Short post tonight. I visited the Richard Avedon exhibition at the Amon Carter Museum in Fort Worth this weekend. I learned quite alot about the subject of his photos and how he manipulated the photos. They were all posed. Many...most...of the people in the photos were down on their luck people who Avedon believed represented the "real" west. Coal miners, carneys, beekeepers, drifters, abused runaways...they were his subjects. Avedon used photographic print techniques to vary the "burn" on each photo, hightlighting certain areas, minimizing others. In effect, he hardened the images...made them harsher and more intense. Make no mistake, his photography is exceptional. Is it art? I'd say it is. But many people who think they're being photographed think, no doubt, that their images won't be manipulated by the photographer. I have mixed feelings.
I found Avedon's assistant's photos of Avedon working with his subjects more interesting than the final prints. I found her comments about Avedon intensely interesting. The stories of so many of the subjects were heartbreaking.
I want to spend more time thinking...exploring art, literature, ideas. Running a company that serves as administrator and bookkeeper and such is not rewarding. But I don't have the talent, nor the time to learn, to be the poet, the artist, the writer. If only I had listened to my desires when I was younger.
Back to the roof rats, the broken cars, the employee evaluations, taking minutes of meetings and planning board meetings. What a life! It would be different if I hadn't seen what could have been.
The cowgirl museum in Fort Worth was remarkable...my expectations were not very high...that's when the actual experience can be utterly delightful! More on this and other unfinished thoughts in the days and weeks to come.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Fort Worth Tourists
If Fort Worth lacks appeal to you, it's because you've not spent time there recently. The Bass Performance Hall is spectacular. Sundance Square in downtown Fort Worth is abuzz with activity every day, but on weekends it is especially busy. The Amon Carter Museum is in Fort Worth (a very fine art museum), as is the Kimbell Art Museum, the Cowboy Hall of Fame, the National Cowgirl Museum, and many more. At the Stockyards, north of downtown, there is Billy Bob's nightclub, a legendary country music mecca. The Japanese Gardens, Botanic Gardens, the Nature Center, the Fort Worth Zoo...the list is amazing for a city known to most as a "hick" town in the shadow of cosmopolitan Dallas.
I'm writing all of this because this weekend my wife and I are going to play tourists in Fort Worth. A few months ago, we won a door-prize: a one-night stay in a nice downtown Fort Worth hotel (the Radisson), complete with a bottle of champagne, chocolate dipped strawberries, and breakfast for two. We're going to use it tonight. So, today, we're going to Fort Worth and act like tourists. At the Amon Carter Museum, there's an exhibition of Richard Avedon photographs...In the American West. We'll see that, and we plan to visit the Cowgirl Museum. I just learned the National Women's Finals Rodeo is going on this weekend, too, but that may be tough to see. Tonight, we go to see Four Day Weekend, billed as the best comedy show in the southwest; my wife got tickets for us at 7:30 pm.
We're going to milk this for all it's worth...as I have to come back to deal with car issues...my old Toyota Avalon, which seems ready to give up the ghost, and my much older Ford Pickup, which has never passed inspection and to which I do not yet have title (because it won't pass inspection). This morning, I went out to move the truck (it's illegal to leave vehicle parked in the same place for more than 24 hours...smacks of a Fascist state, to me), only to find the battery appears to have died. And, on Monday morning, I am scheduled to meet with a pest control company representative, who will offer advice on how roof rats are finding their way into my attic and, just as importantly, how to get rid of them. Hearing critters scamper about in my attic late at night and early in the morning is downright disturbing!
But for now, I'm going to shower, shave, put on my most comfortable casual kickabout clothes, and play tourist in Fort Worth! Fortunately for us, my wife's Camry is only 3 years old and is not threatening to conk out, so we have transportation to the "hick" town!
I'm writing all of this because this weekend my wife and I are going to play tourists in Fort Worth. A few months ago, we won a door-prize: a one-night stay in a nice downtown Fort Worth hotel (the Radisson), complete with a bottle of champagne, chocolate dipped strawberries, and breakfast for two. We're going to use it tonight. So, today, we're going to Fort Worth and act like tourists. At the Amon Carter Museum, there's an exhibition of Richard Avedon photographs...In the American West. We'll see that, and we plan to visit the Cowgirl Museum. I just learned the National Women's Finals Rodeo is going on this weekend, too, but that may be tough to see. Tonight, we go to see Four Day Weekend, billed as the best comedy show in the southwest; my wife got tickets for us at 7:30 pm.
We're going to milk this for all it's worth...as I have to come back to deal with car issues...my old Toyota Avalon, which seems ready to give up the ghost, and my much older Ford Pickup, which has never passed inspection and to which I do not yet have title (because it won't pass inspection). This morning, I went out to move the truck (it's illegal to leave vehicle parked in the same place for more than 24 hours...smacks of a Fascist state, to me), only to find the battery appears to have died. And, on Monday morning, I am scheduled to meet with a pest control company representative, who will offer advice on how roof rats are finding their way into my attic and, just as importantly, how to get rid of them. Hearing critters scamper about in my attic late at night and early in the morning is downright disturbing!
But for now, I'm going to shower, shave, put on my most comfortable casual kickabout clothes, and play tourist in Fort Worth! Fortunately for us, my wife's Camry is only 3 years old and is not threatening to conk out, so we have transportation to the "hick" town!
Car, Part 2
Such amazing luck. I decided to pick up my car...had no work done, other than the inspections...all the things I had to have done, I didn't. I decided to go to a state inspection station to see if I could get the car inspected and give myself some time.
Success! I got the inspection! So, now I have at least a little time to decide what to do. As long as the steering doesn't fail or the timing belt doesn't break or the brake pads don't crater, I have a few days to decide what to do.
Now...do I buy a new car, a used car, or fix up my old clunker and get a nice car later, one in which I can retire in comfort?
Success! I got the inspection! So, now I have at least a little time to decide what to do. As long as the steering doesn't fail or the timing belt doesn't break or the brake pads don't crater, I have a few days to decide what to do.
Now...do I buy a new car, a used car, or fix up my old clunker and get a nice car later, one in which I can retire in comfort?
Friday, October 28, 2005
Car Troubles
Just days after commenting that I plan to keep my 1997 Toyota Avalon (131,300 miles) for year and years to come, I learned today that it needs quite alot of work...some is absolutely required, right away, some is highly advisable, now or very soon. The work it needs is very, very expensive. The work I was advised to have done on the car, which has a Blue Book value of about $3,500, amounts to more than $4,700!
MUST DO work includes replacement of the rack & pinion (right side) because the leaking power steering fluid will not allow the car to pass state inspection. That, alone, would allow me to get the car inspected. But the break pads, front and rear, are nearly worn to metal...never been replaced...and will ruin the rotors, soon, if they are not replaced. The timing belt was replaced at 60,000 miles...I'm told it's on borrowed time and could cause enormously expensive problems if it breaks. There's a serious oil leak that could, if it spills onto the hot manifold below, cause an engine fire. All SORTS of shit! My immediate thought was...get rid of it! But then I waffle about just biting the bullet and getting it done...the guy at the garage (not a Toyota dealership, but a place that specializes in Japanese cars) says the car will go a long way if I spend the money now...but he warns that if I don't, the car will be nothing but a load of problems for me, and soon.
My state inspection expires Monday. So, I'm trying to decide what I do...do I get it the rack & pinion fixed ($675), get it inspected, and then hope it holds out long enough for me to select another car? Do I spend it all...and keep the car for as long as I possibly can? Do I get the timing belt done, too?
In reviewing past expenses, aside from expensive regular maintenance, the car has cost much more than it should...I really like it, but a recap of past expenses revealed things like $450 to replace an electric window motor...$390 to replace a starter motor...$1300 to replace the AC compressor...$1000 to replace the rack & pinion (yes, it happened before), etc. So, I don't know if the $4,700 investment would be just the beginning of a continuing series of investments.
Dammit!
MUST DO work includes replacement of the rack & pinion (right side) because the leaking power steering fluid will not allow the car to pass state inspection. That, alone, would allow me to get the car inspected. But the break pads, front and rear, are nearly worn to metal...never been replaced...and will ruin the rotors, soon, if they are not replaced. The timing belt was replaced at 60,000 miles...I'm told it's on borrowed time and could cause enormously expensive problems if it breaks. There's a serious oil leak that could, if it spills onto the hot manifold below, cause an engine fire. All SORTS of shit! My immediate thought was...get rid of it! But then I waffle about just biting the bullet and getting it done...the guy at the garage (not a Toyota dealership, but a place that specializes in Japanese cars) says the car will go a long way if I spend the money now...but he warns that if I don't, the car will be nothing but a load of problems for me, and soon.
My state inspection expires Monday. So, I'm trying to decide what I do...do I get it the rack & pinion fixed ($675), get it inspected, and then hope it holds out long enough for me to select another car? Do I spend it all...and keep the car for as long as I possibly can? Do I get the timing belt done, too?
In reviewing past expenses, aside from expensive regular maintenance, the car has cost much more than it should...I really like it, but a recap of past expenses revealed things like $450 to replace an electric window motor...$390 to replace a starter motor...$1300 to replace the AC compressor...$1000 to replace the rack & pinion (yes, it happened before), etc. So, I don't know if the $4,700 investment would be just the beginning of a continuing series of investments.
Dammit!
Thursday, October 27, 2005
It will just have to wait...
No lengthy posting today...or tonight. My favorite wife gave me a birthday present (a few days late)...and I've spent most of the evening just listening to it. Yes, it's a 2-CD anthology of some of John Prine's best music, called Great Days.
I like it very, very much! Whenever I listen to his music, I think I should turn my efforts at writing to music from time to time. My problem is not the lyrics, it's the melody. I know nothing about writing music...but lyrics, that just may be something! I frequently sing my own words to lots of songs...when I'm alone in my car or, from time to time, with my wife in the car. She's not as enamored of my lyrics as I am, though.
Maybe more tomorrow.
I like it very, very much! Whenever I listen to his music, I think I should turn my efforts at writing to music from time to time. My problem is not the lyrics, it's the melody. I know nothing about writing music...but lyrics, that just may be something! I frequently sing my own words to lots of songs...when I'm alone in my car or, from time to time, with my wife in the car. She's not as enamored of my lyrics as I am, though.
Maybe more tomorrow.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Inland Shrimpfest, Reunion, and Architectural Sermon
Part I: This is apt to be a short introduction to what will ultimately be a relatively short travelogue and news story...it may evolve into Part II before, or after, this item is completed. This introduction may never see the light of day...Part II may take no time at all, or it may take weeks, months, years, decades to be completed.
On Saturday morning, my wife and I left Dallas at about 9:00 a.m., intending on reaching the fields of Falba by noon. We would visit one of my brothers and his daughter and son and their respective spouses and, if things went according to the way we hoped, one of my sisters. Only two brothers and a sister from my immediate family would be absent. And that's the way it was.
We arrived just after noon and immediately began working on the food fest, with bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches. My brother cooked vast quantities of bacon. My nephew's wife worked on tomatoes and toasting bread, and I decided to work on slicing fresh jalapeños; my brother and I like them, as does my niece's husband. Since I was working on jalapeños, I decided to try something I had tried only once before (I've written about it before, too).
