughts.  In my case, deviate that I am, the line took a sharp jaunt towards Spain, effectively blocking the entire right sinus chamber from ever receiving airflow unless I sniffed.  The bone, ever a helpful splint, formed around the wayward line, never once stopping to warn that the nose was exposed to a German flanking maneuver.
In order to correct this birth defect (I’m applying for special tax status retroactively), the bad man peeled away my mucosa membrane, reached inside and cut the cartilage piece.  Took the bent piece out, and straightening it using “a thing we have that straightens it.”  What of the bone, you ask?  Well, the bone is cut into small bricks and removed.  Now follow me here.  The newly straightened cartilage is inserted, and the bone bricks are stacked on either side of it – the thought being the bone will reconnect, this time in a straight line, forming a permanent splint to keep the cartilage, or me, from ever wandering.
Oh, and because of the blood buildup, they actually leave part of the membrane, way far in the back, open on the bottom to allow the blood to drain in a manner that would please Vincent Price down the gullet.  So after surgery, you are left with the newly chastened hunk of cartilage, bone bricks stacked nicely along side, and a vent in the back of your throat.
So this is why the doctor said, “Don’t sneeze or blow your nose real hard for several weeks.”
And when I did both five nights after surgery, I needed a whole new level of painkiller.  There was a reason.  Did you guess what it was?
Yes.  I blew out a brick.
So after the sneeze, I have an obstruction.  No idea what it is, I blow hard.  It doesn’t help.  A little more, and I can suddenly breathe very well.  Until the blood starts up.  In my Kleenex, a bloody fingernail – upon further review, it actually is a fingernail-sized chunk o’ bone, complete with blood vessels.  My bride noticed this last detail, I was still shaking.
When I return to the doctor, gently asking him why he installed had a semi-automatic bone gun in my nose – he explained the procedure.  “Is it bad that I ejected a brick?  Should we put it back, it’s in my freezer?” He got that pained look he gets at least once a conversation, I’ve noticed.  “No, it’s fine.   But you’re bruised in there, and haven’t been inhaling enough saline.  If you’re not careful, you will create a hole right through the septum.  Come see me in a week, you should be fine, but it’s up to you.”
So if you see me shooting saline, I’m sorry.  I know it’s rude.  But it’s something I have to do to save my septal integrity.  If I develop that hole in the septum, not only will I develop a whistle that will bring coyote from afar, but the bone gun then becomes a two-barrel.  Even in Virginia, I’d have to register it as a weapon.

What They Don’t Tell You – Septoplasty and Inferior Turbinate Resection

2006-06-25T12:51:00.000-07:00

Well, that was an entertaining week. It turns out that “minor outpatient surgery” is only really minor for the surgeon and hospital. For the victim, it can be fairly major. I have dislocated my knee, had teeth knocked out, been through Basic Training, a bad marriage, and movies like The English Patient and Out of Africa. This, however, was the worst unrelenting pain I have ever experienced

In retrospect, it could have been worse. When reviewing the brochure for this procedure, I noted that the surgeon had the option of using “local” or “general” anesthesia. Then there was this description, I paraphrase: ‘If your procedure is performed using a local anesthesia, you will not feel any pain, but you will feel tugging and hear crunching.’ Fortunately, my surgeon prefers his patients comatose – I eagerly agreed. So I was, at least, spared the awareness of the surgery. Waking up was my first mistake.

However, I did sleep through the insertion of the splint and packing. Scott Adams (of Dilbert fame) characterized this procedure thus: “Apparently doctors shove a starving wolverine into one nostril, where it scratches and eats until it hits brain. Then they pull him out by his tail. Nurses stop the bleeding by packing each nostril with a queen size mattress that is carefully wrapped around a wino.” While I am forever grateful that I was not awake for insertion, I was not thrilled to slowly realize the size and depth of the intruders during the days following the surgery.

As the initial and comical swelling began to subside, I realized that the Intruder (Figure 1, approx 3 inches long) inserted to hold my new septum in place were sized for a larger nose – I’m guessing Billy Joel’s – as my nose began to return to its original shape, the Intruders’ presence became impossible to ignore. In addition to the torture device depicted above, the physician added what can best be described as a nose tampon, complete with a handy string, which floated nobly in my moustache for two days. Despite the horror I knew would ensue, it was very difficult not to give in to the very human urge to yank.

While post-surgical pain-killers are a great idea, they are not as useful when applied to combat pain that is still being inflicted. Tylenol is a wonder drug, but if your head is in a vise, it will be of limited use in relieving that headache. I began to count down the hours and minutes until I was to give birth to the Intruders who were causing me such grief. I will spare you that description – but by then, it was worth it. I will not spare you, however, the small intruders left behind. It turns out the septoplasty is performed by cutting the lining of my nose, peeling it back and inserting long metal rods with which the bad man hurt me. When he was done, he left sutures to seal the lining. These sutures are, allegedly, “dissolving.” At this stage, however, they resemble and behave exactly like small twisted bits of barbed wire in my nose. At some point, they’ll rust. Hopefully not during a client meeting.

So I wasn’t told about the various Intruders. I also wasn’t told about the distorted sense of smell. In doing some research, it seems that 87% of people experience an increased/better sense of smell after correcting a deviated septum. However, while my nose is getting better, I’ve discovered something interesting about food. Eggs smell like feet, orange juice has no smell, and red wine smells like diesel fuel. This last is troubling, as it has removed my interest in wine for the time being. My plan for this Sunday, therefore, is to engage in tasting all manner of alcohol in my house in order to see if any are palatable. If not, I suppose I’m done drinking.

Heaven help you all.

To Spite My Face

2006-06-17T08:26:00.000-07:00

Someone needs to update the WebMD and NIH web resources. The cure for Bell’s Palsy is not found in the typical regimen of steroids and anti-virals – but also includes two solid weeks on a Caribbean beach. Do that, and apparently you’ll be fine. As it happens, I pursued this complete therapeutic path. Today, drooping no more, I return revitalized and renewed from my rehabilitation. No, not a vacation, my dear accountant, but a rehabilitation! Burned, exhausted, and hung-over, I return.

But first, a final “I’m cured!” visit to my ENT. After a brief examination, he agreed that my recovery was pretty much complete and credited the rapid delivery of medical care following initial symptoms. (So there. I told you there was time for dinner and a glass of wine after discovering I couldn’t blink. Take that, hysterical wife.) The examination by the ENT involved observation of every orifice my head has to offer, to include my nemesis – my nose. The home of my childhood hay fever, the persistent buzzing gnat in front of me, and the home now to one of the few inappropriate places that remember how to grow hair.

Satisfied with the miracle of modern medicine (although we still have no idea what causes or cures BP), he turned away to his notes, muttering a phrase. Sensing a plot twist, I asked him to repeat himself. “I said, ‘I guess you decided not to have that fixed.’”

“What fixed?”

“Your deviated septum.”

“I have a deviated septum?”

“A gross deviated septum, yes.”

“First off, you’re kidding me. Also, there’s no need to be graphic here.”

At this point, my dear patient doctor paused, established eye contact, and explained: “my board certification is in otolaryngology, and this condition of yours is my specialty. You have a gross deviated septum, by which I mean the entire right sinus cavity is blocked by a septum that is bowed where it should be straight. On a scale from 1 to 10 in terms of blockage – you are a 10. You cannot sleep on your left side, you have frequent nosebleeds on your left side, your right eye socket aches when the weather changes. All of this can be fixed by simple outpatient surgery.”

“Well, you’re either the Amazing Kreskin or correct in your diagnosis. Let’s cut me.”

But wait, five days before surgery my doctor is on the phone. “Your insurance is denying the surgery. You should probably call them, and I find you get results with these people if you raise your voice. Be sure to raise your voice.” This is an actual quote. I like my doctor.

It turns out the insurance folks just needed some documentation. Specifically: “Insufficient clinical information was provided to support the medical necessity for the septoplasty as there is no documentation of maximal medical therapy including several antibiotic courses for rhinosinusitis, significant septal deviation or septal spurring, or symptoms of nasal obstruction that adversely affect the quality of life.” I called the insurance “provider” and reached a nurse. “Greetings, I understand you would rather I pursue antibiotic therapies for a few years before addressing the root cause of years of nasal discomfort? I understand further that my quality of life is not sufficiently documented as being miserable enough. The fact that an otolaryngology specialist feels that half my face should be allowed to drain is not sufficient for you to honor our contract. Do I have it about right?”

This is not a direct quote, as I cannot say the word otolaryngology.

The nurse, whom I shall call “Tina,” then solved the problem. “Sir, the quickest way to resolve this is a peer-to-peer review.” By this, she did not mean anyone in the current conversation. Instead, she meant the heartless insurance doctor, and my dear patient physician. She gave me a top secret phone number, and instructed me to have my doctor dial it.

Anyone who has dealt with insurance companies will not believe what ensued. My doctor phoned me after spending four minutes on the phone with the insurance company to report, “It is resolved, they will cover the procedure. See you Tuesday.”

And so, this Tuesday, I once again give the Creator the opportunity to end this little ride. Call me dark, but that’s how I approach general anesthesia. Assuming the surgery goes well, I will spend most of next week as a mouth-breather with seven yards of cotton packed into my schnozz. There will be other details, I am sure. See you on the other side, and I’ll let you know how it goes.

The Droop John B.

2006-05-03T17:39:00.000-07:00

I suppose if everyone documented their medical history for the giggles of dozens, I would not appear as sickly as I do.  Fact is, despite the stories in this little blog thing, I am an incredible specimen of health.  I say incredible because a friend remarked just last year – “I can’t believe how healthy you are considering you indulge in absolutely no exercise, healthy diet, or any other visible attempt to stay alive.”

Well, if Nicole Kidman can claim “good genes,” then so can I.  I suppose I am blessed with a super-human ability to avoid disease and calamity.  My quadrennial physical last month confirmed I am the picture of health.  Forget the surgery, the malady that dares not speak its name, and mallet finger.  I am destined to outlive the icecaps.

And then last night I couldn’t blink.  Or rather, couldn’t wink.  (This will bring a smirk to the colleague who thinks it is creepy for me to occasionally wink at someone in the service industry – a gesture of harmless affection I feel my years have earned me.)  While driving home from the office I noticed my left eye was dry and tried to blink.  Well, that is a bit dramatic, in fact, as most of my gross motor choices are unconscious; my failure to blink effectively was noticed first by that hapless portion of my brain charged with helping me lumber through the day.  The next few nano-seconds were taken up with that adult portion of my brain, (often referred to as the “reptile brain” as it is charged with the utterly mundane functions that has kept humans alive for a few million years),  trying to break through my conscious mind – distracted as it was by the iPod, fellow drivers, thoughts of dinner, etc.  At some point, finally, the news broke through.  You Cannot Blink.

Nonsense, thought I.  I can scrunch my face up just fine, see?  And I proceeded to demonstrate this, (one side at a time as I was moving at 60mph), to my silly adult reptile brain.  Right eye, perfect scrunch, overly aggressive wink.  Hah!  Left eye – the dry one – maybe 10% on the scrunch meter.  The eye never fully closed.  My reptile brain went back to monitoring my heartbeat, as my conscious mind began to grasp the implications of this newsflash.

I credit the powers of denial for not swerving off the road in a panic.  Sadly, these same powers led to a delay of approximately three hours in seeking medical attention.  I continued home, trying desperately to scrunch the left side of my face.  I looked at myself in the mirror and noticed that the left eye was frozen in a somewhat surprised look, while the right eye, hooded and wise, looked on with bemusement.  Some idiotic portion of me assumed that if I successfully closed my eye without extraordinary effort, then, well, nothing was really wrong.  I still sort of feel that way.

At home, I simply held my eye closed with my finger when it felt dry, and continued with my evening.  My wife arrived shortly after me, puttered in the kitchen, and we engaged in the idle chit-chat of the long-married.  After nearly an hour, I sighed deeply, walked into the kitchen and said, “um, look at my face.”

On our way to the emergency room, I finally began to let myself consider what I may be facing.  My reptile brain suddenly found itself with more tasking than most days, as I began to drift away gently.  In the initial interview, the nurse offered that she would mark my case “urgent,” since “they get so worked up back there about things like this.”  This bedside manner needed work.  My wife offered that she had checked both eyes for pupil response, since that is apparently an indication of stroke.  The nurse replied that pupil problems are a very late stage indication, and that “loss of consciousness” occurs much earlier.  I often feel I am a spectator in the reality show that is me, and this was just one more episode.  Glad I DVR’d this one, can’t wait to see how it turns out.

The doctor engaged in a pleasant conversation with me, halfway through I realized he was just watching my face move (or not) as we chatted.  Finally, he cut me off in mid-sentence to let me know that my eyebrow was affected.  This, as it turns out, is a Good Thing.  If the weakness was confined to my eye to my chin, that might indicate a central nervous problem.  The fact that my eyebrow was part of the Lazy Face Mutiny indicated that the problem was most likely evidence that the 7th cranial nerve was acting up – an indication that I was the newest member of the Bell’s Palsy Club.  A temporary condition, it can last anywhere from a few weeks to a few months, to life.  The doctor expects a full recovery.

It is a very minor case, I doubt people will notice.  Therefore, pardon me if I fail to attend the weekly support group meetings.

Where the Hell Have I Been? London, Mate!

2006-03-25T15:23:00.000-08:00

Before I got here, all I knew of London was that it was probably filled with quaint folk who talked funny.  Having spent a few days here, I can see now I was wrong.  It’s got quaint folk who talk funny in many languages, and some of them are quite insane.

I’m trying to stay awake Friday evening, as my NCAA Division 1 Men’s Elite Eight GMU Patriots tip off at 1240 am local time (GMT).  I hit a pub at 9 pm, armed with a book and a beer, looking to kill some time and brain cells.  The pub itself is like nothing I’ve seen in the US.  The tables are full of happy people, socializing with abandon. The age range is vast, it’s a family gathering place – although most are young and giggly.  Standing at the bar, however, are the Lonely People, whose young or popular days (or both) are behind them.  In this way, it is much like a high school lunchroom, except the foreign kids here are sprinkled throughout the room, instead of being consigned to their own table.

This is where I find myself.  It is where a young woman leaves a table, walks up to my right, and leans over me to order two more beers, and is then at a loss when they arrive.  Her scarf is in her left hand.  The solution that occurs to her addled mind? Gently place it on my leg.  She does so, and toddles off.  I count to ten, turn around, and sure enough – she is frantically asking her date what he did with her scarf.  Priceless.

Standing next to me, on the other side of the friendly scarf lady, is what I suppose they call a “bloke.”

Who, unfortunately, speaks.

“You have an interesting accent, is that American?”
“Yes.”
“Americans are nice people.”
“Great to hear that.”

I should provide some setting.  This is a British middle-aged man who would be spotted as British even if viewed from space.  Sparse reddish hair.  Sweater vest.  Absurd glasses, two chins, an even more absurd pout that was accompanied by a look that indicated he was sucking a lime.  He has used this look often.  Thick London accent (yes, I know the difference now).  When I answered his questions, it almost appeared we were conversing.  However, it soon became clear that it was an interrogation with no purpose or end.  There is no follow-up conversation to my nationality.  120 seconds or so go by.

“Do you know Sarah Mansfield?”
“Uh, no.”

Lime look, pout, and slowly turns head away, picking up beer.  He is embarrassed to be found on the same planet with yours truly.  It is a classic move; you have seen Mr. Bean do it a hundred times.  Ok, so much for that. 120 seconds go by.

“Do you know the coach at Chelsea?”
“No, I’m American.  Local English soccer teams haven’t caught on over there.”
Lime pout, turn away, drink beer.  Ok, I earned that one.  120 more seconds.

“There is a possibility I could end up with no job, no home, and begging for my food.”
“I guess that’s a possibility for all of us.”
“No, you have a job.”

In the words of the immortal Jon Stewart:  Awk-ward.

“Good song, yeah?”
“Yeah, the Rascals, old one though.”
“What year is it?”“I think 1967?”
“No, I mean what year are we living in?”
Pause.  He is asking me what year it is.  I finally begin to worry.
“Um, 2006.”
“Oh.”  (Sans pout, I have actually provided useful information.)

“Are you right-handed or left-handed?”
“Right.”  Hey, who ELSE am I going to talk to?  The young Swedish woman behind the bar was having a ball.  “Can I get you another,” she says to the lunatic, smiling sweetly at me.  I furiously gesture and glare behind his line of sight.  Of course he catches me, but the gestures are too subtle or perhaps too broad.  He doesn’t kill me just yet.

“If you’re cornered, do you give in or fight to the end?”
God, please don’t have a gun.
“I would fight to the end.”  (WHAT?  Jesus, put the beer down, John!)

He was drinking at a rate that exceeded mine by approximately 3:1.   When the lass asked him if he would like another beer, he finally said no at 10:30.  He was switching to Scotch.  He had put away 4 pints in the time we had been “talking,” and he had not even left the bar for physical needs. I resisted the urge to check the floor.

He finally leaves at 11.  I head back to my hotel, certain that London will be more fun Saturday.  But I doubt it can get more entertaining.

Heckuva Snow Job

2006-02-12T05:33:00.000-08:00

So after all the warnings, the endless news and molding studies, the doomsday scenario occurred last night.

It snowed in D.C.  A lot.  Trees are bent low under the weight, and I can barely see the deep trench left by my sump pump’s effluvia.  We have some provisions, thanks to inventory from a recent soiree, but I am dangerously low on that special single malt.  We still have power, but for how long?  Even without Kwan, the Olympics beckon – will I be left watching a large flat dark screen all weekend?

Meanwhile, we hear nothing from FEMA and the skies are ominously empty of helicopters.  My wife is standing on the hot tub, waving a brightly colored cloth, in hopes the Coast Guard will spot her – but I am losing hope.  President Bush is on the news saying, “I don’t think anyone anticipated the freezing part.”  The Governor is huddling with his advisors, and so far, they have called for more Doppler 9000 studies.  The Mayor is speaking in hushed tones about the chaos developing at the National Building Museum.

We’ll hold out here as long as we can, but let’s face it:  No one will miss Lorton.

I have to go for now, I just figured out where she got that brightly colored cloth…

Update 1030 – I am calling upon the President to send my son-in-law’s brother home from Afghanistan to shovel my damned driveway.

Nail Salons and Urinal Rules

2006-01-17T17:52:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I am sitting in a nail salon.  And yes, the shiatsu massage chair is properly positioned, forcing pungi sticks into my spine.  And I may have been nude from the knees down, one foot in hot water and one in the efficient hands of an attractive Vietnamese woman.  Therefore, on some planet it may have appeared that I was interested in conversation with the large man in the next chair, who kept looking over at me, obviously wanting to chat.

He damned near put an elbow in my ribs, perhaps to chuckle over our inadvertently shared grooming experience.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his pasty hairless legs (what is that about?) and hideously odd toenails, and hear him – not making this up – give his professional tips on how to trim his hobnails.  “Can you make that one a little longer?”  (How exactly is she to execute this idea?)

But look his way?  Not once.  Oh, when I first entered, we shared a ¼ head nod and a tight smile – the brisk greeting of Guys Trapped in Non-Guy Situations.  But once seated and soaking, I kept my eyes front, mister. It is odd enough to be in this position, and while I may have shared a chuckle with a Wingman, many years ago, I simply am not interested in acknowledging that anyone can see me in this compromising position.

And yes, a pedicure.  Why?  Because when I tend to such matters, I earn the wrath of my bride. “Look how short you did that, it’s terrible!  That’s not good toe health!”

Toe health?

So last week, the nails were getting long.  The bride was complimentary, but I was starting to make a clicking noise on the hardwood floor when I walked.  “Perhaps I should try a pedicure, just to trim a bit?”  Naturally, this was a brilliant idea.

So there I sat, as the Vietnamese woman cut my nails shorter than I ever have, dating back to my early childhood when I used to bite my toenails.  We were poor, ok?  But looking at my symmetrically mangled toes, I realized that I had the same result as when I took matters into my own clippers.  Except I was $32 poorer.  And my bride, always respectful of professionals, was complimentary.  “She had to get them short, to relieve the pressure.  Good job.”

So yes, I’ll be back.  Another necessary evil routine added to my increasingly odd existence.  But that doesn’t mean I want to chat while paying someone a pittance to groom me. I’m only doing this to keep the peace in my home – I’m not interested in talking, sharing, chest bumping, or any other activity that would be considered inappropriate around urinals.

Where the Hell Have I Been? Vegas, Bubbie.

2006-01-04T18:49:00.000-08:00

When would you realize that your New Year’s trip to sunny Las Vegas will feature a paucity of “good” luck?

When you find yourself reassigned to different seats on your departure flight, and need to barter in order to regain a seat next to your wife?

When the airline loses your luggage containing your finery, finally delivering it 8 hours later…10 minutes prior to a dinner engagement? What if I tell you they managed to lose it on a non-stop flight?

When the casino/hotel/compound tells you that while they appreciate your entertaining tale of the “promised upgraded suite,” they will charge you the same rate and put you in a “standard room?”

When it rains?

When your return flight is delayed for a few hours, long enough to result in the next step in the saga: an exquisitely timed massive nationwide computer failure just as the agent finally deigns to issue your ticket?

When the lack of a computer system results in a hand-written boarding pass, earning you a “what the hell is this” query from the large TSA staffer at the mystical x-ray portal?

When the gate agent asks you “so, um, what seat did you have?,” you claim an exit row seat and are rewarded with your choice – only to find out that this particular seatback does not recline for this cross-country flight?

Yes, at some point in that list you would realize the gods of fortune were elsewhere. You would probably skip gambling to attend shows and eat at fine restaurants. And that would make you smarter than me. Big deal. I attended shows, ate at fine restaurants – and gambled!