That is, roll a fresh jalapeño under the ball of your hand, then bite off the tip, then dip the 'wound' in salt. Last time I tried it, it seemed very mild. I wondered at the time whether it was the process that made the jalapeño mild or whether it was the specific pepper I tried. I have now confirmed it was the specific pepper. When I did it last weekend, I felt as if my mouth had erupted in flames, melting my teeth, which then flowed slowly all over my mouth like lava, leaving deeply eroded lava-flow beds in my mouth. Bad decision...don't try it yourself, lest you discover how badly you react to pain and how much of a wimp, a cowering, whimpering wimp, you truly are.
After lunch, we talked and talked, then my niece, my wife, and I drove to Huntsville to buy ice, booze, shrimp boil, limes, and a few other odds and ends. While there, we decided we needed to buy some avocados (not at all ripe...we figured we could leave them for my brother, who can eat them when they ripen in late November or thereabouts). We also bought two pumpkins, because I had commented earlier in the day that I had never carved a jack-o-lantern...and I was, by god, going to carve a jack-o-lantern and cross it off my 'life list.' While in town, we stopped at a couple of motels so my wife and I could secure a room for the night...not enough room at my brother's place to accommodate everyone in a bed. We found an OK place that I thought was too expensive at $53 per night...but we were unwilling to go to much more effort to find a cheaper place that in all likelihood we would have found utterly unacceptable. So, we took the room, then headed north to Falba.
That evening, we had shrimp...lots of shrimp. I recently ordered an enormous amount of shrimp and we took about 7-8 pounds with us...my wife and I had stopped on the way out of town that morning and bought about 15 pounds of dry ice to ensure that the shrimp would stay frozen in the ice chest, along with the goodies we had purchased as a birthday present for my niece. Anyway, we decided to have boiled shrimp for dinner, along with cole slaw my wife had prepared the night before...and which we took on the trip. While we were away buying necessary supplied, my brother beheaded...or should that be de-headed?...the shrimp.
We started the shrimpfest by opening the liquor...tequila and triple sec and bourbon. The triple sec and tequila and limes were used for the margarita group; bourbon used for the red-neck bubba group to have bourbon and coke. I love good margaritas; that evening, though, was a red-neck bubba night for me. And for my brother. And maybe for my niece's husband...not quite sure what his drink of choice was that night.
Still to discusss in a future post...finishing the shrimpfest...reunion stuff...all about architecture and why I call it 'architectural sermon'...why tiny houses are really worth looking at, particularly in conjunction with considerations of family living areas and dance halls...big breakfasts...planting tomatoes long after they should have been in the ground...myriad ways to cause regret for people who sell cars not suitable for state inspection...games involving lies, words, and laughter...Vermont Public Radio...intelligent discourse...and why it's so tiring...so debilitating...to come down with a severe case of necrophilia.
Bye for now!
On Saturday morning, my wife and I left Dallas at about 9:00 a.m., intending on reaching the fields of Falba by noon. We would visit one of my brothers and his daughter and son and their respective spouses and, if things went according to the way we hoped, one of my sisters. Only two brothers and a sister from my immediate family would be absent. And that's the way it was.
We arrived just after noon and immediately began working on the food fest, with bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches. My brother cooked vast quantities of bacon. My nephew's wife worked on tomatoes and toasting bread, and I decided to work on slicing fresh jalapeños; my brother and I like them, as does my niece's husband. Since I was working on jalapeños, I decided to try something I had tried only once before (I've written about it before, too).
That is, roll a fresh jalapeño under the ball of your hand, then bite off the tip, then dip the 'wound' in salt. Last time I tried it, it seemed very mild. I wondered at the time whether it was the process that made the jalapeño mild or whether it was the specific pepper I tried. I have now confirmed it was the specific pepper. When I did it last weekend, I felt as if my mouth had erupted in flames, melting my teeth, which then flowed slowly all over my mouth like lava, leaving deeply eroded lava-flow beds in my mouth. Bad decision...don't try it yourself, lest you discover how badly you react to pain and how much of a wimp, a cowering, whimpering wimp, you truly are.
After lunch, we talked and talked, then my niece, my wife, and I drove to Huntsville to buy ice, booze, shrimp boil, limes, and a few other odds and ends. While there, we decided we needed to buy some avocados (not at all ripe...we figured we could leave them for my brother, who can eat them when they ripen in late November or thereabouts). We also bought two pumpkins, because I had commented earlier in the day that I had never carved a jack-o-lantern...and I was, by god, going to carve a jack-o-lantern and cross it off my 'life list.' While in town, we stopped at a couple of motels so my wife and I could secure a room for the night...not enough room at my brother's place to accommodate everyone in a bed. We found an OK place that I thought was too expensive at $53 per night...but we were unwilling to go to much more effort to find a cheaper place that in all likelihood we would have found utterly unacceptable. So, we took the room, then headed north to Falba.
That evening, we had shrimp...lots of shrimp. I recently ordered an enormous amount of shrimp and we took about 7-8 pounds with us...my wife and I had stopped on the way out of town that morning and bought about 15 pounds of dry ice to ensure that the shrimp would stay frozen in the ice chest, along with the goodies we had purchased as a birthday present for my niece. Anyway, we decided to have boiled shrimp for dinner, along with cole slaw my wife had prepared the night before...and which we took on the trip. While we were away buying necessary supplied, my brother beheaded...or should that be de-headed?...the shrimp.
("The shrimp!" screamed my brother Alejandro, "he's such a stinking bastard! He stole my car, then he stole mi novia! I'm going to kill him!" With that, my brother beheaded the shrimp, laughing wildly and smearing the thick fluid that poured from the head onto the trunk of the car.) This is an Aside. You are free to forget that was included in this posting.
We started the shrimpfest by opening the liquor...tequila and triple sec and bourbon. The triple sec and tequila and limes were used for the margarita group; bourbon used for the red-neck bubba group to have bourbon and coke. I love good margaritas; that evening, though, was a red-neck bubba night for me. And for my brother. And maybe for my niece's husband...not quite sure what his drink of choice was that night.
Speaking of food...I have to thaw hamburger patties and such...and then grill them. More on this later tonight or, more likely, tomorrow or another day.
Still to discusss in a future post...finishing the shrimpfest...reunion stuff...all about architecture and why I call it 'architectural sermon'...why tiny houses are really worth looking at, particularly in conjunction with considerations of family living areas and dance halls...big breakfasts...planting tomatoes long after they should have been in the ground...myriad ways to cause regret for people who sell cars not suitable for state inspection...games involving lies, words, and laughter...Vermont Public Radio...intelligent discourse...and why it's so tiring...so debilitating...to come down with a severe case of necrophilia.
Bye for now!
New Email Server
After weeks of butting my head against a wall with Verio, my web and email Internet Service Provider, I have a new one...a local company where I can contact an individual for service. Just had to write about it!
Monday, October 24, 2005
Today is not the day to write
Today isn't the day for me to write. I have nothing important to say...nothing of any value to set down. I react badly to simple things sometimes. Today's not the day to write.
What Is It?
More frequently than I like, when I sit down to write, I simply cannot get started. I may have a dozen ideas that I consider, but none of them captures my imagination. None of them seem particularly interesting. I just can't get excited enough about a topic to put words down.
I can't decide whether those times come because I have too many things on my mind and just can't get them sorted out and prioritized, or whether I'm just at a creative low ebb.
It may be something else. It may be that I just don't feel like writing. I may just be lazy...not enough discipline to write, regardless of my mood. This last one is the one I find most disturbing. I want to write, or rather to produce output of some value, but I may not want to go to the trouble to do it.
It's something I should think about. Today, I'm posting this late, after getting back from a trip south. I have too much to do to spend time tonight, but it has to be high on my list.
I can't decide whether those times come because I have too many things on my mind and just can't get them sorted out and prioritized, or whether I'm just at a creative low ebb.
It may be something else. It may be that I just don't feel like writing. I may just be lazy...not enough discipline to write, regardless of my mood. This last one is the one I find most disturbing. I want to write, or rather to produce output of some value, but I may not want to go to the trouble to do it.
It's something I should think about. Today, I'm posting this late, after getting back from a trip south. I have too much to do to spend time tonight, but it has to be high on my list.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Mixed Emotion...Mixed Intellect
The older I get, the more certain I become that the concept of a creator, a god, an almighty being is utterly absurd. It seems to me that it is a fantasy. I don't object to people living in that fantasy, up to a point. I acknowledge that my certainty may be dead wrong. I can't prove there is no god. You can't prove there is. Let's agree on that. If your response is that there is proof...it's in the bible...let me suggest you and I can't communicate. I could be more direct about my opinion of your intellect, but I won't for now. But I certainly understand that my near-certainty may be wrong...I realize that my belief in genomes is not based on personal experience. But, anyway, religion is not my thing...I think it's usually a system of brainwashing that is ugly. I won't be going to church anytime soon. I hope you, dear reader, will not judge me badly for my lack of faith. But, if you do, so be it.
OK, I have explained that I am not a believer. What is more difficult for me to explain is that I do consider myself, in some ways that are very difficult to explain, spiritual. It almost frightens me to say it, because I know that some people who hear that react automatically..."he can be saved, after all." A woman I know and for whom I now have little respect, reacted to my comment to her that I was a nonbeliever, but did consider myself spiritual in some ways in the following way: "That tells me you are just a troubled spirit. If you will just let the lord into your life, you will experience a beautiful transformation." My response to her convinced her that I was not likely to be accompanying her to church that Sunday. I was rather direct with her. I think I said something like "Pardon me, but 'bullshit!' I may be a 'troubled spirit,' but I don't believe in the fantasy of god and won't anytime soon." I can be an asshole, despite my 'spirituality.'
Anyway, back to that issue. I think people who feel compassion for other people are spiritual. People who care that someone gets gang raped and wants to help the person deal with it are spiritual. People who will help the Baptist congregation rebuild its looted church, but who don't share any religious beliefs with the Baptists, are spiritual. People who care that their family has enough food and have shelter and are not living on the edge...they are spiritual, too.
Sometimes, though, I wonder if I am deluding myself. Is my 'spirituality' simply a mask for my religiosity? How can it be that I have this vague belief in a 'spiritual' life but am certain there is no god, no 'almighty?' Is my concept of spirituality a 'cover' for my real, but hidden, belief in a diety?
I am convinced it's not, but it is concievable...though I find that concept, itself, to be repugnant. I have a tough time reconciling the emotion of religion to intellectual responses to the world about me.
I supposed I have never really tried to define spirituality, separate from religion. I do have such disdain for religion. But I have such high regard for some of the premises of religion. Very odd. And I haven't even finished my first cup of coffee today, so I can't blame my state of mind on a caffeine high.
OK, enough of this crap! Now, it's a roadtrip to Falba! (If you don't understand Falba...I'll explain in a future post.) Big cooler, lots of dry ice, masses of food! Time to get into a birthday celebration!
OK, I have explained that I am not a believer. What is more difficult for me to explain is that I do consider myself, in some ways that are very difficult to explain, spiritual. It almost frightens me to say it, because I know that some people who hear that react automatically..."he can be saved, after all." A woman I know and for whom I now have little respect, reacted to my comment to her that I was a nonbeliever, but did consider myself spiritual in some ways in the following way: "That tells me you are just a troubled spirit. If you will just let the lord into your life, you will experience a beautiful transformation." My response to her convinced her that I was not likely to be accompanying her to church that Sunday. I was rather direct with her. I think I said something like "Pardon me, but 'bullshit!' I may be a 'troubled spirit,' but I don't believe in the fantasy of god and won't anytime soon." I can be an asshole, despite my 'spirituality.'