Yes, I fulfilled my role as a vital player in the ecosystem that is Las Vegas. The casinos are the host organism, sustained by “cash” that must be transferred around the city in order to grow their stock value. Humans buzz around the city, alighting at various stations, alternately giving and taking cash. They also arrive with cash from around the country, as the casinos spend a certain amount attracting the human workers and must therefore be replenished. Humans work at “jobs” to earn this cash during the other 50 weeks of each year. The casino attractions are numerous, and each preening operation does what it can to attract the worker humans with their life-giving cash. Mind-altering fluids are administered to the worker humans to suppress their natural desire to not hand money to strangers. These are delivered by scantily-clad female casino staff, who often receive their own small cash reward from the worker humans in return for this medication.

The worker humans themselves exhibit an odd hierarchy, as compared to the relatively efficient hives in the insect world. Here almost every worker has his own ‘queen,’ resplendent in her feather boa and gauzy garments that amount to a joyless celebration of cleavage. There are also female workers with their own t-shirt clad male companion, as well as drone-queen relationships that appear more episodic in nature –some of these occasionally feature their own exchange of “cash” upon the commencement of their brief relationship. (Of course, each male/female relationship features an exchange of cash after a fashion, but the more short-termed of these feature a contract detailing terms – unusual if not absent in the more established relationships.)

One highlight of my visit was my short time spent playing in a “Hold `Em” poker tournament. Here, casinos, looking for more interesting ways to obtain cash, provide a forum for worker humans to take cash from each other – of course paying the casino for the privilege. As compared to “games,” these activities present zero risk to the casino. Sparing the reader, let me just say that I spent two hours at the table, finishing in the top 20 out of 60 tournament contestants. Earning me the same amount of money, as it happens, as the first idiot to “go all in” and last only 25 seconds.

My highlight came halfway through the first hour. Sitting with nine fellow worker humans, I decided to play a hand with K7 of clubs. The “flop” featured two clubs and a king. I had the high pair, and was one card away from a flush. I bet big, chasing all but one out of the hand. The next card was dealt – a club. I had my flush. I donned my competition-grade sunglasses and studied my sole opponent. This remaining hapless soul sat frozen, unable to move – as I waited for him to check or bet. I stared him down mercilessly, the table held its breath. He was literally afraid to move, knowing I had him cold, knowing I was about to eviscerate his “stack” of “chips.” Ninety seconds went by, an eternity. What was wrong with this young man? Was this also his first time in a major tournament? Finally, I broke my deadly stare to glance again at the table. There I noticed that the dealer’s marker indicated that it was my turn to bet, not his.

I did win that hand, but my fearsome reputation may have taken a bit of a hit. No matter, I did my part to sustain the casino operations, spreading cash across multiple properties during my weekend stay. As a result, the town recognizes my talent, and at least one casino has extended an offer for me to return soon. The invitation hit my mailbox before we returned from the vacation. Looks like my luck may be changing…

Where the Hell Have I Been? Chicago. (A charming village located near Gary.)

2005-12-20T20:47:00.000-08:00

The jewel of, er, one of the Great Lakes. In, fact, I challenged my bride to name all five Lakes during the flight to flyover country. We came up with Superior, Huron, Erie, and Michigan. I knew the last one started with an "o," but here is where my wife outdoes me. When pressed to remember something of this trivial a nature (such as geographic honorifics or my middle name) - she works her way through the alphabet, and when she lands on the right initial, she can usually recall the answer.

I had a leg up on her here. I knew it was an "o," but then immediately got distracted by the following thought: it cannot be Lake OompaLoompa. While I knew this beyond question, it became all I could think about. It was trying to watch a movie sitting behind a large-headed friend. I searched my mind for alternatives, but the big fat OompaLoompa loomed and blocked all paths to truth. It doesn't help to know that somewhere there does exist a Lake Gitchigomee. How absurd does OompaLoompa sound now?

So what I know of cognition begins to scare me. See, I am carving a path to OompaLoompa in my cortex, forever associating it as the name of the fifth Great Lake. So I'm trying in vain to forget the word OompaLoompa, desparate to purge my thoughts. Try it.

Finally the bride suddenly says, "Is it Ontario?"

"Yes, honey. That's right. Very good." No reason to screw with her cortex, best she believes I knew the answer all along.

So we walk the streets of downtown Chicago, in search of Christmas excess. This trip is her main present, a long weekend in a city she has always wanted to visit. We dine at tony establishments – one overlooking the city and located in the Sears Tower - and take in a musical. Not much walking about, other than along the “magnificent mile,” the Second City’s Fifth Avenue. It was the ultimate empty nester weekend. The evening dinner begins early, with slow drinks in the lounge, and a surfeit of people-watching. The trouble with spending time in an environment designed for people-watching is that you occasionally (finally) wonder what people think when they watch you.

So I took stock of my appearance. I had carefully chosen my cold weather standard gear, as the highs for the day would barely reach 20F. This gear consisted of the attire style I had worn since the early 1980s. Perhaps you can already guess the fashion faux pas, but I felt comfortable in my green parka, brown gloves, and NY knit hat pulled down around my ears. At least until I started people-watching and realized that in a climate where people actually face cold weather – they know how to dress like adults. In that lounge, on those streets, I looked very much like Vice President Cheney at a funeral in Eastern Europe. It was time for a mancoat. I turned to my wife, who no doubt had been dreading taking the arm of ParkaMan at the theater, and shared my conclusion. She gave me a look that seemed to say, “My, how my little man has grown.”

The store experience was surprisingly quick and painful. It was as if she had been planning for this day. I accepted my fate, smiling at the truly frightening man who told me that I was getting a good deal on the wool and cashmere overcoat. "If the vendor rep were here, he'd tell you 'this is the last coat you will ever buy,' but I keep telling him that's too aggressive." (It also implies the customer may die soon.) Black gloves and the necessary scarf almost completed the picture. Being follicly challenged, I needed a hat.

You know how you sometimes cruise the hat department and put one on for a laugh? Yeah, be careful with that. I put on an “ascot” hat, which is difficult to describe, and looked in the mirror. Hi, Dad. So that’s where I’ve seen that hat before, on the little Irishman who contributed so little so long ago. My bride sidles up and says, “Yeah, you tried a hat years ago, but now it works.”

The other thing I noticed while marching the MagMile was store windows. Just as in NY, and, well, I guess any real city – the department stores spend some time and creativity on their window displays. Had I been able to see through my frozen corneas, I’m reasonable certain I would have been imbued with the holiday spirit.

Also, I noticed that at some point, stores decided that mannequins should have nipples. Not just any nipples, of course, but Farrah Fawcett quality protrusions. I know they're all around me as we stroll through the Magnificent Mile, but did they all appear at once? Was there a convention of retailers years ago, one to which women weren't invited, where cigar smoke filled the air and old rich men decided on a strategy that celebrated the female form in all its full-breasted glory? What year did they appear? Shouldn't there be some sort of milestone anniversary coming up? "Twenty Years of Nipple Christmas," now coming to Discover HD?

I ruminated about this aloud as we strolled, until my bride had sufficiently quickened her pace so as to effectively deny knowing me through distance. I posed the last question to Salvation Army bell-ringer. Got him to blink, which I considered victory.

Chicago is a charming place indeed. We may be allowed back next year.

Innovations That Matter

2005-09-30T12:34:00.000-07:00

CNN.com - Beer mat knows when it is refill time - Sep 30, 2005: "The 'smart' beer mat, created by Matthias Hahnen and Robert Doerr from Saarland University in Saarbruecken, southwest Germany, can sense when a glass is nearly empty, sending an alert to a central computer behind the bar so waiters know there are thirsty customers.

The students' supervising professor, Andreas Butz, told CNN the plastic beer mat had sensor chips, which measured the weight of the glass, embedded inside.

When the weight of the glass drops to a certain level, the sensor chips detect that it is close to empty and alerts the bartender via a radio signal."

One by one, technology is removing the awkward social situations from our lives, and I couldn't be happier. I can't count the times I've stood by a bar, empty used glass in hand, trying to catch the eye of the barkeep - while well-stooled patrons smirked knowingly and tried to ignore the thirsty desperate soul at their elbow. Worse have been the times I've waited thusly, jumping up and down, thinking I've made eye contact as the barkeep tortures me by sliding her eyes away as I began to quickly shout my order. It is at these moments, the well-stooled ones would gently raise a single finger, no more than 8 inches off the bar, which immediately attracts the attention of the near-sighted barkeep. She comes rustling over, eager to serve, and my new friend points back at me. The smile slides from her face as she looks first to the glass in my hand - a glass she prepared scant minutes earlier - and then back to my sweaty visage. To accentuate the fact that she has no memory of my visit, she says sharply, "Whatcha need?"

But no more! Now, a coaster that will be the equivalent of the raised finger! I will enjoy service as quickly and pleasantly as the stooled, thanks to technology. Some among you are no doubt saying, "Yeah, but the barkeep will still know that Table 14 holds Undesirables, and will introduce the same delay function into her service." Ah, to this I can only say... you're absolutely right. Never mind.

The Sporting Life

2005-09-25T14:11:00.000-07:00

So here I sit, another weekend spend working with football in the background. I'm not saying I get confused on days like this, but earlier today I reached for the TV remote after an excellent play by my Jets...so I could press Ctrl-S to save the game in case of a system crash in the Meadowlands.

I am much better at watching sports than I am playing them, today's momentary technology confusion aside. This past Friday, I decided to do something I rarely do: attend a sporting event in person. An opportunity to spend quality time with my wife, to ride shuttle buses, to walk 9585 steps, and to pay the equivalent of greens fees for the privilege of walking around a golf course - paying $5 for a Michelob Ultra and watching other people play golf.

This is a lovely pastoral pursuit, and I highly recommend it for anyone who doesn't mind standing for hours hoping to get a glimpse of famous people flinging golf balls at your head at high speed. Unlike watching the event at home, with helpful announcers, informative graphics, and a rotation of the same three commercials for seven hours - the spectators at a golf event are not permitted to have any information. Oh, there's the occasional JumboTron, but my wife mocked me when I stopped to watch it. The conversations around you, therefore, can be moderately entertaining. "Who was that?" "How did Freddie do?" "Why isn't Steve on Tiger's bag?" "I never liked Vijay, since he dissed Annika."

Actually, that last one was my quote. For a gallery of fans who are required to remain silent and still as the players allegely do not aim at their heads; we were an inquisitive and opinionated bunch. For the uninitiated, the event in Virginia - the President's Cup - this week positioned a team of American golfers against a team of "International" players. As one event volunteer said, "We call them the 'Europeans' in the Ryder Cup, for this one we can't decide between the 'Internationals' and the 'Un-Americans'." The teams are captained by some legends of the game: Jack Nicklaus for the Americans, and Gary Player for the Internationals. I knew this anyway, but was reminded when he corrected me and I read "Captain G. Player" on his cap. Because my timing is always off, I didn't notice this as he quietly stood in the fairway watching play. He was just a nondescript short guy, nicely not blocking my view.

At this point, a tall confident gentleman behind me commented that a ball hit by some International guy was "all over that flagstick" as the ball sailed towards the green. Shortly after his comment, the player's ball indeed hit the flagstick on the fly. I turned to Tall Guy and remarked, "good call." Then turning back, I continued, "and a pretty nice shot from there." (Note the conditional "from there." That's one of the things we golfers say when we were are forced to say something nice.)

As I finished my backhanded compliment, the diminuitive gentleman on the VIP side of the rope fence spoke, in a decidedly South African accent. "Not a good shot at all. Better not to hit the stick. Far better off to not hit it, I'd rather he missed." He barely turned to the side as he spoke these words to us. This is when I read the back of the little guy's cap. I turned back to Tall Guy. "You want to argue with him?" His eyes were wide, and his mouth tightly shut, as he shook his head vigorously. Priceless.

I walked back to my wife, as she watched players tee off from Hole 13. "How is it over there?" "Not bad, I was just arguing with Gary Player." The fans nearby pretended not to hear, but they began to edge away from me slightly.

Barring a last-minute invite to some Redskins game this season, I'm probably safe at home for another year of sporting events. And I think that's best for everyone.

Goo-Goo Doll

2005-08-15T11:02:00.000-07:00

People, as a species, are self-delusional. Check out this quote from a gentleman in New York who spends his free time in a sauna (keep in mind that the average temperature in New York is only 4 degrees cooler than Washington, D.C., where it is currently 173 degrees Farenheit):

"'I read a lot about saunas on the Internet,' says Iyer, who of course is coated in perspiration. 'I found a couple Web sites that are close to scientific that say a sauna like this is as good for your body as 12 minutes on an exercise cycle. Really.'" Story here.

See? This mook found a "couple Web sites" and he bases his fitness theory on that research! This can lead to several undesirable outcomes, but, since this is all about me, let's focus on what such logic has done to my life.

The figure above is not an MRI of a mallard duck, rather it is a representation of a malady I suffered last year. Yes, I was struck down with Mallet Finger. The extensor tendon that runs along the back of one's hand and finger was stretched beyond its tolerance, and refused to snap back into shape. This was preferable to an actual severing of the tendon, of course, but it was nevertheless disturbing to find the last joint on my middle finger unable to come to attention anymore. This gave a whole new meaning to the term "flipping someone off," as that gesture become not so much a static one anymore. The upside was that the recipient of my ire often became quite queasy at the sight.

How did this happen, you ask? Here is where the self-delusion comes into play. Despite my advanced age of 46, I refuse to believe that I am, essentially, dissolving into a puddle of JB-Goo. The early signs of JB-Goo are unmistakeable, as my pecs become "man-boobs," my abs begin to pool at the belt line (c.f. Dunlap Syndrome), and, well, I'll spare you the last one just this once. People my age who are paying attention generally begin throwing vast sums of money at gyms and trainers in order to slow the Gooing. Women take vast quantities of oral calcium, since apparently at a certain age their bones begin to dissolve while residual calcium forms mysterious "deposits," as if the body were storing up for a rainy day - unaware of the rising flood waters.

My personal self-delusion led to the otherwise inexplicable injury, Mallet Finger, that I sustained whilst, er, pulling on my socks one morning. Yes, the only thing more enjoyable than going through life with a finger splint was answering the polite query, "how did you say you did that?" You know your story is a good one when friends tell friends to ask you about it. "Hello? I have my friend Sarah conferenced on the line, tell her how you did whatever to your finger!"

I am not alone in suffering inexplicable injuries that simply do not happen to younger folk. A close friend is recovering from back surgery, having ruptured a disk this summer. He is a faithful attendee at the gym, you can find him there most mornings. His crime? Taking something off the top shelf in his garage. Another friend described his recent shoulder injury thusly: "I decided to practice falling down the stairs in my house, and found that I'm really good at the falling part, but the landing part is still messy."

Increasingly, my friends sustain injuries to their bodies during routine behavior. It used to take running headlong into a moving Buick to get as hurt as we're getting. In fact, I was struck by a moving car as a teenager and came away with a minor bruise on my hip as a result. The door handle hit my hip, spun me a round, and face-planted me onto ice-covered pavement. My friend saw the whole thing, made the appreciative sounds that indicated Something Really Cool had occurred, and then began laughing. I don't recall any medical attention or so much as a heating pad.

Yesterday, by comparison, I lay in bed with a heated compress on my neck. My wife lovingly tended to the injury, and we watched television quietly as I waited for the Ibuprofen to work its magic. Today, it remains sore, but I think I'll be ok. I sustained this injury in a new and interesting way, a milestone that marks another stage in my Gooing: to whit, I have no idea how it happened. At some point, while I was watching golf (WATCHING, as in sitting on the couch), I sustained the painful neck injury. It may have been while reaching for a beer. Frankly, that maneuver has such good biofeedback associated with it that I probably wouldn't notice open-heart surgery if it was conducted from my barstool.

When I was younger, I would note stabbing pains at odd times, usually in my legs. "That's just growing pains," my mother told me (she got tired of just saying "shut up" and began to get creative as I got older). The reassuring thought that I would someday be tall was enough to get me past the pain.

Now, however, when things begin to sting, or go numb, or sprain... my first thought is, "Oh, I'm just dissolving." The correct answer is a daily exercise regimen that combines cardio workouts with focused strengthening of muscle groups, a balanced diet, all preceded by stretching exercises. My approach to fitness is a tad more spasmodic. After work, I'm meeting a friend for racquetball and beer. We're all Goo in the end, I may as well go down swinging.

Rx for a Better Life

2005-08-04T13:38:00.000-07:00

Guardian Unlimited Special reports Official: drinking improves thinking:
"It is guaranteed to raise a cheer among those who enjoy a tipple: moderate drinkers are better thinkers than teetotallers or those who overindulge.Research by the Australian National University in Canberra suggests drinking in moderation boost your brainpower. But none at all, or too much, can make you a dullard.

A study of 7,000 people in their early 20s, 40s and 60s found that those who drank within safe limits had better verbal skills, memory and speed of thinking than those at the extremes of the drinking spectrum.

The safe consumption level was considered to be 14 to 28 standard drinks a week for a man and seven to 14 for a woman."

It is rare when a study reveals something actually useful regarding public health, increasing one's intelligence and productivity, and includes a specific prescription regarding the recommended chemicals. But here we have it. If you're a man, start drinking "14 to 28 standard drinks a week," I suggest you get started today.

Come to think of it, this is directed at Australian men. So the "standard" drink is easily 1.6 to 1.9 times that of an American standard. Wouldn't you agree?

Yeah, me too. Some days are just better than others.

Where the Hell Have I Been? Dayton, Buckeye.

2005-07-01T11:33:00.000-07:00

Dayton! Spelled like Daytona, but without the 'a' for "ahhhh, I'm relaxing on a Florida beach."
Ok, so I know that nearly half the country become angry with Ohio voters last Fall, and at the time I defended them because the result suited my political interests. I have changed my mind. Not about the vote, but about Ohio. These citizens fully deserve the wrath of rational folk.

We arrive at the "birthplace of aviation" after flying on the smallest plane known to Man: The Saab 340, which sounds like the name of a 4-cylinder European mini-car. For the 12 passengers, the car would have offered more legroom. I'm fairly certain these planes double as UAVs. Aboard the "plane" we are served by a young flight attendant with wide eyes and a nervous smile. Turns out it's her third time to be working a flight. She literally spent a good portion of the flight looking out the window, apparently fascinated with the cloud formations and farm squares. When she mentioned that she was twenty years old, I realized she could not serve alcohol. Have we no laws?

Seeing that she was bored and nervous, I issued an urgent plea: I asked her to please get pilots to stop saying: "We'll have you on the ground momentarily" upon approach. I mean, come on. Anyone could get us onto the ground from several thousand feet. But the visual image is a tad incomplete. Please show some effort and promise you'll have me smoothly gliding to a life-affirming stop at the terminal. Or just shut up. We get that you're landing us, don't be so folksy. She took notes and shook a little.

We arrived in one piece, and managed to obtain a rental vehicle. Stupidly, we asked the agent for directions to our hotel. "Head out I-70, south on I-675, and when you get to Beavercreek - you can't miss it. There's a bunch of hotels right there." Well, Dayton! seemed a small town, so it seemed reasonable they had zoned the visitors to one strip outside of town. Turns out the actual directions included an exit off of 675, right at the next light, another right, enter the mall complex, follow the circle around... You get the idea. I won't name the car company, but the young idiot seemed Enterprising enough.

We soon found that this aversion to helping people actually navigate Dayton! was not limited to our young microcephalic friend. At dinner, we asked our business contact how to get to the office, and he launched into a five-minute dissertation regarding backroads, ramps, and roadside attractions. Fortunately, towards the end I heard "Air Force museum" followed by "then turn left." A fellow traveller turned at me and deadpanned, "did you get that?" Of course, says I. Get to the Air Force museum and turn left. I assumed correctly that the hotel would have glossies on how to get to this fine attraction. Turns out everywhere we went, locals would say, "didja get to the Air Force museum?" Sad to say we didn't, nor did we see the large antique twine ball that I am certain ranks as the second most popular attraction in Dayton! Next time, should I be sentenced to a return voyage, my GPS comes with.

Late last night, I find myself in the middle of a mild Armageddon light show. Back in America the thunderstorms arrive predictably on time every afternoon around four - and are gone by dinner. These storms leave behind either a break in the hot weather, or the continued miserable weather than makes you feel like you're living on a tongue. Not in Dayton! In Dayton! you can experience thunderstorms at any moment. I was sitting in someone's dining room around 11 pm - ok, I was playing poker - when the first kleiglights hit followed immediately by a resounding bang. If lightning had struck the ante, it wouldn't have been any louder. I jumped and clenched several body parts, while the stoic host merely said, "that's Ohio." No one else even noticed. I imagined briefly they were secretly thankful the electric storm had come to recharge their pods.

So while in the car an hour later, headed back to the hotel, I tune in the local newstation to hear evacuation details. Have you ever looked at dark sky, looking for the tornado sent to kill you? That was my drive last night, as I hear the announcer say, "weather's clearing, just one small cell Northeast of town." At that moment, I realized I was also Northeast of "town" and was lucky enough to be staring in the right direction when a huge bolt screamed across the sky. My retina seared , I drove trembling onward. For the next ten minutes, I would blink, and find I had retained a visible jagged shadow on the surface of my eye. I have to admit I was mildly entertained by this finding, as I blinked on through the night, waiting for the inevitable twister.

Earlier in the day, when the noon sky began to turn slate gray, I asked about the proximity of Dayton! to "tornado country." "No, we're fine here. No problem. But ten miles over is Xenia, ever heard of it?"

Crap.