Anyway, back to that issue. I think people who feel compassion for other people are spiritual. People who care that someone gets gang raped and wants to help the person deal with it are spiritual. People who will help the Baptist congregation rebuild its looted church, but who don't share any religious beliefs with the Baptists, are spiritual. People who care that their family has enough food and have shelter and are not living on the edge...they are spiritual, too.
Sometimes, though, I wonder if I am deluding myself. Is my 'spirituality' simply a mask for my religiosity? How can it be that I have this vague belief in a 'spiritual' life but am certain there is no god, no 'almighty?' Is my concept of spirituality a 'cover' for my real, but hidden, belief in a diety?
I am convinced it's not, but it is concievable...though I find that concept, itself, to be repugnant. I have a tough time reconciling the emotion of religion to intellectual responses to the world about me.
I supposed I have never really tried to define spirituality, separate from religion. I do have such disdain for religion. But I have such high regard for some of the premises of religion. Very odd. And I haven't even finished my first cup of coffee today, so I can't blame my state of mind on a caffeine high.
OK, enough of this crap! Now, it's a roadtrip to Falba! (If you don't understand Falba...I'll explain in a future post.) Big cooler, lots of dry ice, masses of food! Time to get into a birthday celebration!
Friday, October 21, 2005
Better management through dentistry
Another attempt to speak through poetry. I'm posting this on Thursday evening...but it's the October 21 edition, nonetheless. Since I like to write about food and meals, maybe I'll write soon about tonight's birthday dinner.
That old raw power he'd shown the world
was never much use in the office,
the only place he could use it to
demand respect that didn't arise on its own.
His unbridled fury at people who didn't
respond to commands was stuff of legends,
but no one called him legendary then.
He's older and a little wiser now
but no one calls him legendary still.
It took him years, but he finally
learned how to be a real leader
but no one wants him to lead.
He's like the dentist whose first patients
lost all their teeth after a simple cleaning.
No one cared that he learned later
in life how to do it right.
By then, no one wanted to switch dentists.
That old raw power he'd shown the world
was never much use in the office,
the only place he could use it to
demand respect that didn't arise on its own.
His unbridled fury at people who didn't
respond to commands was stuff of legends,
but no one called him legendary then.
He's older and a little wiser now
but no one calls him legendary still.
It took him years, but he finally
learned how to be a real leader
but no one wants him to lead.
He's like the dentist whose first patients
lost all their teeth after a simple cleaning.
No one cared that he learned later
in life how to do it right.
By then, no one wanted to switch dentists.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
The Right Medicine
"You have a call on the line that's blinking. I think it's the pharmaceutical salesman again." She didn't wait for an acknowledgement; she simply hung up. Despite Cambra's instruction to her to alway, always, always ask who was calling, Glenda rarely remembered to ask. Three weeks as a receptionist and she still couldn't seem to get a grasp on communicating which line was 'line 1' and which was 'line 2.' Cambra unwittingly scowled as she glanced at the telephone, but caught herself almost immmediately. As she raised her eyes from the phone, she looked into the mirror affixed to the left side of her computer screen, a habit she'd had since attending a seminar on telephone etiquette twenty years earlier. One of the tips the instructor offered to ensure a pleasant voice when speaking on the phone was to look into a mirror and smile before you speak. 'A smiling face can't help but speak in a happy tone,' the instructor said. As a new receptionist aspiring to greatness as an administrative assistant, Cambra decided it couldn't hurt.
She waited for the better part of thirty seconds before taking the call. She glanced into the mirror again and picked up the receiver. "This is Cambra Bennett. May I help you?" Her voice was chirpy.
"Cambra, this is Bruce with D-Seas Medical. I thought I'd give you a ring to see if you've made any decision."
"Yes, Bruce, I'm sorry." Another quick look at the mirror. "I thought I told you. We chose another vendor, someone we've worked with before. Your prices were competitive, but we are just more comfortable dealing with a known quantity." Mirror again. "We really do appreciate your bid, though, and you can be sure we will invite you to bid again on our next major job."
Bruce had not been a salesman for long. Just out of college, he hadn't gotten used to rejection. "Cambra, I understand that you want to deal with a known quantity, but I think you'll find that D-Seas' products are second to none. Give us just one opportunity and I will personally guarantee that you will be satisfied."
No mirror this time. "Bruce, I just told you we will give you the opportunity to bid on our next major job."
"Yes, I know, but I know how important this job is to you and I'm certain that our product will get the job done with no complications. Listen, you're the first account I've worked with that is just perfect for our products." Bruce's voice was almost pleading, Cambra thought. She wondered whether D-Seas had quotas for new salemen.
"Bruce, the decision has been made on the current job. I can't change it. But if you can give me the same unit price on a single dose of the product, I'll give it a try."
[This is as far as I've gotten...it seems like it's stuck. Also seems utterly uninteresting...I may have to start over. But maybe I can salvage at least a little to put in another story sometime.] My concept on this story involves the product, a drug that has been approved as safe for euthanasia...Cambra has a big job coming up, involving quite a number of candidates, but the single dose she's interested in testing is for a much smaller test, probably involving Glenda, the stupid receptionist.
She waited for the better part of thirty seconds before taking the call. She glanced into the mirror again and picked up the receiver. "This is Cambra Bennett. May I help you?" Her voice was chirpy.
"Cambra, this is Bruce with D-Seas Medical. I thought I'd give you a ring to see if you've made any decision."
"Yes, Bruce, I'm sorry." Another quick look at the mirror. "I thought I told you. We chose another vendor, someone we've worked with before. Your prices were competitive, but we are just more comfortable dealing with a known quantity." Mirror again. "We really do appreciate your bid, though, and you can be sure we will invite you to bid again on our next major job."
Bruce had not been a salesman for long. Just out of college, he hadn't gotten used to rejection. "Cambra, I understand that you want to deal with a known quantity, but I think you'll find that D-Seas' products are second to none. Give us just one opportunity and I will personally guarantee that you will be satisfied."
No mirror this time. "Bruce, I just told you we will give you the opportunity to bid on our next major job."
"Yes, I know, but I know how important this job is to you and I'm certain that our product will get the job done with no complications. Listen, you're the first account I've worked with that is just perfect for our products." Bruce's voice was almost pleading, Cambra thought. She wondered whether D-Seas had quotas for new salemen.
"Bruce, the decision has been made on the current job. I can't change it. But if you can give me the same unit price on a single dose of the product, I'll give it a try."
[This is as far as I've gotten...it seems like it's stuck. Also seems utterly uninteresting...I may have to start over. But maybe I can salvage at least a little to put in another story sometime.] My concept on this story involves the product, a drug that has been approved as safe for euthanasia...Cambra has a big job coming up, involving quite a number of candidates, but the single dose she's interested in testing is for a much smaller test, probably involving Glenda, the stupid receptionist.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
When Evangelicals Attack
How do evangelicals justify their abhorrent, nasty, viscious, crude, fanatical, ugly, bizzare, criminal behavior? It's easy. Do-it-yourself-interpretation-of-scriptures! It's the simple way to justify any behavior, including behaviors that fall way, way outside the scope of acceptable Ten Commandment behavior.
Do-it-yourself-interpretation allows drunken evangelical Baptists to condemn those who imbibe.
Do-it-yourself-interpretation allows right-wing bible-thumpers to condone murder of doctors who perform abortions...and the murder of anyone else who is outside the mainstream of evangelical dogma.
Do-it-yourself-interpretation allows perverted God-loving super-patriots to watch videos of paraplegic, drug-dependent war veterans engage in forced sex with children and farm animals.
Do-it-yourself-interpretation permits death penalty zealots to passionately argue that killing an obviously deranged mother who drowned her children is not state-sanctioned murder but, instead, execution of God's orders to purify mankind.
Do-it-yourself-interpretation permits people like me to butcher evangelical Christians and drink their blood. Oh, I guess not...I'm not an evangelical Christian. And I have better taste, anyway.
OK, I'll admit this post is odd and not worthy of publication...but it's my blog and I'll rant if I want to, rant if I want to, rant is I want to, you would rant, too, if your blog were true....
Do-it-yourself-interpretation allows drunken evangelical Baptists to condemn those who imbibe.
Do-it-yourself-interpretation allows right-wing bible-thumpers to condone murder of doctors who perform abortions...and the murder of anyone else who is outside the mainstream of evangelical dogma.
Do-it-yourself-interpretation allows perverted God-loving super-patriots to watch videos of paraplegic, drug-dependent war veterans engage in forced sex with children and farm animals.
Do-it-yourself-interpretation permits death penalty zealots to passionately argue that killing an obviously deranged mother who drowned her children is not state-sanctioned murder but, instead, execution of God's orders to purify mankind.
Do-it-yourself-interpretation permits people like me to butcher evangelical Christians and drink their blood. Oh, I guess not...I'm not an evangelical Christian. And I have better taste, anyway.
OK, I'll admit this post is odd and not worthy of publication...but it's my blog and I'll rant if I want to, rant if I want to, rant is I want to, you would rant, too, if your blog were true....
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Just One Win Will Do It
Just One Win Will Do It
He weeps and cries and sways and sweats
And he hopes his fears are silly.
He watches the race and places his bets
On the horse his friend calls Billy.
His home, his job, and his beautiful wife
Are riding on the back of the winner.
His eyes are set on the judge's knife
As the judge sits down to dinner.
The race begins and the crowd groans loud
As the fast ride slows and falters.
He winces once, but his head stays bowed,
Hoping the jockeys will hold the halters.
No one knows that the jockey lied
And no one cares for the bettor.
No one cries that the first one died
But they weep as the track gets wetter.
Rain falls fast at the third race card
But the judge is not done eating.
So the tracks are wet and badly marred
And the jockeys take a beating.
The race's end is slow and badly pained
As the bettor whets his knife blade.
His betting slip is wet and stained
And he wonders what difference his life made.
The stands get bare in the cold night air
And the bettor hears his tear drops.
He looks at the table as they take his share.
His pain will ease when his heart stops.
This poem obviously needs work...but in my own defense, I wrote it very quickly, taking no more than half an hour to get it into the form in which it appears above. I know I need to work on each line so that the rhythm is stronger and supports the message. I need for it to have a clearer message, which I think I can accomplish by dealing with these mechanical issues. Lest you get the wrong impression, the poem is absolutely not autobiographical. I'm not a gambler, it's extremely rare that I see a horse race, and I would not allow myself to risk everything on a bet. But I can empathize with someone who finds himself in a no-win situation, hoping beyond hope that a chance, just a chance, can turn it all around. And I think I can understand how utterly devastating it would be for the failure of that last chance to result in clarity: the end of all hope.
He weeps and cries and sways and sweats
And he hopes his fears are silly.
He watches the race and places his bets
On the horse his friend calls Billy.
His home, his job, and his beautiful wife
Are riding on the back of the winner.
His eyes are set on the judge's knife
As the judge sits down to dinner.
The race begins and the crowd groans loud
As the fast ride slows and falters.
He winces once, but his head stays bowed,
Hoping the jockeys will hold the halters.
No one knows that the jockey lied
And no one cares for the bettor.
No one cries that the first one died
But they weep as the track gets wetter.