For those unfamilar, 'tornado country' is a term used to describe the bulk of Flyover Country and most of the square states. Exceptions include the Southwest Flyover Country, where the creator amuses himself by baking visitors on a desert griddle; Northern Flyover Country, featuring armed militia compounds; and Coastal Flyover Country, where hurricanes are the creator's tool to increase the ratio of wetlands to condos in our great nation. (Remember when last year's Gulf hurricane threatened to "end" New Orleans?) Of course, Flyover Country is what one observes while flying to California, which in so many ways is the creator's E-ticket attraction for mayhem.

I managed to cheat death and arrive at my hotel by midnight, where I asked the nice desk clerk to wake me at 4 a.m. I dropped off to sleep soon thereafter, until I was awakened at 1245 by the chirp of my smoke detector asking for a new battery. Fresh out of 9-volts, I called the desk and asked for assistance. He arrived after a brief wait (I sensed a run to CVS was the cause), dragging an oversized ladder. He wrestled with the device for some time, pausing to inform me that "these buggers are hard as hell to put back up." Eventually, I returned to my slumber, sleeping right through my wakeup call. Waking at 0500, I raced to the airport for my 0600 departure. As I checked in, I noticed that the flight was now delayed for 3 hours. Turns out an "unprofessional flight attendant" decided to sleep in as well. I'm writing this from the airport "lounge" where an 8 a.m. beer increasingly seems like a reasonable choice.

Someone actually asked if I was visiting Dayton! for business or pleasure. I thanked him for his vote and then calmly punched him in the neck.

Revenge of the Cyst

2005-05-07T09:44:00.000-07:00

As I age, I am discovering body parts that I never knew I had. Increasingly, I realize that ignorance of certain things can, indeed, be bliss. This process of discovery begins fairly early in life, when the infant finds that his tender fluffy existence develops a hard edge as sharp pieces of rock erupt from his gums. Some years later, that child then learns that additional sharp rocks, called "wisdom teeth," need to be surgically removed before they erupt backwards into the mysterious cave called a sinus.

So, ok, I've come to expect that teeth and sinuses will provide time of pain and disruption. But other body parts one discovers early in life seem to exist as some sort of karmic balance to these troublesome sharp rocks and other horrors. These parts are your Friends. And only deliver pain when physically assaulted.

Now, friend: please click this link.

Yes. A new body part has decided to create a little down time for me. And an opportunity to interact with my giggly physician. Most times, a giggly physician is a welcome change from the usual dour and mundane interactions with medical professionals. There are at least two exceptions that come to mind, however. One is when delivering tragic or sobering news. another would be when she is examining your Friends. Here are some actual quotes from my experience with Doctor Giggle.

"Well, yes, one is large. Well, larger than the other. I mean..."
"Oops, oh, I'm sorry."
"Give sex a rest for a few days."
"I can't tell if the surface temperature is elevated, because I'm wearing gloves."

This last one was a puzzle for me, as I couldn't understand why she was saying it. I mean, if you're telling me you need to take off your gloves to more completely do your job, by all means do so. You can boil your hand later if need be. Actually, what immediately came to mind was what my dear mother used to take my temperature when I was a teen, pressing her lips to my forehead. No, not distracting at all, why do you ask?

I decided to not hide the source of my discomfort from friends and family, in the interests of honesty, humor, and public service. (Men, examine thyselves. Or outsource if you can.)

So I'm on bedrest and Cipro, trying to explain as best I can. On a teleconference with my boss and others, he asks, "so what's got you down? Stomach bug?" My daughter and son-in-law come by for dinner. My daughter the nurse critiques Doctor Giggle's performance, while my son-in-law says, "I hope your stomach feels better. That's right, until we leave, it's your stomach that has a problem, ok?" A never-ending source of amusement for me is my son-in-law, the queasiest man on Earth married to a nurse. We entertain friends for dinner last night, where I heard just about every crudely funny reference to my condition that you can imagine. Friends remain an irreplaceable joy, and help me not forget troubles, but laugh at them. A much better approach, all told.

Hey. I just re-read this piece and noticed the third quote above. It's been, in fact, "a few days" since Doctor Giggle uttered those words. Er, gotta go.

Update: Hair America

2005-05-02T05:54:00.000-07:00

My beloved barber, a delightful woman who only accepts cash, has been known to run her fingers through what's left of my hair and comment that "it's so thick!" This referring to the crown area, destined to be the last outpost of head hair in a few years. Her comment was meant to be kind and reassuring, even as she gazed upon the reflection of the afternoon sun on my pate. "But this hair here is so thick! It grows so fast!"

She used to say that. Last week, her patter changed. Reviewing the same area of my head, I hear - quietly - "your head is nice and round."

"Excuse me?"

"I say, your head is round. It's nice. Good shape."

"So you're saying that while I may be going bald, at least I'm not presenting a dented head to the world, it's relatively spherical?"

She giggled. I tipped her anyway. She was trying.

CHiPS

2005-04-17T11:32:00.000-07:00

Well, we’ve added a merit badge to our exurbanite sash: we’ve laid mulch. Turns out the pastime for folks like us is to move into a neighborhood stripped of trees to make way for our faux mini-mansions, and then spend years feeding Hardwood Mulch to the little bush-museum islands around our estate. “So, that’s your friend in the chipper, then?” I think we’re all out here chumming the soil in hopes the ghosts of the hardwoods don’t return to haunt our dens, ripping up through the floor like a remake of Poltergeist.

My wife, an elder in the Tribe of the Black Thumb, is actually doing the active verb here. Letting the chips fall where they may, and pulling the occasional weed. I am sitting here with a laptop typing this using my newly upgraded wireless network. Yes, I’ve gone G. Hey, at least I’m outside! Somehow mulching seems a bit more manly, I know, but my wife does this with style. A style I could not emulate, I must add. I just suggested to her that perhaps she could take off the tennis bracelet and lovely watch while her hands were in muck, and I got this: “I’ve been doing this for 53 years, and I see no reason to change. Now leave me be.”

Uh oh. We’ve turned a corner. My drive to empower my bride, to encourage her to break the chains of her childhood and be confident in her own decisions…is bearing ugly fruit indeed. How to encourage the confidence in your spouse while still hoping they just see things your way with minimal discussion? A dilemma for the ages. For now, she looks damn good mulching, so perhaps I should get out of her way. Mind you, I was proud to have played a part in the mulch purchase, proud that my wise choice of SUV comes in handy exactly 20 minutes a year, and proud to have not whined too much when I broke a nail hefting the mulch bags with her.

So while I got to tool around a “nursery,” feeling as out of place as you can imagine, I noticed that the creeping exurbs are everywhere. Seriously. There are mini-mansions sprouting up everywhere, on every spare speck of land. We drove slowly through one of these odd hybrid neighborhoods, and were glared at by the folks living in perfectly serviceable ramblers. One cannot blame them, they probably think we’re going to swoop in and buy their house while they’ve stepped out to get more propane. And indeed, this seems to be the pattern for the absurd homes nestled up to the 45-year-old ramblers that define this exurb town “in transition.” They need not worry about me, of course. I have my little plot of land, God’s little .2 acre. No, I was merely driving by, admiring their street, and calculating how many bags I could get out of that cedar by their pool.

Hair America

2005-04-14T14:44:00.000-07:00

I don't know when it started. I know I blamed the Air Force cap with the obscene nickname for my nascent bald spot way back in the 1980's. But now, my resemblance to Billy Joel is almost complete, and the hairline isn't so much receding as emptying in anticipation of a far off hair tsunami that will never come.

But that doesn't bother me.

No, what bothers me is the myriad ways in which hair on a middle-aged man suddenly goes a bit random. Like when my bride nuzzles my neck, and then my ear... only to pause and whisper; "I need to get the tweezers." Like when I notice that my ankle hair line betrays years of nylon black socks, and shows patches where the follicles have completely given up. There, my leg is as smooth as a teenaged girl's forearm. And knuckles. Yes, knuckle hair - both fingers and toes - suddenly decide to give up their characteristic clubness and grow. Ditto the eyebrows, where the hairs get together and vote each week on which of their member will suddenly uncoil in the middle of a meeting until I remind people of Professor Irwin Corey. And don't get me started on the nose hair, which, if I recall Biology 101 correctly, is supposed to filter air entering my lungs - but now it aspires to do this from across the room.

Then there's the Other Hair. The freelancer that decided it was tired of my beard on, beard off seasonal rhythms. I first noticed this one a few months ago, and it defies attempts to kill it. When I'm shaving, I notice it there, growing just under my eyebag. I make a mental note to pluck - only to forget that task a minute later. And I find myself in an endless staff meeting, my face in my hands, when my finger finds it. Mocking. A snaggletooth hair that is curiously and suddenly much more interesting that the agenda.

So the next time you see a middle-aged man that otherwise has his act together, save for one wacky flowing eyebrow or a hair growing out of a place where hair rarely appears on a homo sapiens, do me a favor. Be nice, avert your eyes, and tell him he's much better looking than Billy Joel. Make his day.

Daddy Has Two Sphincters

2005-03-26T14:55:00.000-08:00

1) This month marks two years since I was violated by probing aliens. They placed five holes in my abdomen, and metal probes were placed in each. Some probes lifted my liver, others manipulated my stomach and other mucky parts. The head alien spoke into some sort of headpiece and the probes obeyed.

2) Alternatively, a surgeon named Turgeon pantsed my stomach in a procedure called a Laproscopic Nissen Fundoplication. He did this by means of a machine he affectionately called "Aesop" as five metal arms entered my pasty belly at his voice commands and worked their magic.

Which would you believe?

Ok, it's the second. But if this were 50 years ago, you'd go for number one, and you know it.

I had a hiatal hernia. My stomach, normally kept down by the Man, er, the diaphragm and connected to N.Y. strip steaks by means of an esophagus that pokes through the diaphragm...well, it sorta headed north. Over time, and for reasons unknown, a portion of my stomach apparently decided the esophagus just wasn't providing the necessary throughput and decided to migrate north of the diaphragm. This resolved the throughput issue, I could eat like no tomorrow with no ill effect.

Until I laid down. See, the esophagus, unlike many body parts, apparently has a purpose. Well, to be more accurate, the "lower esophageal sphincter (LES)" has a purpose. And it was this LES that connected the esophagus to my voracious tum-tum. When stomach decided, undoubtedly through some democratic process, to get closer to the pie-hole, it obliterated the LES.

What does this mean, you ask? Picture a vase. Now fill it with water. Now, when you're asleep and snoring, have your S.O. pour the contents into your open mouth as you breath in. Fun? Next, instead of water, use bile. To use the technical term: When I laid down, the vase splished.

Ok, so I basically drowned several times a week. Never to completion obviously, although I often wonder how often my bride wished for some quiet through drastic means. After some diagnosis, which consisted of a gastroenterologist putting a garden hose down my gullet (when he noted there was no resistance after my tongue, he pretty much knew what was what - but kept going anyway because I had health insurance). He snipped bits from the mucky tissue in order to see if years of splashing battery acid on the esophagus had resulted in "Barrett's syndrome," a euphemism for pre-cancer. Yay! Fortunately, I have Walls of Steel and no obvious syndromes.