Rain falls fast at the third race card
But the judge is not done eating.
So the tracks are wet and badly marred
And the jockeys take a beating.
The race's end is slow and badly pained
As the bettor whets his knife blade.
His betting slip is wet and stained
And he wonders what difference his life made.
The stands get bare in the cold night air
And the bettor hears his tear drops.
He looks at the table as they take his share.
His pain will ease when his heart stops.
This poem obviously needs work...but in my own defense, I wrote it very quickly, taking no more than half an hour to get it into the form in which it appears above. I know I need to work on each line so that the rhythm is stronger and supports the message. I need for it to have a clearer message, which I think I can accomplish by dealing with these mechanical issues. Lest you get the wrong impression, the poem is absolutely not autobiographical. I'm not a gambler, it's extremely rare that I see a horse race, and I would not allow myself to risk everything on a bet. But I can empathize with someone who finds himself in a no-win situation, hoping beyond hope that a chance, just a chance, can turn it all around. And I think I can understand how utterly devastating it would be for the failure of that last chance to result in clarity: the end of all hope.
Monday, October 17, 2005
After the Ides
Didn't see yesterday's post? Click here for a link!
Saturday was busy. My wife and I drove to downtown Plano, where we had breakfast at Aparicio's...she had wonderfully flavorful beef guisado tacos, I had badly disappointing migas. I'm sure I've been spoiled by the migas at Bigote's in Arlington, by far my favorite place to eat Mexican breaktast. The migas at Aparicio's were bland...nothing but unseasoned scrambled eggs, fried tortilla chips, and a bit of cheese. The sides were not bad, though: potatoes laced with nicely browned bits of thick bacon and grilled onions...but still no spices of any appreciable bite. But the migas...awfully disappointing! No jalapeños, no spices of any kind...dull and lifeless. But we didn't plan to let a disappointing breakfast ruin the day, so we drove a few blocks to the parking lot for the light rail line, bought two all-day passes, and jumped on the next train heading south.
The trains were already full by the time we boarded at around 10:00 am. Lots of families heading to the State Fair, lots of people heading to the Susan Komen Foundation Race for the Cure, a fundraiser for breast cancer research. If my wife, who is a breast cancer survivor, had been so inclined, I would have gladly participated in the Race...but her energy isn't what it used to be and she needs to be able to have frequent rest stops, even when we're not walking far. Anyway, the train was jammed...and it became more so with every stop. Before we go to the station where large numbers would disembark to take a bus to the State Fair, my wife was not feeling well; she needed to get out of the stuffy rail car and into the fresh air. So, we got off at Mockingbird Station, which is a relatively new upscale retail venue. We immediately began looking for the Starbucks shop we knew was there, because my wife wanted a bottle of cold water and we knew Starbucks would have it.
We bought two bottles of water and I ordered an iced coffee.
An aside: I am astounded at myself for liking iced coffee. When my mother drank it, I thought she was deranged; I loved her dearly, but I thought she was certifiably insane for liking iced coffee...my father wouldn't have it...he drank his coffee hot, black, and harsh...my kind of man. Recently, when my wife and I were in Boston, my wife's sister and her boyfriend drank lots of it, so I decided I had to try it for myself. I had been berating them for having poor taste and being impure coffee afficionados, so I needed recent evidence that I was right. My sister in law had accused me of being a dissembler, because if I did not order a plain black coffee at Starbucks, I ordered a frappacino...cream, ice, and sweetener blended into an icy froth and mixed with coffee...all the things I derided others for using in their coffee. Much to my dismay, I found I liked iced coffee. The more I drink it, the more I like it. But I drink my iced coffee black, with no cream and no sweetener. So, I can now legitimately claim moral superiority over those who sully their coffee with cream and sugar or sugar substitute. End of Aside.
We wandered around Mockingbird Station for half an hour or so, doing a bit of window shopping, then went into the Virgin Megastore at the edge of the Station to look at their selection of CDs and to listen to music. We must have spent an hour there, listening to music, looking for CDs, and just kicking back. My wife found a couple of Leonard Cohen CDs I do not have and offered to buy them for my birthday, which is coming up soon. I told her that would be a great gift, as would John Prine CDs, Sheryl Crowe CDs, an iPod, a gift card from Home Depot, a satellite radio and subscription to a satellite radio service, a summer home in Nova Scotia, or a surprisingly well-funded retirement, beginning immediately. We didn't buy anything.
Rather than proceed south as we had initially intended, my wife suggested we take a light rail line we had never ridden before to the end of the line, then take the same line back south. It sounded like a good idea to me, so we jumped the train north to downtown Garland, which it turns out is a depressing place where lots of very nasty looking rednecks and hicks seem to hang out. It's very much a blue collar area, but not blue collar folks who are the hard-working, good neighbor type of people you'd be proud to call your friends. These blue collar types have Nazi tatoos on their shoulders and spreading down their arms. They are likely to be missing multiple teeth, no doubt lost in redneck brawls and attacks on blacks and Jews and other dangerous minorities. They wear camoflauge shirts. They talk about their guns and slapping the shit out of their children when they get out of line. These are the people who give me reason to support the death penalty as a deterent...kill enough of them for relatively minor infractions and they just might start treating people like...people. Speaking of the death penalty, I have very mixed feelings about it. On one hand, I have supported it nearly all my life and it's hard to change something I have believed in so fundamentally (not because of its deterent effects, but because I'm a supporter of revenge killings). But there are too many people who I believe are put to death for crimes they did not commit. Then again, just today, after I stepped into a large, sticky wad of chewing gum in the grocery store parking lot, I was advocating loudly for slashing the throats of youths (and everyone else) who chew gum and throw it on the ground forsomeone else to step on, thereby ruining their day. And I launched into a tirade on Friday, as I was driving home from work, about how someone (I think perhaps it was Tom DeLay) should be butchered in public as a lesson to other criminal politicians. I think I may have suggested that DeLay's flesh should be carved, dried, and given out to passers-by as jerky-treats. But I digress from my travelogue.
Once we arrived in downtown Garland, we decided we'd seen enough and waited for the train to reverse direction. We hadn't decided where to go when the train left the station, so we discussed it along the way and decided to go only as far as a stop in downtown Dallas, the West End station. The West End is a restaurant and entertainment district; we chose to go there because we were beginning to get hungry for lunch and knew we'd have no trouble finding a place to eat there, albeit most eateries in the area are overpriced national chains. Once we arrived at the West End, we wandered about and decided upon the single one-location, locally-run restaurant we could find, RJ's Mexican restaurant, a rather upscale, trendy place that serves much more than traditional Tex-Mex fare (I subsequently learned it is owned and operated by Anglos...I do not hold that against the place).
My wife and I both started with a cup of gazpacho, one of our all-time favorite soups, which was a bit disappointing. It was absent any spicy zip, but the flavor wasn't bad. The entrees were better. We both ordered salads; my wife ordered a smoked chicken and poblano pepper salad (ensalada de chile poblano y pollo ahumando) and I ordered a red snapper salad (salpicon de huachinango). Both were excellent, but more than we had planned to eat, so we got doggie boxes and went on our way. The doggie boxes promise to be nice lunches on Monday at the office.
After lunch, we wandered all over downtown Dallas, exploring places we knew about and some we'd seen but never really examined up-close. Despite lots of misgivings about Dallas, I have to say I'm impressed with quite alot of the architecture downtown...not the new buildings, but the old buildings that either have been restored or should be. Lots of beautiful details. We must have spent a good three hours looking at the architecture and learning about the lofts, condos, and other residential options in the city. There is still so far to go before Dallas is a livable city, but at least some people are trying to make it so...though their efforts are directed toward people whose annual salaries are probably triple my net worth. One place we found interesting was Thanksgiving Square, a spot with lots of fountains, interesting architecture, and intriguing sculpture. The down side, for me, was the fact that the sculpture and much of the architecture was devoted to the religious history of Thanksgiving and the "need" for people to focus on faith and devote their lives to Christ. What horseshit. If only people would adopt the humanistic elements of religion and reject the fantasy. But I digress again. I'm a religious bigot...and I despise those types.
Ultimately, we came upon the Adam's Mark Hotel, which thankfully has nice bathrooms. After a brief stop to make life worth living again, we went to the light rail stop just outside of the hotel and waited for the train. The stop is located directly across the street from what I assume is the original Dallas High School, an old building whose windows are all boarded up and looking neglected. A sign suggested that either the building or the vacant lot next to it are for lease. I wish I had the money and the reason to fix up the old school...not as a school, but as a museum or a community center.
Back on the train, we were getting anxious to get back to our car in downtown Plano and head home. It was after 3:30 pm and we were getting tired. But once we arrived at our stop, we decided to walk around downtown Plano, which is very small but very interesting. Something I find intriguing about downtown Plano is that someone has developed some buildings that have apartments/condos on the upper 2-4 floors and retail space on the first floor. The concept reminds me of something that's common in Chicago and New York, though on a much smaller scale. It's urban livability. I like it. As we were walking, we came upon a theatre building where we'd been to a play or two in years past and noticed the sign, "Porno for Puritans." After going around the block, my wife asked if I'd be interested in going to the play that evening; I said I would and we walked back. A young Black woman was sitting at a table in front of the building; we assumed she was selling tickets. When we approached her and asked if she was the person we should see about buying tickets for that evenings's play, she seemed confused. She said she was selling tickets to the dance event. We said we were interested in "Porno for Puritans" and pointed to the sign. She had not noticed it before. She said, "This building used to be a theatre, but I think they went bankrupt. We're doing a benefit here tonight to support the dance companies that use the building." Long story made short: there was no play that night. After another detour or two, we went back to the car and headed toward home, stopping along the way to pick up my wife's recently-repaired watch.
When we got home, we talked about what we'd do for dinner...neither of us were expecting to be hungry...and what we'd do that night. We're not very social people, so we usually stay to ourselves and amuse ourselves as home. But, instead, we decided to do something different. My wife is a big fan of the claymation Wallace and Grommet characers and we'd both talked about going to see the newly released Wallace and Grommet movie...so we did. We were both amused by "Curse of the Were-Rabbit," but speaking for myself, I was not as pleased with it as I expected to be. But it was fun.
Next, on the way home, we stopped at a bookstore because I had intended to try to find an affordable copy of Joan Didion's recently published The Year of Magical Thinking. Affordable is a relative term. I could afford $24.95 for a copy of the book, but I refused to pay what I consider an obscene overcharge. So, we wandered through the store, looking at books and (speaking for myself) listening to more CDs. Ultimately, we decided to buy some books...I tend to do that whenever I go to a bookstore. They were having a 3 for the price of 2 sale on selected books, so we poured over the table with eligible books and left with the following:
We also bought a book of low-carb recipes that my wife found very interesting.
After all that, we decided we were, in fact, hungry. So, we stopped at a Chinese/Vietnamese takeout place we like and got an order of green beans and beef and spicy vegetables to go. Back at home, we quickly went through the meal and decided we needed to watch a movie I had rented a week ago but had never watched...so, we spent the next 2 hours after dinner watching a DVD movie entitled "Chrystal." The plot of the film, which I saw after we watched the movie, is presented below (courtesy of www.billybobthornton.net):
Fleeing the police in a high-speed chase, Joe (played by Billy Bob) winds up crashing his car, killing his toddler son and leaving his wife, Chrystal (Lisa Blount) severely injured. Fast-forward 16 years, Joe is released from prison and returns to his home in the Ozarks to find Chrystal still wrestling with her physical and psychological injuries. Joe moves back in with her, and although they barely communicate, he begins to look after her in the hopes of making some amends for the damage he has done to her life. A local drug dealer (Ray McKinnon) tries to pressure Joe into returning to a life of crime, but Joe refuses. A reckoning is in the offing.
And that covers our Ides of October, in almost excruciating detail. I wish I were this prolific in writing about every day in my life (you, dear reader, probably do not feel that way)...I'd like to capture the world in a way that will enable me to write a believable book...I need to write more!
Saturday was busy. My wife and I drove to downtown Plano, where we had breakfast at Aparicio's...she had wonderfully flavorful beef guisado tacos, I had badly disappointing migas. I'm sure I've been spoiled by the migas at Bigote's in Arlington, by far my favorite place to eat Mexican breaktast. The migas at Aparicio's were bland...nothing but unseasoned scrambled eggs, fried tortilla chips, and a bit of cheese. The sides were not bad, though: potatoes laced with nicely browned bits of thick bacon and grilled onions...but still no spices of any appreciable bite. But the migas...awfully disappointing! No jalapeños, no spices of any kind...dull and lifeless. But we didn't plan to let a disappointing breakfast ruin the day, so we drove a few blocks to the parking lot for the light rail line, bought two all-day passes, and jumped on the next train heading south.
The trains were already full by the time we boarded at around 10:00 am. Lots of families heading to the State Fair, lots of people heading to the Susan Komen Foundation Race for the Cure, a fundraiser for breast cancer research. If my wife, who is a breast cancer survivor, had been so inclined, I would have gladly participated in the Race...but her energy isn't what it used to be and she needs to be able to have frequent rest stops, even when we're not walking far. Anyway, the train was jammed...and it became more so with every stop. Before we go to the station where large numbers would disembark to take a bus to the State Fair, my wife was not feeling well; she needed to get out of the stuffy rail car and into the fresh air. So, we got off at Mockingbird Station, which is a relatively new upscale retail venue. We immediately began looking for the Starbucks shop we knew was there, because my wife wanted a bottle of cold water and we knew Starbucks would have it.
We bought two bottles of water and I ordered an iced coffee.
An aside: I am astounded at myself for liking iced coffee. When my mother drank it, I thought she was deranged; I loved her dearly, but I thought she was certifiably insane for liking iced coffee...my father wouldn't have it...he drank his coffee hot, black, and harsh...my kind of man. Recently, when my wife and I were in Boston, my wife's sister and her boyfriend drank lots of it, so I decided I had to try it for myself. I had been berating them for having poor taste and being impure coffee afficionados, so I needed recent evidence that I was right. My sister in law had accused me of being a dissembler, because if I did not order a plain black coffee at Starbucks, I ordered a frappacino...cream, ice, and sweetener blended into an icy froth and mixed with coffee...all the things I derided others for using in their coffee. Much to my dismay, I found I liked iced coffee. The more I drink it, the more I like it. But I drink my iced coffee black, with no cream and no sweetener. So, I can now legitimately claim moral superiority over those who sully their coffee with cream and sugar or sugar substitute. End of Aside.
We wandered around Mockingbird Station for half an hour or so, doing a bit of window shopping, then went into the Virgin Megastore at the edge of the Station to look at their selection of CDs and to listen to music. We must have spent an hour there, listening to music, looking for CDs, and just kicking back. My wife found a couple of Leonard Cohen CDs I do not have and offered to buy them for my birthday, which is coming up soon. I told her that would be a great gift, as would John Prine CDs, Sheryl Crowe CDs, an iPod, a gift card from Home Depot, a satellite radio and subscription to a satellite radio service, a summer home in Nova Scotia, or a surprisingly well-funded retirement, beginning immediately. We didn't buy anything.
Rather than proceed south as we had initially intended, my wife suggested we take a light rail line we had never ridden before to the end of the line, then take the same line back south. It sounded like a good idea to me, so we jumped the train north to downtown Garland, which it turns out is a depressing place where lots of very nasty looking rednecks and hicks seem to hang out. It's very much a blue collar area, but not blue collar folks who are the hard-working, good neighbor type of people you'd be proud to call your friends. These blue collar types have Nazi tatoos on their shoulders and spreading down their arms. They are likely to be missing multiple teeth, no doubt lost in redneck brawls and attacks on blacks and Jews and other dangerous minorities. They wear camoflauge shirts. They talk about their guns and slapping the shit out of their children when they get out of line. These are the people who give me reason to support the death penalty as a deterent...kill enough of them for relatively minor infractions and they just might start treating people like...people. Speaking of the death penalty, I have very mixed feelings about it. On one hand, I have supported it nearly all my life and it's hard to change something I have believed in so fundamentally (not because of its deterent effects, but because I'm a supporter of revenge killings). But there are too many people who I believe are put to death for crimes they did not commit. Then again, just today, after I stepped into a large, sticky wad of chewing gum in the grocery store parking lot, I was advocating loudly for slashing the throats of youths (and everyone else) who chew gum and throw it on the ground forsomeone else to step on, thereby ruining their day. And I launched into a tirade on Friday, as I was driving home from work, about how someone (I think perhaps it was Tom DeLay) should be butchered in public as a lesson to other criminal politicians. I think I may have suggested that DeLay's flesh should be carved, dried, and given out to passers-by as jerky-treats. But I digress from my travelogue.
Once we arrived in downtown Garland, we decided we'd seen enough and waited for the train to reverse direction. We hadn't decided where to go when the train left the station, so we discussed it along the way and decided to go only as far as a stop in downtown Dallas, the West End station. The West End is a restaurant and entertainment district; we chose to go there because we were beginning to get hungry for lunch and knew we'd have no trouble finding a place to eat there, albeit most eateries in the area are overpriced national chains. Once we arrived at the West End, we wandered about and decided upon the single one-location, locally-run restaurant we could find, RJ's Mexican restaurant, a rather upscale, trendy place that serves much more than traditional Tex-Mex fare (I subsequently learned it is owned and operated by Anglos...I do not hold that against the place).
My wife and I both started with a cup of gazpacho, one of our all-time favorite soups, which was a bit disappointing. It was absent any spicy zip, but the flavor wasn't bad. The entrees were better. We both ordered salads; my wife ordered a smoked chicken and poblano pepper salad (ensalada de chile poblano y pollo ahumando) and I ordered a red snapper salad (salpicon de huachinango). Both were excellent, but more than we had planned to eat, so we got doggie boxes and went on our way. The doggie boxes promise to be nice lunches on Monday at the office.
After lunch, we wandered all over downtown Dallas, exploring places we knew about and some we'd seen but never really examined up-close. Despite lots of misgivings about Dallas, I have to say I'm impressed with quite alot of the architecture downtown...not the new buildings, but the old buildings that either have been restored or should be. Lots of beautiful details. We must have spent a good three hours looking at the architecture and learning about the lofts, condos, and other residential options in the city. There is still so far to go before Dallas is a livable city, but at least some people are trying to make it so...though their efforts are directed toward people whose annual salaries are probably triple my net worth. One place we found interesting was Thanksgiving Square, a spot with lots of fountains, interesting architecture, and intriguing sculpture. The down side, for me, was the fact that the sculpture and much of the architecture was devoted to the religious history of Thanksgiving and the "need" for people to focus on faith and devote their lives to Christ. What horseshit. If only people would adopt the humanistic elements of religion and reject the fantasy. But I digress again. I'm a religious bigot...and I despise those types.
Ultimately, we came upon the Adam's Mark Hotel, which thankfully has nice bathrooms. After a brief stop to make life worth living again, we went to the light rail stop just outside of the hotel and waited for the train. The stop is located directly across the street from what I assume is the original Dallas High School, an old building whose windows are all boarded up and looking neglected. A sign suggested that either the building or the vacant lot next to it are for lease. I wish I had the money and the reason to fix up the old school...not as a school, but as a museum or a community center.
Back on the train, we were getting anxious to get back to our car in downtown Plano and head home. It was after 3:30 pm and we were getting tired. But once we arrived at our stop, we decided to walk around downtown Plano, which is very small but very interesting. Something I find intriguing about downtown Plano is that someone has developed some buildings that have apartments/condos on the upper 2-4 floors and retail space on the first floor. The concept reminds me of something that's common in Chicago and New York, though on a much smaller scale. It's urban livability. I like it. As we were walking, we came upon a theatre building where we'd been to a play or two in years past and noticed the sign, "Porno for Puritans." After going around the block, my wife asked if I'd be interested in going to the play that evening; I said I would and we walked back. A young Black woman was sitting at a table in front of the building; we assumed she was selling tickets. When we approached her and asked if she was the person we should see about buying tickets for that evenings's play, she seemed confused. She said she was selling tickets to the dance event. We said we were interested in "Porno for Puritans" and pointed to the sign. She had not noticed it before. She said, "This building used to be a theatre, but I think they went bankrupt. We're doing a benefit here tonight to support the dance companies that use the building." Long story made short: there was no play that night. After another detour or two, we went back to the car and headed toward home, stopping along the way to pick up my wife's recently-repaired watch.
When we got home, we talked about what we'd do for dinner...neither of us were expecting to be hungry...and what we'd do that night. We're not very social people, so we usually stay to ourselves and amuse ourselves as home. But, instead, we decided to do something different. My wife is a big fan of the claymation Wallace and Grommet characers and we'd both talked about going to see the newly released Wallace and Grommet movie...so we did. We were both amused by "Curse of the Were-Rabbit," but speaking for myself, I was not as pleased with it as I expected to be. But it was fun.
Next, on the way home, we stopped at a bookstore because I had intended to try to find an affordable copy of Joan Didion's recently published The Year of Magical Thinking. Affordable is a relative term. I could afford $24.95 for a copy of the book, but I refused to pay what I consider an obscene overcharge. So, we wandered through the store, looking at books and (speaking for myself) listening to more CDs. Ultimately, we decided to buy some books...I tend to do that whenever I go to a bookstore. They were having a 3 for the price of 2 sale on selected books, so we poured over the table with eligible books and left with the following:
- Reading Lolita in Tehran, by Azar Nafisi, a book I've heard quite alot about on various NPR programs,
- Nickel and Dimed, by Barbara Ehrenreich, another book I've heard about on NPR and whose author I have heard interviewed about her experiences, and
- Bad Dirt: Wyoming Stories 2, by Annie Proulx, currently my favorite author.
We also bought a book of low-carb recipes that my wife found very interesting.
After all that, we decided we were, in fact, hungry. So, we stopped at a Chinese/Vietnamese takeout place we like and got an order of green beans and beef and spicy vegetables to go. Back at home, we quickly went through the meal and decided we needed to watch a movie I had rented a week ago but had never watched...so, we spent the next 2 hours after dinner watching a DVD movie entitled "Chrystal." The plot of the film, which I saw after we watched the movie, is presented below (courtesy of www.billybobthornton.net):
Fleeing the police in a high-speed chase, Joe (played by Billy Bob) winds up crashing his car, killing his toddler son and leaving his wife, Chrystal (Lisa Blount) severely injured. Fast-forward 16 years, Joe is released from prison and returns to his home in the Ozarks to find Chrystal still wrestling with her physical and psychological injuries. Joe moves back in with her, and although they barely communicate, he begins to look after her in the hopes of making some amends for the damage he has done to her life. A local drug dealer (Ray McKinnon) tries to pressure Joe into returning to a life of crime, but Joe refuses. A reckoning is in the offing.