Next it was to Surgeon Turgeon, whose consultation took 23 seconds, but only because he lingered on the handshake. "Are you aspirating at night?" I parsed aspirating, remembered vase, said "yeah." "Ok, we'll go in." And then I got stupid. "So, if I'm getting the mucky bits tested due to corrosion and rust, haven't I been breathing that same battery acid? I mean, shouldn't we check the lungs?" "Nah, lungs are resilient. Even if we find something, there's not much we can do about it." Yay!

The procedure placed the stomach back where it belonged, put a hubby stitch into the diaphragm, and recreated a fake LES by taking the top of my stomach (called the fundus) and wrapping around the restored esophagus. One problem. It is the expansion of this fundus that tells the brain you're done eating. Yeah, so as your stomach expands, it relaxes the fundus, and the electrical impulse says "Put down the cat, you're done." So that fundus is now wrapped around my esophagus. Picture this briefly, those of you still with me at all: as food approaches the reconstructed LES, it, well, pushes on the FundusWrap. Which stupidly is unaware of its new role as wingnut, and tells the brain "Woah, hold up!" Stupid fundus.

If you don't know me, you would think I now weigh 135 lbs, down from my previous high of 183. I persevere, however, and manage to maintain a fairly fluffy weight class. It just takes work, people. It was my first time ever in a hospital; well, other than the first time, when I went from parasite to, er, louder parasite. I don't remember much, except the catheter experience that I didn't fully analyze until weeks later. Thanks again, ma'am.

So today my wife finds a piece of paper. On the paper are comments left by friends and family, as they sat in the recovery room with me while I made my first vase-free snoring sounds in 20 years. It reminded me how lucky I am to have such friends and family. They were really great to schlep and sit uncomfortably wondering if I'd wake up. Thanks for being there, peeps. In honor of my two year anniversary of enjoying jambalaya, here are some of their comments, as fresh now as they were then:

Guy friend, who has ducked me in playing racquetball for 4 years ever since he beat me once - "I'm ready for racquetball!"

His girlfriend, now wife, making a reference I don't get: "The debt has been repaid. Thanks! You were a great snorer."

Daughter: "Hey daddy-o! You look great! But what's up with the snorting noise?"

Her boyfriend, now husband: "I read you several books and held your hand for several hours. You seemed to enjoy it!"

Guy friend, macho type: "You are so cute sleeping. Your wife would not let me draw on your face."

Colleague: "I don't think I've ever seen you go so long without talking."

Colleague: "Once you get back online, we'll play you the audio clips of your snorks."

What a crew. Aliens all. Woah, I'm late for dinner!

I Shaved My Neck For This?

2005-03-02T20:22:00.000-08:00

Well, I've done it. Not sure how, so don't ask my secret, but I've managed to achieve what I've wanted since I was a lad: I am officially invisible.

I should back up in my story (not physically, of course, us invisible folk have to be careful around you corporeals.) Apparently my transition to full transparency was a slow one. As with most metamorphoses, I was not aware at earlier phases what I would eventually become.

In one early phase, my countenance acquired some additional subtle feature. Again, not sure what it was, but it permitted the following: at a gathering a few weeks after I joined my firm, I found myself at a crowded table of colleagues where no one knew me. A late arriving drunk firebrand saw me, stopped, and exclaimed: "Who the fuck are you and why are you at my table?!" I was not yet invisible, though, as several people grinned at me, told me she was drunk (crowds revel in the self-evident), and not to be offended. Also, said firebrand decided to "apologize" by... forcing me to dance with her. I will skip right by the implications of currency and barter in this tale. Suffice to say I wished I were invisible much of that evening.

A few months ago, I approached a woman who had consulted with the same client I was supporting. I figured we should meet, and I did hope we could collaborate to get this client the best answers. We were at a conference, surrounded by folks, and I extended my hand in chivalry. I should state here that I did not know my beloved client had mangled my message when speaking with her - and told her something that lie precisely opposed to my actual message. She glanced at my hand and said (loudly, apparently maximum effect is achieved with volume): "I know who you are, and I want you to know you're wrong. And further, I've told your client you're wrong." I suggested we discuss things, and she expressed surprise I hadn't slunk away. "No, I'm from Long Island, your greeting isn't all that shocking." The last laugh was hers: "Ah, my ex was from Long Island..."

So you see, the face had by then taken on a certain transparency.

But tonight, I appear to have achieved complete clarity. I sit alone in a crowded San Francisco Irish pub. That most pathetic of creatures, "table for one" carrying a book. "Oh, do you want this table?" Herself says, indicating a small table next to the door. "No." "Then give me your name, I'll put you on the list." "Why can't I sit at that empty clean table there, next to the bar and away from the incoming traffic?" "Oh, ok..fine."

And here I sit, visible only to the surly staff. The young whatevers around me cannot see me, look right through me, and have the most intimate conversations well within earshot. The men preen and whoop, and the women preen and check their cellphones. I briefly wonder if I am invisible enough to break a social boundary by appreciating the young ladies in their scruffy attire with a lingering glance. But there is a fine line between invisibility and a barfight. Best hold off on that maneuver, lest I become Creepy Old Guy.

Ah, the evening's groping has begun. No problem, lad, no one can see except for the INVISIBLE GUY SITTING TWO FEET FROM YOUR GIRL'S LEG.

Sigh. Check, please. Hello? HELLO? Oh God, they're singing, HELLO??

Man peed way out of avalanche

2005-01-29T22:09:00.000-08:00

Ananova - Man peed way out of avalanche: "A Slovak man trapped in his car under an avalanche freed himself by drinking 60 bottles of beer and urinating on the snow to melt it."

I'll admit to a bit of writer's block lately on this blog. And then I'm handed this story. And I find I truly have writer's block. Because all I can do is bring it to your attention, and stand back.

Way back.

The Eye of the Tigress

2005-01-12T06:03:00.000-08:00

My wife has The Eye. I don't know when she obtained it, I don't know who else has it - but she has The Eye. It has evidenced itself in various ways over the years, but it is only now, in my declining years, that I can see hints of it throughout the history of our relationship.

This goes beyond the usual, "so you think she's pretty" observations - when I have been so incredibly subtle and I know she's just guessing - or "have you looked in the x" when I can't find pretty much anything in the house. No, this is her link to the animal kingdom. My link to the animal kingdom is to say "thank you" to my processed meat product as it sits on my plate waiting to please me. Her link is The Eye.

In the "navigator" seat, where one places control freaks when one must drive with them, she has used The Eye. (One avoids placing control freaks in the driver's seat, as new and twisted forms of road rage are guaranteed to emerge.) The Eye only sees patterns. Therefore, the direction given to the driver from The Eye goes like this: "Keep going straight, I'll let you know when to turn." "You should be in the left lane!" "Ok, turn left here, NOW GET INTO THE RIGHT LANE!" It took years for her to say, "I'll know it when I see it."

Ah. In other words, she will recognize the pattern that indicates it is time to turn. I learned as a child (which means it could be completely false) that cats only see movement. They register a pattern, and then study for some movement or change to the movement. Perfectly suited for a predator (but again, I could have been completely misled here). The Eye has these characteristics. She can't tell me street names or route numbers or tell me more than one move in advance. I always assumed this was because I just didn't need to know. My job is to operate the heavy machinery, and she didn't want to clutter my pretty little head with maps and routes.
Just listen for her voice and respond accordingly.

I have come to believe that this is instead because of The Eye, and the fact that she honestly doesn't know it until she sees it. We recently drove to a destination that we apparently only visit in the Spring or Summer. It is now Winter. There are no leaves on the trees. We missed our turn. Or maybe the cars parked on the street weren't the same cars from August. Whatever the issue, the pattern had changed. The Eye had a rare miscue. Because I am an idiot, I pointed this out to her. Yes, I poked the bear with a sharp stick. I will never learn.

The Eye also works on people. Here it is its most devastating. It compares pattern changes from the Omnipotent Norm. "She is wearing white shoes in October." Ok, my gay friends have taught me that one. But how about noticing a character on the television who is wearing the a "bra that isn't right for her?" Last night, we were watching Law and Order, where a female detective (and they are all hot in NYC, trust me) is interviewing an 8-year-old girl. I am half-watching, half net-surfing and I hear, "She is wearing the wrong bra." I look up, and sure enough, the 8-year-old's attire does her absolutely no favors. "What was she thinking!" I say in a valiant effort to pretend I have a clue. "Not her, jackass."

Oh. The camera swings back to the hot detective, who, upon further review, has two small golf balls sticking out of the top of her bra and pushing against her sweater. "No, you moron. Those are her breasts, getting squeezed out of a bra that is too small for her." Of course, I am now left considering what these malleable breasts looks like in their natural state; while The Eye notes, "that is the wrong bra for her." And of course, she's right. This is the poor woman's attempt at a WonderBra. It is rather sad. Just buy the gel-packs, honey, they're on sale at Vicki's!

In order to better understand your woman, try to identify these supernatural traits that make them so very different from us. They all have them, but they manifest themselves in different ways. Do not do what I do, which is to point out how freakish your woman is. In my case, The Eye no longer keeps as much to itself as it did when we were courting. This is unfortunate.

Last night, as we recline in the boudoir, and I consider her lovely form (no golf balls here!), I hear; "Oh, and that one hair way high up on your right cheek that you think no one notices? The one just under your eye? Don't shave it again tomorrow, pluck it for God's sake. It's long enough and it needs to come out. Probably been scaring people for days with that thing. Good night."

Today: I am rearranging the furniture. The war continues.

BBC NEWS | South Asia | Tribe shoots arrows at aid flight

2005-01-04T20:26:00.000-08:00

BBC NEWS | South Asia | Tribe shoots arrows at aid flight: "An Indian helicopter dropping food and water over the remote Andaman and Nicobar Islands has been attacked by tribesmen using bows and arrows.

There were fears that the endangered tribal groups had been wiped out when massive waves struck their islands.
But the authorities say the attack is a sign that they have survived.
...
A senior police officer said the crew were not hurt and the authorities are taking it as a sign that the tribes have not been wiped out by the earthquake and sea surges as many had feared. "

No, it's far too early to find any humor in the tsunami disaster.

However. I do note from this piece undeniable proof that shows exactly why the "authorities" are indeed...authorities.

What's on YOUR Facia Board?

2004-12-21T16:26:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I have a house that has been described as, well, nice. It's the type of house that's fast becoming a "classic." You know the type. Developers move in, destroy acres of hunting land, smooth out the hills, clear the trees, and then name it something like "Glen Rolling Hills." Some call these homes 'mini-mansions' but that's absurd. I don't even have my elevator yet.

Anyway.