And that covers our Ides of October, in almost excruciating detail. I wish I were this prolific in writing about every day in my life (you, dear reader, probably do not feel that way)...I'd like to capture the world in a way that will enable me to write a believable book...I need to write more!
Sunday, October 16, 2005
A Matter of Personal Significance
“Your EKG is abnormal. It indicates that there are problems with your heart and we need to find out what they are right away. I don’t want to alarm you, but this is something that needs immediate attention. This is not something that can wait. I’d like to call your wife in to let her know that we need you to go to the emergency room right away. I don’t want to alarm her, either, but she needs to understand this is serious, too. “
The comments caught me completely off guard. The difficulty breathing after yardwork…the way my lungs ached…it made me think my smoking was catching up with me. I thought I might have emphysema, certainly not a good thing, but problems with my heart...that scared me. It couldn't be my heart...heart problems can kill you quickly, without warning. Emphysema, I thought, was slow and painful.
But I had been wondering about the pain, wondering why I felt this odd and uncomfortable sensation. When I had difficulty breathing, I also felt a very strange sensation in my lower arms. They felt heavy and tingled. I had heard that tingling in the upper arm might be a warning sign for heart problems, but the lower arm? Frankly, I had been wondering whether I was being a bit of a hypochondriac…my “pain” wasn’t too bad, but it had drained my energy. Maybe it was nothing...maybe I was just over-reacting to an artifact of the aging process.
The weekend before I made the trip to my doctor, I had been visiting my brother and his wife in Portland, Oregon. During the trip, I was almost incapacitated by what I normally would have considered a relatively low energy walk about town. That’s really what made me decide to call the doctor. I felt something was really wrong when I buckled onto the couch after walking just a few blocks from a bus stop. My wife and I had cut the trip to downtown Portland short because I was out of breath as we wandered about town…and then, I walked eight or ten blocks from the bus stop and felt ready to collapse.
When I called the doctor the following Wednesday, I expected to be told I could not be seen for several days…and, sure enough, that’s what I was told. But the receptionist asked why I needed to see the doctor, so I explained. She explained that the doctor was on vacation and asked whether I wanted to see someone else. I told her it didn’t really matter to me, but I thought my regular family doctor would probably be the best one for me to see. She put me on hold and shortly a nurse came on the line, asking the same questions. I explained again. “I’ve been getting easily winded doing simple things like yardwork and just walking. I have a pain in my chest…kind of a burning pain in my lungs. My lower arms feel heavy and they tingle.”
She asked me a series of questions about my symptoms. Finally, she said, “I don’t want to alarm you, but your symptoms could be indications of something very serious. I want you to go to a hospital emergency room. You should not drive yourself. You need to go right away so they can rule out that you are having a heart attack.” I remember so many comments about not meaning to alarm me. Hers was the first...she didn’t mean to alarm me, but she did. I told her I was not presently experiencing pain…I just wanted to get checked out to be sure it was nothing or, if it were a real problem, to have it addressed. She persisted that I needed to go to the ER. I protested and said I would wait until my doctor was back from vacation to make an appointment. After what seemed like a long period of banter, she put me on hold again; when she came back on the line, she said she had made an appointment for me to see another doctor in the practice at 1:00 pm, just over an hour from the time I was talking to her. "I want you to have someone else drive you," she said, "don't drive yourself. With the symptoms you described, you could be having a heart attack. You should not drive. If you can't get someone else to drive you, you need to call 911 and have an ambulance take you to the hospital." I promised I would not drive myself.
By the time I got off the phone with her, I was feeling a sense of panic. My wife, who works with me, was out of the office for some reason, but I knew she would be back soon. But that day was the last day of work for a staff member who was leaving to get married, and my wife was planning on having a little celebration after lunch to send the staff member on her way. I wasn't sure whether my wife would be able to drive me to the doctor. I mentioned the conversation with my doctor's office to another staff member, trying to make light of it, but she seemed to take it a bit more seriously than I pretended to and offered to drive me to the doctor. I declined, saying I was sure my wife would be back soon.
When my wife got back to the office, it was getting close to the time of my appointment, so I asked her to drive me to the doctor. I guess I didn't mention that the nurse told me not to drive, because my wife seemed a bit miffed at my insistence that she change her afternoon plans to drive me. I'm sure I was being rather cranky with her as I talked about going to the doctor.
The nurse called me in almost immediately after we checked in with the receptionist. There were few of the usual pleasantries I associate with visits to the doctor; this time, it was all business: take off my shirt, lie back on the table, lean forward so the wire leads can be properly placed on my chest. While she was preparing me to have the EKG done, the nurse asked me to explain to her about the pain, how often it hurt, whether it was hurting at that moment. In no time, the EKG was underway. It took the nurse only a short time to print the EKG results and the nurse took them out to show to the doctor. He came in shortly thereafter and introduced himself; his nurse was with him. He asked the same questions the nurse had already asked, peering intently at the EKG record as I answered. Then he explained the EKG was abnormal. The doctor asked the nurse to have my wife come in; she joined us almost immediately.
"Your husband's EKG is abnormal, indicating a problem with his heart. The abnormalities are significant and they concern me enough to make me want him to see a cardiologist right away. It will be easiest for him to get to see the cardiologist quickly if we send him to the hospital emergency room. I'll call Dr. Pettyjohn and he'll expect to see your husband there. I don’t want to alarm you, but this is something that merits extra precautions to be sure that we are able to solve the problems before they get worse. The EKG indicates there are some problems that could result in a heart attack. He has not had a heart attack, but he could have one, so it's important that, when you leave here, you drive directly to the emergency room."
The doctor's demeanor didn't demonstrate any sense that this was a life or death situation...in fact, I remember that he tried to make light of it, at the same time he made clear he was really concerned as he spoke to my wife: "I want you to understand that you need to go directly to the ER. Do not go home to get a new pair of socks or underwear. Do not stop to buy a toothbrush. Do not pass go! Go directly to the ER. Based on the EKG, I probably should have your husband sent by an ambulance, but I really don't think it's quite that serious...but I'll be in trouble if you stop on the way to get a candy bar and something happens. So please heed my instructions so I'll stay out of trouble."
I wasn't quite sure what to think as we left the doctor's office. I was concerned, but I had a sense of disbelief. I started wondering whether I had exaggerated my descriptions of the pain, the breathing difficulties, and the feelings of exhaustion. Was I going to the ER and getting ready to spend a small fortune because I was a hypochondriac? I should have known better, of course, because the doctor had just told me my EKG was abnormal, but I wasn't thinking clearly.
The moment we got outside into the open air, I lit a cigarette and smoked it as we started toward the car. In retrospect, I think that says volumes about my state of mind. I had just been told I was having serious heart problems, yet I lit a cigarette the moment I got outdoors. I smoked less than half of it as we walked toward the car, dropping it to the ground and crushing it as we approached the car. Normally, I would have picked up the butt and found a trash can to drop it into, but not that time. Now, well over a year later, I remember that as the last cigarette I ever smoked.
The Hallowed Halls of Hospitals
My wife drove to the emergency room entrance and let me off near the door. A security guard had stopped us as we neared the ER; his job was to prevent people from getting in the way of ambulances bringing in seriously ill or injured patients. When my wife explained that my doctor had told her to drive me to the ER, he waved us through. She stopped at the door and I got out and went inside while she went to park.
I explained to the admitting desk clerk that my doctor had sent me to the ER and that I was supposed to meet the cardiologist there. She gave me some papers to fill out and asked me to sit in the waiting area until I was called. My wife came in and shortly thereafter I was called back to an examining room.
It wasn't long before an ER physician came in and started asking questions. He did not seem to know anything about teh cardiologist expecting me, but said he would check into it. I was connected to another EKG machine and the ER doctor, like the family physician shortly before, peered intently at the paper record flowing from the machine. After what seemed like an eternity, with the ER doctor going in and out of the examining room, along with various other medical personnel, the doctor said they were going to admit me to the hospital and said the cardiologist would see me after I was situated in my room.
For some reason, my recollections of what happened from the time I went into the ER until the time I was released from the hospital are, in many respects, very, very muddy. I was not on any painkillers, etc. until well into my second day in the hospital, but my memories are vague and disjointed. My wife's recollections are equally fuzzy...I think perhaps the hospital staff used memory-limiting drugs on us. I will recount what I remember and I will add comments my wife made to me later...I cannot vouch for the accuracy of my account of my experience, but the important thing here, after all, is my perception of my experience.
I was admitted into a private room (the hospital is in a high-income area...it has no semi-private rooms, as such accommodations are not befitting people of such economic stature...) late in the afternoon, after the ER determined my EKG warranted admittance as an in-patient. The process of admission to the hospital is a bureaucratic one, with enormous volumes of paperwork, tests on top of tests, measurements of heart rate, blood pressure, weight, height, color, smell, size, attitude, and god knows what else. It seemed like it took several hours to finish the tests and give me some peace. The cardiologist finally showed up after I had been admitted to the hospital. He said he had seen the EKG. It showed that there was a clear problem with my heart; there was blockage in my arteries. He said I needed to have an angiogram to see where the blockage was and, once the location was known, he would perform an angioplasty, in which a balloon-like device would be inserted through the angiogram tube to expand the artery and a stent would then be inserted to ensure adequate blood flow. He said I should be able to go home the day after the procedure, which he recommended be done the following day. He stressed that the procedure was very common and that there were rarely any significant complications...but he did say he was obligated to let me know that complications do occasionally occur, including permanent brain damage, death, and other nasty-sounding stuff. He also said I needed to have the procedure done as soon as possible because my condition was serious. "You're at very serious risk for a heart attack, which could be fatal," he said. "Until we correct the problem, the risk that you could suffer a fatal heart attack at any moment is very real. We need to fix this right away."
I don't recall being shown a video about angiograms and angioplasty, but my wife says they had us watch a video that afternoon, after the cardiologist talked to us, that explained the procedures and also discussed heart bypass surgery. I have no doubt they showed us the videos...but I have absolutely no recollection of seeing anything like it.
Once I was left alone in my room, my wife went home. It wasn't long thereafter that I decided I needed to explore the hospital, so I went out for a walk. As I was returning to my room from a circle around the floor I was on, a man in a nurse's uniform, a guy about my age, approached me and asked my name. I told him and he explained that he would be my nurse. He told me I should not be out walking around; I should be relaxing in my room. He explained that the medical team was concerned that I could have a heart attack if I exerted myself, so I should just sit quietly in my room. The nurse assumed I was nervous about the procedure and he assured me there was nothing to it...but he then explained all sorts of things that could happen in connection with it. He stressed, though, that Presbyterian Hospital was the best place I could be to have the procedure done. And he assured me that it would be over and done before I knew it and I'd be back home.
I had assumed...perhaps we had been told...the procedure would be done early the next morning. That was not to be. It was late in the day before I was prepped for the procedure. I recall being told that, after the angiogram, I would need to lie perfectly still for several hours to ensure that the artery in my groin where the angiogram tube was inserted had time to heal. A heavy weight would be placed over the incision, they said, to help stem the flow of blood after the procedure. I remember almost nothing of the procedure, nor the time afterward that I had to lie perfectly still. My wife told me that I was complaining bitterly about my back hurting very badly during that time; my back does hurt quite alot when I lay flat on my back, so I can well imagine that. She told me the staff had a bit of a tough time keeping me still. The cardiologist told my wife before he told me that the blockage was too extensive and in the wrong place for angioplasty to work. He showed her an image of the arteries at my heart, showing 95% blockage in one and 75% blockage in another. He told her I needed to have double bypass surgery right away.
I had no sense of time when all of this was happening. I remember the cardiologist saying that my angiogram revealed more blockage than he had expected and that I needed to have a bypass...but I do not recall whether he was talking to me or to my wife. The anesthesia must have been clouding my thinking and my ability to understand what he was saying. I recall agreeing to have the surgery done immediately, but I don't know if I was agreeing with him, with my wife, or someone else. I know, now, that the bypass was done the following day, but I don't recall anything of the preparation for surgery.
What I do recall is the surgeon, someone I don't remember having met before, standing over me after the surgery, laughing and saying something to the effect that "If you're feeling good and aren't in any pain, then I'm the surgeon who performed your bypass operation...if it hurts, then my colleague here is the one who did it!" I must have been in the recovery room at the time. The next thing I remember is my wife holding my hand and talking to me, but I don't remember what she was saying. I felt like I was in a deep fog. I don't think I realized at the time that I had a breathing tube in my mouth and that I could not talk. I don't remember feeling any pain, but my wife says I complained afterward about being in pain.
Legalized Torture
I think I was in the cardiac intensive care unit for at least two days, maybe three. I remember much of that time vividly, though some of what I remember may not be memory, but hallucinations. You'll understand when I explain a bit more. During the night, a very attractive young nurse was the person who looked after me. She was very talkative and friendly and very quick to be upset with me when I tried to get out of bed to go to the bathroom by myself. She said her job was to take care of me and that I should let her do it.
The breathing tube came out about a day after the surgery, before I was lucid enough to be able to communicate well with the medical staff. When it was taken out, something happened that I still don't understand; it was very scary. Two nurses (I assume both were nurses) appeared; one of them spoke to me, telling me the breathing tube was going to come out. She told me she was going to pull the tube out and that I should exhale as she was doing it. I felt the tube move through my throat as she pulled it out and I felt it scratch across my throat. When the tube came out, the nurse said, "OK, breathe!" Something was wrong...I could not take any air in, nor could I exhale. It was as if my lungs weren't connected to the air...like something was blocking my trachea. I really started to panic and started shaking my head and motioning with my hands that I could't breathe. One of the nurses said to the other, "What's wrong?" The other responded, "I don't know, he says he can't breathe." Then I heard her say "Oh, I always forget to do that." And I could feel air rush into my lungs. It felt so good to feel my lungs fill with air. I have no idea what she did, what prevented me from breathing, but it must have been related to the breathing tube...how she took it out...who knows. I wish I had been coherent enough to ask, to complain to someone. That episode was among the most frightening things that happened to me during my hospital stay...but there were other times I would feel very frightened.
It was either the first or the second night in cardiac ICU that I may have drifted into hallucination. Late at night, probably three or four in the morning, I awoke after hearing the alarms on my heart monitor go off. That had happened several times before when I had moved or turned on my side, disconnecting the wires that were attached to leads on my chest. When that happened the first time or two, the nurse had come in rather quickly to reattach them. But the second or third time, it seemed to me that it was taking quite awhile, so I tried to reattach them myself...it was almost impossible to do while I was lying down, so I sat up on the side of my bed and tried to reattach them. When the nurse came in and saw that I was sitting up, she scolded me and told me that I should just wait for her to come in to fix things. For some inexplicable reason, I felt that I was annoying her by disconnecting the leads, so I felt I should fix the problem and not depend on her to do it. She made it clear that wasn't the case and said I should just wait for someone to come fix the leads if it happened again.
The last time that night I remember the leads causing the alarm to sound, it seemed like it took a very long time for her to get to the room. When she came in, it seemed to me that she was disheveled...her hair looked like it had not been combed and I would have sworn she was tucking in her shirt as she came through the door. Right behind her came the respiratory therapist who had, earlier in the evening, tortured me by forcing me to blow long and hard into a tube...measuring my lung capacity. He replaced the leads with an entirely new set. I began to think that my heart monitor alarm had jolted them out of a sexual encounter somewhere far away from my room...that was why it took her so long to respond. And I started thinking, "What is this respiratory therapist doing here in the middle of the night?" After they got my leads reattached properly, turned out the lights, and left, my mind continued on its make-believe odyssey.
"Obviously," I thought to myself, "they know that I know about them. And they know that, if I chose to, I could get them in serious trouble, possibly even get them fired. They're not going to let that happen. I've heard about nurses killing their patients. If she were to come in to give me an injection or add something to the bag that's connected to my IV, how would I know whether it is legitimate?" My mind raced and I began to wonder how I could get out of there without her seeing me. I tried to think of how I could get out of bed, stay connected to my monitor, and get to another area of the hospital before she was able to kill me. As I write this, I am laughing. I was not laughing at the time; I believed I was targeted for murder by a nurse about whom I had inadvertently seen evidence that she was engaging in illicit sex while on duty.
I must have drifted off to sleep, despite my fear of imminent murder, because the next thing I remember was hearing the door opening. My eyes popped open immediately, but it was obvious to me that the door was still closed. The ICU room...I guess it was a private area, not really a room,...was very small. The bed was in the middle and various types of machinery were off to the right and left of me. The door to the area was near the foot of my bed, at the center of the ICU area. On both sides of the door, the walls were solid at the bottom, but the tops of the walls were large, fixed-pane glass panels. Curtains could be closed on the doors to make the area private. I think the curtains had been closed earlier. But when my eyes popped open, I saw that the curtain to the right of the door was open several inches. Standing outside, peering in through the window, were a little girl and a little boy, probably eight and ten years old, respectively. Immediately, I knew that they belonged to the ICU nurse. It was clear to me that they lived with her in the ICU at night when she worked. And it was clear to me that she had enlisted them to kill me.
The comments caught me completely off guard. The difficulty breathing after yardwork…the way my lungs ached…it made me think my smoking was catching up with me. I thought I might have emphysema, certainly not a good thing, but problems with my heart...that scared me. It couldn't be my heart...heart problems can kill you quickly, without warning. Emphysema, I thought, was slow and painful.
But I had been wondering about the pain, wondering why I felt this odd and uncomfortable sensation. When I had difficulty breathing, I also felt a very strange sensation in my lower arms. They felt heavy and tingled. I had heard that tingling in the upper arm might be a warning sign for heart problems, but the lower arm? Frankly, I had been wondering whether I was being a bit of a hypochondriac…my “pain” wasn’t too bad, but it had drained my energy. Maybe it was nothing...maybe I was just over-reacting to an artifact of the aging process.
The weekend before I made the trip to my doctor, I had been visiting my brother and his wife in Portland, Oregon. During the trip, I was almost incapacitated by what I normally would have considered a relatively low energy walk about town. That’s really what made me decide to call the doctor. I felt something was really wrong when I buckled onto the couch after walking just a few blocks from a bus stop. My wife and I had cut the trip to downtown Portland short because I was out of breath as we wandered about town…and then, I walked eight or ten blocks from the bus stop and felt ready to collapse.
When I called the doctor the following Wednesday, I expected to be told I could not be seen for several days…and, sure enough, that’s what I was told. But the receptionist asked why I needed to see the doctor, so I explained. She explained that the doctor was on vacation and asked whether I wanted to see someone else. I told her it didn’t really matter to me, but I thought my regular family doctor would probably be the best one for me to see. She put me on hold and shortly a nurse came on the line, asking the same questions. I explained again. “I’ve been getting easily winded doing simple things like yardwork and just walking. I have a pain in my chest…kind of a burning pain in my lungs. My lower arms feel heavy and they tingle.”
She asked me a series of questions about my symptoms. Finally, she said, “I don’t want to alarm you, but your symptoms could be indications of something very serious. I want you to go to a hospital emergency room. You should not drive yourself. You need to go right away so they can rule out that you are having a heart attack.” I remember so many comments about not meaning to alarm me. Hers was the first...she didn’t mean to alarm me, but she did. I told her I was not presently experiencing pain…I just wanted to get checked out to be sure it was nothing or, if it were a real problem, to have it addressed. She persisted that I needed to go to the ER. I protested and said I would wait until my doctor was back from vacation to make an appointment. After what seemed like a long period of banter, she put me on hold again; when she came back on the line, she said she had made an appointment for me to see another doctor in the practice at 1:00 pm, just over an hour from the time I was talking to her. "I want you to have someone else drive you," she said, "don't drive yourself. With the symptoms you described, you could be having a heart attack. You should not drive. If you can't get someone else to drive you, you need to call 911 and have an ambulance take you to the hospital." I promised I would not drive myself.
By the time I got off the phone with her, I was feeling a sense of panic. My wife, who works with me, was out of the office for some reason, but I knew she would be back soon. But that day was the last day of work for a staff member who was leaving to get married, and my wife was planning on having a little celebration after lunch to send the staff member on her way. I wasn't sure whether my wife would be able to drive me to the doctor. I mentioned the conversation with my doctor's office to another staff member, trying to make light of it, but she seemed to take it a bit more seriously than I pretended to and offered to drive me to the doctor. I declined, saying I was sure my wife would be back soon.
When my wife got back to the office, it was getting close to the time of my appointment, so I asked her to drive me to the doctor. I guess I didn't mention that the nurse told me not to drive, because my wife seemed a bit miffed at my insistence that she change her afternoon plans to drive me. I'm sure I was being rather cranky with her as I talked about going to the doctor.
The nurse called me in almost immediately after we checked in with the receptionist. There were few of the usual pleasantries I associate with visits to the doctor; this time, it was all business: take off my shirt, lie back on the table, lean forward so the wire leads can be properly placed on my chest. While she was preparing me to have the EKG done, the nurse asked me to explain to her about the pain, how often it hurt, whether it was hurting at that moment. In no time, the EKG was underway. It took the nurse only a short time to print the EKG results and the nurse took them out to show to the doctor. He came in shortly thereafter and introduced himself; his nurse was with him. He asked the same questions the nurse had already asked, peering intently at the EKG record as I answered. Then he explained the EKG was abnormal. The doctor asked the nurse to have my wife come in; she joined us almost immediately.
"Your husband's EKG is abnormal, indicating a problem with his heart. The abnormalities are significant and they concern me enough to make me want him to see a cardiologist right away. It will be easiest for him to get to see the cardiologist quickly if we send him to the hospital emergency room. I'll call Dr. Pettyjohn and he'll expect to see your husband there. I don’t want to alarm you, but this is something that merits extra precautions to be sure that we are able to solve the problems before they get worse. The EKG indicates there are some problems that could result in a heart attack. He has not had a heart attack, but he could have one, so it's important that, when you leave here, you drive directly to the emergency room."
The doctor's demeanor didn't demonstrate any sense that this was a life or death situation...in fact, I remember that he tried to make light of it, at the same time he made clear he was really concerned as he spoke to my wife: "I want you to understand that you need to go directly to the ER. Do not go home to get a new pair of socks or underwear. Do not stop to buy a toothbrush. Do not pass go! Go directly to the ER. Based on the EKG, I probably should have your husband sent by an ambulance, but I really don't think it's quite that serious...but I'll be in trouble if you stop on the way to get a candy bar and something happens. So please heed my instructions so I'll stay out of trouble."