It has a lovely brick facade, and I noticed the true meaning of facade when I saw the house under construction. They dug an extra trench, put up a brick wall, and then build a modest wooden house behind it. The other three sides are aluminum siding. It's gorgeous, really. Classic, even. Attention to detail is evident throughout, including even wood molding where the siding meets the overhang. I'm told this is where the mysterious Facia Board lives, although I wouldn't know this from focaccia bread. This molding resembles the "Crown Molding" that is hung (regally, I suppose) in our dining room. It is a delight to behold.

Truth be told, however, I never actually noticed it until my neighbor called to say that half of it was in his living room. See, it was windy here recently, and he noticed a large piece of FaciaMold was in my driveway one morning. Knowing my family, he assumed my wife would back over it, so he rescued it until a more godly hour of the morning, then phoned me. I briefly wondered why the FaciaMold did not splinter when it struck the driveway from such a height, and blithely assumed it was borne on angel's wings, fluttering gently to the ground.

Turns out it more likely bounced. See, my FaciaMold is actually made of molded foam, painted and shaped to look like Real Wood. And part of it did break off, while the larger piece is now oddly bent. There is another piece up there which teeters on my "roof," waiting for the next gust to free it from its perch. I'm thinking of hanging Christmas lights from it, make it feel like the old neighborhood.

I called the builder, who built this house four years ago. My, did I make her day! "You want what?" and "I've worked here five months, and I've NEVER heard anything like this!" She checked around, and reported back that "any carpenter can fix it for you." I asked her to sit down and broke the news to her. "It's not WOOD! I would need a FOAMER to fix this! Perhaps a sculptor?" Well, after a lengthy amusing conversation, we determined that a kind-hearted maintenance guy will cruise by the building lots and see if there are any pieces that match my model. "Designs change, you know, sir..." Yes, because it was vital to recraft this FaciaMold. The "bad" news is that I am on my own to find someone to re-install this accessory once the materials are delivered.

I have an alternative. I could have a real carpenter, using real wood, replace all this damned foam and put up actual organic materials on my house. My only fear is that its authenticity will somehow lower the value, or make other houses jealous, or - a more reasonable fear - violate the HOA guidelines.

Breaking the Code

2004-11-21T07:51:00.000-08:00

Being married provides the greatest opportunities for entertainment in the known universe. If the "secret o' life is enjoying the passage of time," and "love is a battlefield," well - my wife is in charge of maintaining the minefield through which I stroll.

Latest example: We arrive at our favorite restaurant, only to find that our usual table is not available. Our choice, which our host doesn't even suggest, is a small table at the front of the restaurant, just inside the door. I know my wife has had a hard day, and needs to begin her Chianti infusion at the earliest opportunity. So I suggest we sit at this table, which, let's face it, is beneath us as restaurant regulars. This was confirmed when the young lady masquerading as our "server" gasped when she saw us. "You guys sat at MY station??" I define "server" differently than the restaurant chains who coined the term - I know this and accept it. But come on...

Anyhoo, so after we receive our carafe, and the healing is underway, I notice my wife is unsettled. I cannot describe how I know this, but there is a cold feeling at the base of the spine accompanied by slight nausea that every husband (those who actually care, that is) understands. She is unhappy, and is waiting for You to fix It. You can now gain points, which will be lost immediately if you commit the most serious crime of asking, "What's wrong," or the more serious outrage, "What would fix It?"

Of course, my first question is, "Are you ok?" Moron. She smiles and says, "Of course." Ok... so then, applying my years of work as an analyst, I ask, "Would you like to move tables, there is one closer to Our Table open now?" She responds, "I don't care, I'm fine."

Uh oh. "Fine," as any husband knows, is up there with "Pussy." Your wife will say it, and even smile while saying it, but you know she's not happy about it. At all. And it's your fault she had to say it.

So she's "fine." I pressed her for a few minutes. "If you want to move, let's move, honey. Really, come on, let's just move, you aren't comfortable here." To no avail, I just kept being reassured that she was "fine" and didn't "care." The host approached and mentioned with a flair that he hates to seat people like me at the front table, but is delighted to have such a pretty blonde in his front window. Thanks, bud. I recall how a friend of mine was seated at the same table months ago, and received the same exact patter. He, like me, pegged his crapometer at this - while his wife preened. Some guys can just pull off slimy, ya know?

He then wisely asks, "there is a table further inside that's open, would you guys like to move?" She says, "I don't care. That table up there is fine."

Huh. So while she still doesn't care, it's the "table up there" that's fine, not her. The clues are all around me now. But I'm not a smart man. Because it is at these times in my marriage, that I try to pull back the covers. I suppose I have this absurd notion that if I expose the Byzantine language of marriage for what it is, that clear and honest dialogue will dawn and keep me warm in my dotage. I am not a smart man.

"See that? There was a clue there, friend! She said she doesn't care, but adds that 'that' table is fine! That means she wants to move, why can't she just tell me outright?" Our host smiled. My wife did not. My wife loves me. No one knows why.

Our host sprang into action. "I'll have the other table cleared, wait just a moment, and we'll move you. No problem at all."

The "server" came by. "You're moving?"

And this is where I bruised my jaw as it bounced off the floor. My wife turns to our "server" and says, "yes, I thought this would be ok, but the door has opened a few times, and it's really cold here. I'm just getting a chill, that's all."

I calmly (ok, no, not calmly) asked my wife why she couldn't be so honest with me when I quizzed her earlier. "Why didn't you just tell me you were cold? Why did you keep saying you were fine, and didn't care?" She looked at me like I had five heads and blinked. The host overheard the conversation, and said to me directly: "Because you should have just known it. Why should she have to tell you?"

Some guys can really pull off slimy.

A Brush with the Bushes

2004-11-15T11:15:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I've always been a bit goofy around famous people. It hasn't happened often, but when I've had a brush with people In The News ("...with Christopher Glenn," am I the only one who remembers this?), it's been downright embarrassing. Until last week. When I got to scare a famous person, and this time not be creepy about it.

But first, some context. Driving through Amagansett ("It's in the Hamptons, and you are so not cool for having to ask"), NY, approximately 25 years ago, I was faced with one of my rare celebrity sightings. I was in my happening 1972 VW Squareback Sedan - the non-dented parts were still identifiably green - just tooling down Rt 28.

When I looked over and saw a friend getting something out of the trunk of his black Mercedes. I say friend, because he looked so damned familiar. And even though I was living in the Hamptons, where people famously ignored the famous, it's entirely possible I honked my horn, leaned my head out the window and yelled, "Hey! How ya doin!"

Grammy-Award Winner Paul Simon looked up, glanced at my car and then my face, realized he knew neither, and walked away. No doubt grumbling to himself that the Hamptons were becoming just like everywhere else. That's about the time I realized why his face was so familiar... This, then, was my low point in celebrity interactions.

So fast forward to last Thursday. I'm in the audience of a community theater production. In the second row. In the first row, because this is the coolest town in the world, is Miss Jenna Bush. Directly in front of me. (Mom and sis were nearby, but I only interacted with JB.) Out of context, yes, it's a bit icky that this 45-year-old man momentarily felt like a giggly schoolgirl in the presence of, well, a giggly schoolgirl - but that's what famous people do to me. The difference is that this time I was able to play it cool.

And torture her.

Following intermission, I returned to my seat, and began thumbing the Blackberry to see what vital emails had come in since 8 pm. As I was leaning forward, I was almost part of the conversation as her guy friend was teasing her, "Come on, I'm sure they'd all like to hear your intermission joke! Just stand up and talk to them!" She, slightly horrified, tried to shush him.

Sensing an opportunity to torture her, after having practiced on my daughters for years, I calmly addressed the young man: "Excuse me, but I know the director, if you'd like I can get you a microphone. I'm sure we would all like to hear her joke" He loved the idea, primarily because it increased her discomfort, and began telling the other young man and her sister of Jenna's plight. True to the demographic of the Southern young lady, Miss Bush was just unsure enough of the situation to try to reason with the strange man with the Blackberry. She sat forward, turned towards me in the most dignified manner, and said, "Oh, that's not necessary, thanks."

"Nonsense, it's no bother!"
"No, really, it's ok. You don't have to do that."
"Oh, it's the least I can do, I'm emailing him now, he'll be down in a sec."
"Um, really. There's no need."
"Please, no bother at all. See? Already sent."

At this point, she sat back in her seat as the final act music began. I'm fairly certain her brief thoughts of me were not kind, and probably rhymed with 'basspole.' But it was all worth it. Somewhere, Paul Simon is smiling.

Where the Hell Have I Been? Hollywood. Florida.

2004-10-24T13:53:00.000-07:00

Now this was a hotel. No, seriously. The only part of Hollywood I saw was the inside of this hotel. Mostly. Unlike the following week when Disney got "into my head," (literally, I am certain bed mites are setting up a feral colony right now in my brain stem), this was a truly elegant way to treat humans. The room view was that of the Atlantic Ocean. Or bathtub. It was hard to tell. Apparently, there is a large reef or wave calming device offshore Miami - since as far as the eye could see, this was the most boring ocean in history. No waves. It could be that four hurricanes had finally used up the alloted waves for FY04, but I can't prove that.

I'd never been to this part of South Florida before, and have only seen this swampland on my way to Key West. (A sewer to which I shall never return, but that's another story.) So I'll confess to being somewhat uninformed as to what marvelous topology or technology that turns the southern northern Atlantic into a bay.

So my view was that of a cruise ship. Until I stepped onto my balcony, I wasn't even aware of any other structures nearby. Additionally, until I stepped onto my balcony for the sixth time, I wasn't even aware of the room next to me, to my left. The one that did not have a balcony. And therefore whose window ended where my sliding glass door began. Which hypothetically gave them a view that may at one time or another included my unpantsed behind and bits. To whoever you are, I am truly truly sorry. I did notice the room to my right, with its balcony and dividing privacy wall. I never thought to look over my shoulder to my left, until a light from that poor unfortunate's room caught my eye sometime during the second day. Again, I'm sorry.

There's a reason elegant hotels give you big fluffy robes. If you look anything like me, please please use them.

The room itself featured a bathroom with a strategically-placed opening in the wall. One could hypothetically sit in the generous tub and watch the telly. Or the bay. Just delicious. I felt bad for my colleagues, who all landed rooms that faced the "city." Specifically a parking garage. A garage which briefly featured an extremely attractive young lady in some sort of shady photo shoot. My colleagues had a, shall we say, birds-eye view of the, er, spread. And now you know why I accused the ocean of being comparatively boring.

The hotel bar had a lovely bar with all the fixin's: Cushy chairs, large screen plasma, and mojitos (mojitoes?). That's probably enough said about that.

Oh, and The Knife is the best restaurant in the world. And the Hollywood location offers the best mid-afternoon entertainment this side of Stepford. Trust me on this one.

Where the Hell Have I Been? Disney.

2004-10-24T09:03:00.000-07:00

Disney. Not Orlando, but "Lake Buena Vista, Florida." Near Downtown Disney. For a business conference. Having a business event at Disney is akin to performing abdominal surgery at Chuck E. Cheese. Let's just say it isn't the optimal environment.

"Mass transit" consists of busses that treat the theme parks as the hub. To travel from one Disney hotel to the other, one must take a free bus from the hotel to a theme park, and then from that park to the destination hotel. And be sure and plan all travel to be accomplished within park hours. The symposium sponsor did have a very effective hotel to venue transit system, but that just substituted the venue for the theme park.

We were 5000 strong, spread across a half-dozen Disney properties. I drew the property that didn't have high-speed Internet access. Here's the exchange:

"Hello, I was wondering where your Internet access was - the conference materials indicate that all rooms have high-speed access."
"Oh, no sir. Not here. You can use dial-up access, up to 56k!"
"You're kidding me. What year is it here? I can't work here for a week without reasonable access. Damn. No rooms in this 'resort' have high-speed access?"
"I'm sorry sir."
"Alright, bye."
-- inaudible --
"Excuse me?"
"I said, Have a Magical Day!(TM)"
"Are you kidding me?"

Being a world-class whiner, I began a series of calls to the Disney SS Help Desk to be relocated to a property that did. Here's what I learned:

* Every Disney song, because whiny calls are routed to the same hold music as parents looking for the nearest "theme park" where their loinfruit can wipe their noses on big fuzzy cartoon characters. This does not improve the attitude of whiny callers, Mr. Eisner.

* If you wait long enough, kindly Disney employees - who, despite being named Lola are probably living and working in New Delhi - will quietly hang up on you.

* The Disney policy is that your deposit is forfeited if you check out of the room early - even if you transfer to another Disney property.

* Because the front desk staff was comprised of interns from various hospitality programs from community colleges across the country - I was able to see the instructions from which "Allie" was working. And learned that, based on the interactions I had over the 2.5 hours I engaged the Disney staff, I was officially a "challenging guest." Allie was very good at client categorization.

Thanks to the sponsor of the symposium, I was eventually moved to the equivalent of the Disney EconoLodge - but at least it had high-speed access. The remainder of my trip was relatively uneventful, but extremely long. My favorite memory is of us trooping into the breakfast tent, where Disney efficiently processed breakfast for 5,000 humans. We were herded to a Very Specific table, where the single pot of coffee was soon exhausted. Being enteprising Type A's, one of our number went to a neighboring empty table and procured another coffee pot. A smiling Disney blonde (Model # 2354-a) bustled up to demand we have no more than one (1) coffee pot on our table. We agreed, and handed her the empty pot to go refill. She hefted it, declared it "not empty yet," and took the full one back its rightful table.

Lake Buena Vista is a hot, flat, muggy swamp. On the bright side, it does have a large American entertainment conglomerate with a business model and staff that Goebbels would find very efficient.

Yes, my future grandkids are screwed. Grampa ain't buying the Disney kool-aid.

Where the Hell Have I Been? Kobehavn.

2004-10-14T14:50:00.000-07:00

Copenhagen, Denmark. Yes, I intentionally include the country here because it was my first ever trip to Europe, and there may well be a Copenhagen, Ohio or some such foolishness. CPH is everything I dreamed Europe would be, provided by Europe I was thinking 1952 Warsaw. Or perhaps a riverfront in 1963 Belarus. A cold, bleak city with no humor but clean streets. Just about everyone commuted by bicycle, so the citizenry was theoretically fit enough to mount an effectively feisty defense of the nation at any time.

However, the lecture series I attended included the Danish Defence Minister who off-handedly mentioned that he completely revamped the nation's mobilization structure because “no one's going to attack us anytime soon.”in fact, aside from being Germany's biatch a couple of times a century, their only military history consists of having their Navy “stolen” in 1802.

Since they built a bridge to their historic enemies in Sweden a few years ago, the population of the town on the other end, (Malmo, Sweden) has swelled by 60,000 people. Amazing what lower tax rates will do for migration.

So it's a chilly little city that's emptying out slowly but surely. Where the main tourist attraction is a small green statue of a nude mermaid sitting slightly offshore in the canal. A charming sight, until the tour guide tells you that her head has been “stolen” twice in the last 30 years.

It's frankly amazing what people find to steal in Denmark.

The canal tour pauses by the two special gazebo's built to hold the Royal family as they wait to board a truly obscenely huge yacht for their annual tour around the city. We're told that thousands turn out for this rite of Spring. To think, other nations celebrate Spring by having sex. Never realized what I was missing.

Oh, and the height of entertainment in CPH (aside from some promising nightclubs that cater to people half my age) is found in Tivoli Gardens. This is Central Park, if Central Park were designed by Disney in the 1600's. Open air theatres feature mime shows and the like, complete with dancing “bear,” and the people are enthralled. The creepiest part of my visit occurred as approximately 350 people stopped in their shuffling about aimlessly to watch these poor renditions of children's books acted out. No one smiled or laughed, but they gave great golf clap at each scene change. I could hear them thinking: “Theatre. Here we stand until it is done. This is what we are to do.” I wanted to scream out something about MTV Cribs, but did not want to meet gendarmes who live this close to Germany.

I was honored to be there for the final weekend of the season for Tivoli. That evening, I could see meager fireworks in the distance for 10 minutes or so. My local single A baseball games have these beat. After the final firework (?) went off, I turned on the TV. And yes, European hotel TV sucks. I mean a lot. Ten minutes later, the Tivoli staff apparently found some unexploded ordnance and a final shell burst over the city

I didn't kiss the ground when I got back to Dulles International as I tongued it in gratitude for my safe return from the Cold War museum that is Copenhagen.

Fun with Medicine

2004-08-31T13:09:00.000-07:00

So last night the wife is complaining of pain from near her recent tooth extraction. It certainly looks painful, as I get the Arkansas gap-toother look when she opens her mouth. Yup, bottom front toofie is out. When the bone heals (don't ask) she will get a new implanted marvel - for now, however, she is my Southern belle with just a hint of Astroturf in the ol' pickup bed.

So last night it hurt. So she took a Percocet or two. And some wine. I raised a protest and she glared in her gapped way. I relented and poured. She eventually headed to bed, and, well, had another pill. Woke up at 3 in pain. Now, apparently, the rule with Percocet is: if it's not working, take it again! She stares at the clock till 5, (while my slumber is undisturbed - she is really a good wife), then pops another.

At 6 or so, she taps me. She has to tap, because I cannot hear her whimpers - what with the earplugs and all. Yes, she's a snorer. Or so I claim. And a moaner. She is a symphony, truth be told. And doesn't read this blog, does it show?

You may remember my eye-cutting from last week. Sleeping with recently sodomized eyes means you wear these happening safety goggles in bed. There I lay, in my goggles and bright yellow earplugs. She with her gap tooth. We're starting a porn site, I've decided - we're just that hot.

So she taps. I pull a plug reluctantly, and hear: "I am not breathing well or much. And my blood pressure is really low." She is cold and clammy to the touch. Ok, I could have rolled over and hit the snooze, yeah, solving several problems all at once but perhaps then facing a day of paperwork. Instead, I spent the day nursing the wife. Dragged her to the dentist when she stabilized (don't ask), and told him to fix her face. "She needs another root canal, we can do it tomorrow." Fine, says I, but she's staying with you until she's fixed. Suddenly they had an opening, and I hear she's better now.

We'll see. I bought new industrial strength earplugs. And reserved the fugly.com domain name.

Stay tuned.

I've Got Betty Davis Eyes

2004-08-27T07:51:00.000-07:00

The country is becoming divided along a serious fault line. Not red vs blue, or retro vs. metro. No, I refer here to those who know and fear the term "flap complications" and those unfortunates who have never had a "cool laser" shot into their unsuspecting eyeball. Yes, I'm talking Lasik. Corneal lipsuction. Body sculpting taken way too far. For those of you with corrected vision, here are the simple steps to better vision:

1) Have young women in matching scrubs (is there a sexier garment?) smile and tell you everything that can go wrong. Once you are considering the odds that this venture may result in a lifetime of thorazined dogs and red-tipped canes - they have you where they want you. You will get up from the table happy just to still have your limbs.

2) Meet with the doctor, whose office sits next to the Clockwork Orange Theater - a solarium that provides the waiting room with a complete view of the crime. He asks if you have any questions, and you realize you would like to just stall for a bit. So you ask about his kids, and think of pop quiz questions that might trip him up: What is a waveform? Without looking, what color are my eyes? After he tells you that your vision will be blurry after surgery, ask him why the damned marketing says you'll sit up and be amazed to see the clock on the all? Then immediately realize your mistake, since he's about to run with scissors across your face. Apologize to Dr. Mengele.

3) Enter the Theater. Remain calm while the doctor marks your eyeball with a Sharpie. "See, your eyes rotate in their sockets to the side when you lie on your back."(Here, you should fight the mental picture of supine breasts. One must not giggle while a Sharpie is on one's eyeball) "We need to correct the vision so things look right while standing up." Nothing this man says is open to argument. Proceed to comfy chair, where the ladies begin taping various things to your face. Some of them even have medical uses.

4) While on the table, you will be told that you have a very important role in this surgery, but still no fee-splitting. You are to stare at a small ring of white light. You will stare at this light, because if you look away, the laser will go feral - possibly carving its initials on your optic nerve. You will stare at this light while:

* An sharp pointy instrument approaches your eye. He will actually say, "there's 'something' coming at you from above, do not look at it, just keep staring at the light."

* The Ring of Doom is placed on your cornea, "You will feel pressure" and then Tom Cruise cuts a clean hole in your cornea with his secret agent torch. Your vision goes black, and most times, returns. But for a few seconds, yes, you go blind. Unfortunately, you can still hear. And you hear things like, "apply suction" and "I need a sponge."

* The flap is peeled back slowly, and your vision goes very blurry. KEEP STARING!

* Blue dancing lights appear around the ring. DON'T LOOK AT THEM, KEEP STARING! The nice scrubbed women begin to loudly narrate the actions of the laser. 'OUT OF RANGE, TRACKING, TRACKING"

Note: this is not the time to suddenly realize you should have asked the Doc about his backup power strategy. A blackout would really suck, but now is too late. Also, don't think about sneezing. Oh, and ignore the fact that this is being broadcast to the waiting room, where prospective patients are hurling as they see the dancing lights across textured meat of your pupil after the flap is lifted.

5) Do it again on the other eye.

6) Leave with the most expensive pair of free sunglasses on Earth.

Then give them money that you would have spent on a large screen HDTV. Start saving again for said TV, since you now have owl vision, and can watch the neighbor's TV through the wall. Sadly though, you can no longer see anything closer than 4 feet away without reading glasses. Congratulations, you've got presbyopia!

OK, ok.

2004-08-26T10:47:00.000-07:00

So I'll establish a blog for the "rest of you." I'm told my other blog is a bit too serious (other terms used included 'full of rage,' 'unreadable,' 'in need of substantial chilling, dude'), and was encouraged to blog some of the more potentially humorous aspects of my journey. Actually, the term used there was "post your internal apocalypse, lighten up on the one that we're all living through." Shadenfruede, I suspect.

So here goes. I'll be here all week.