I wasn't quite sure what to think as we left the doctor's office. I was concerned, but I had a sense of disbelief. I started wondering whether I had exaggerated my descriptions of the pain, the breathing difficulties, and the feelings of exhaustion. Was I going to the ER and getting ready to spend a small fortune because I was a hypochondriac? I should have known better, of course, because the doctor had just told me my EKG was abnormal, but I wasn't thinking clearly.
The moment we got outside into the open air, I lit a cigarette and smoked it as we started toward the car. In retrospect, I think that says volumes about my state of mind. I had just been told I was having serious heart problems, yet I lit a cigarette the moment I got outdoors. I smoked less than half of it as we walked toward the car, dropping it to the ground and crushing it as we approached the car. Normally, I would have picked up the butt and found a trash can to drop it into, but not that time. Now, well over a year later, I remember that as the last cigarette I ever smoked.
The Hallowed Halls of Hospitals
My wife drove to the emergency room entrance and let me off near the door. A security guard had stopped us as we neared the ER; his job was to prevent people from getting in the way of ambulances bringing in seriously ill or injured patients. When my wife explained that my doctor had told her to drive me to the ER, he waved us through. She stopped at the door and I got out and went inside while she went to park.
I explained to the admitting desk clerk that my doctor had sent me to the ER and that I was supposed to meet the cardiologist there. She gave me some papers to fill out and asked me to sit in the waiting area until I was called. My wife came in and shortly thereafter I was called back to an examining room.
It wasn't long before an ER physician came in and started asking questions. He did not seem to know anything about teh cardiologist expecting me, but said he would check into it. I was connected to another EKG machine and the ER doctor, like the family physician shortly before, peered intently at the paper record flowing from the machine. After what seemed like an eternity, with the ER doctor going in and out of the examining room, along with various other medical personnel, the doctor said they were going to admit me to the hospital and said the cardiologist would see me after I was situated in my room.
For some reason, my recollections of what happened from the time I went into the ER until the time I was released from the hospital are, in many respects, very, very muddy. I was not on any painkillers, etc. until well into my second day in the hospital, but my memories are vague and disjointed. My wife's recollections are equally fuzzy...I think perhaps the hospital staff used memory-limiting drugs on us. I will recount what I remember and I will add comments my wife made to me later...I cannot vouch for the accuracy of my account of my experience, but the important thing here, after all, is my perception of my experience.
I was admitted into a private room (the hospital is in a high-income area...it has no semi-private rooms, as such accommodations are not befitting people of such economic stature...) late in the afternoon, after the ER determined my EKG warranted admittance as an in-patient. The process of admission to the hospital is a bureaucratic one, with enormous volumes of paperwork, tests on top of tests, measurements of heart rate, blood pressure, weight, height, color, smell, size, attitude, and god knows what else. It seemed like it took several hours to finish the tests and give me some peace. The cardiologist finally showed up after I had been admitted to the hospital. He said he had seen the EKG. It showed that there was a clear problem with my heart; there was blockage in my arteries. He said I needed to have an angiogram to see where the blockage was and, once the location was known, he would perform an angioplasty, in which a balloon-like device would be inserted through the angiogram tube to expand the artery and a stent would then be inserted to ensure adequate blood flow. He said I should be able to go home the day after the procedure, which he recommended be done the following day. He stressed that the procedure was very common and that there were rarely any significant complications...but he did say he was obligated to let me know that complications do occasionally occur, including permanent brain damage, death, and other nasty-sounding stuff. He also said I needed to have the procedure done as soon as possible because my condition was serious. "You're at very serious risk for a heart attack, which could be fatal," he said. "Until we correct the problem, the risk that you could suffer a fatal heart attack at any moment is very real. We need to fix this right away."
I don't recall being shown a video about angiograms and angioplasty, but my wife says they had us watch a video that afternoon, after the cardiologist talked to us, that explained the procedures and also discussed heart bypass surgery. I have no doubt they showed us the videos...but I have absolutely no recollection of seeing anything like it.
Once I was left alone in my room, my wife went home. It wasn't long thereafter that I decided I needed to explore the hospital, so I went out for a walk. As I was returning to my room from a circle around the floor I was on, a man in a nurse's uniform, a guy about my age, approached me and asked my name. I told him and he explained that he would be my nurse. He told me I should not be out walking around; I should be relaxing in my room. He explained that the medical team was concerned that I could have a heart attack if I exerted myself, so I should just sit quietly in my room. The nurse assumed I was nervous about the procedure and he assured me there was nothing to it...but he then explained all sorts of things that could happen in connection with it. He stressed, though, that Presbyterian Hospital was the best place I could be to have the procedure done. And he assured me that it would be over and done before I knew it and I'd be back home.
I had assumed...perhaps we had been told...the procedure would be done early the next morning. That was not to be. It was late in the day before I was prepped for the procedure. I recall being told that, after the angiogram, I would need to lie perfectly still for several hours to ensure that the artery in my groin where the angiogram tube was inserted had time to heal. A heavy weight would be placed over the incision, they said, to help stem the flow of blood after the procedure. I remember almost nothing of the procedure, nor the time afterward that I had to lie perfectly still. My wife told me that I was complaining bitterly about my back hurting very badly during that time; my back does hurt quite alot when I lay flat on my back, so I can well imagine that. She told me the staff had a bit of a tough time keeping me still. The cardiologist told my wife before he told me that the blockage was too extensive and in the wrong place for angioplasty to work. He showed her an image of the arteries at my heart, showing 95% blockage in one and 75% blockage in another. He told her I needed to have double bypass surgery right away.
I had no sense of time when all of this was happening. I remember the cardiologist saying that my angiogram revealed more blockage than he had expected and that I needed to have a bypass...but I do not recall whether he was talking to me or to my wife. The anesthesia must have been clouding my thinking and my ability to understand what he was saying. I recall agreeing to have the surgery done immediately, but I don't know if I was agreeing with him, with my wife, or someone else. I know, now, that the bypass was done the following day, but I don't recall anything of the preparation for surgery.
What I do recall is the surgeon, someone I don't remember having met before, standing over me after the surgery, laughing and saying something to the effect that "If you're feeling good and aren't in any pain, then I'm the surgeon who performed your bypass operation...if it hurts, then my colleague here is the one who did it!" I must have been in the recovery room at the time. The next thing I remember is my wife holding my hand and talking to me, but I don't remember what she was saying. I felt like I was in a deep fog. I don't think I realized at the time that I had a breathing tube in my mouth and that I could not talk. I don't remember feeling any pain, but my wife says I complained afterward about being in pain.
Legalized Torture
I think I was in the cardiac intensive care unit for at least two days, maybe three. I remember much of that time vividly, though some of what I remember may not be memory, but hallucinations. You'll understand when I explain a bit more. During the night, a very attractive young nurse was the person who looked after me. She was very talkative and friendly and very quick to be upset with me when I tried to get out of bed to go to the bathroom by myself. She said her job was to take care of me and that I should let her do it.
The breathing tube came out about a day after the surgery, before I was lucid enough to be able to communicate well with the medical staff. When it was taken out, something happened that I still don't understand; it was very scary. Two nurses (I assume both were nurses) appeared; one of them spoke to me, telling me the breathing tube was going to come out. She told me she was going to pull the tube out and that I should exhale as she was doing it. I felt the tube move through my throat as she pulled it out and I felt it scratch across my throat. When the tube came out, the nurse said, "OK, breathe!" Something was wrong...I could not take any air in, nor could I exhale. It was as if my lungs weren't connected to the air...like something was blocking my trachea. I really started to panic and started shaking my head and motioning with my hands that I could't breathe. One of the nurses said to the other, "What's wrong?" The other responded, "I don't know, he says he can't breathe." Then I heard her say "Oh, I always forget to do that." And I could feel air rush into my lungs. It felt so good to feel my lungs fill with air. I have no idea what she did, what prevented me from breathing, but it must have been related to the breathing tube...how she took it out...who knows. I wish I had been coherent enough to ask, to complain to someone. That episode was among the most frightening things that happened to me during my hospital stay...but there were other times I would feel very frightened.
It was either the first or the second night in cardiac ICU that I may have drifted into hallucination. Late at night, probably three or four in the morning, I awoke after hearing the alarms on my heart monitor go off. That had happened several times before when I had moved or turned on my side, disconnecting the wires that were attached to leads on my chest. When that happened the first time or two, the nurse had come in rather quickly to reattach them. But the second or third time, it seemed to me that it was taking quite awhile, so I tried to reattach them myself...it was almost impossible to do while I was lying down, so I sat up on the side of my bed and tried to reattach them. When the nurse came in and saw that I was sitting up, she scolded me and told me that I should just wait for her to come in to fix things. For some inexplicable reason, I felt that I was annoying her by disconnecting the leads, so I felt I should fix the problem and not depend on her to do it. She made it clear that wasn't the case and said I should just wait for someone to come fix the leads if it happened again.
The last time that night I remember the leads causing the alarm to sound, it seemed like it took a very long time for her to get to the room. When she came in, it seemed to me that she was disheveled...her hair looked like it had not been combed and I would have sworn she was tucking in her shirt as she came through the door. Right behind her came the respiratory therapist who had, earlier in the evening, tortured me by forcing me to blow long and hard into a tube...measuring my lung capacity. He replaced the leads with an entirely new set. I began to think that my heart monitor alarm had jolted them out of a sexual encounter somewhere far away from my room...that was why it took her so long to respond. And I started thinking, "What is this respiratory therapist doing here in the middle of the night?" After they got my leads reattached properly, turned out the lights, and left, my mind continued on its make-believe odyssey.
"Obviously," I thought to myself, "they know that I know about them. And they know that, if I chose to, I could get them in serious trouble, possibly even get them fired. They're not going to let that happen. I've heard about nurses killing their patients. If she were to come in to give me an injection or add something to the bag that's connected to my IV, how would I know whether it is legitimate?" My mind raced and I began to wonder how I could get out of there without her seeing me. I tried to think of how I could get out of bed, stay connected to my monitor, and get to another area of the hospital before she was able to kill me. As I write this, I am laughing. I was not laughing at the time; I believed I was targeted for murder by a nurse about whom I had inadvertently seen evidence that she was engaging in illicit sex while on duty.
I must have drifted off to sleep, despite my fear of imminent murder, because the next thing I remember was hearing the door opening. My eyes popped open immediately, but it was obvious to me that the door was still closed. The ICU room...I guess it was a private area, not really a room,...was very small. The bed was in the middle and various types of machinery were off to the right and left of me. The door to the area was near the foot of my bed, at the center of the ICU area. On both sides of the door, the walls were solid at the bottom, but the tops of the walls were large, fixed-pane glass panels. Curtains could be closed on the doors to make the area private. I think the curtains had been closed earlier. But when my eyes popped open, I saw that the curtain to the right of the door was open several inches. Standing outside, peering in through the window, were a little girl and a little boy, probably eight and ten years old, respectively. Immediately, I knew that they belonged to the ICU nurse. It was clear to me that they lived with her in the ICU at night when she worked. And it was clear to me that she had enlisted them to kill me.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
The Ides of October: Random Ramblings
I was invited by a friend to attend Klownhouse 6, which she says is an opportunity for adults to dress up like "creepy, scary klowns" and give kids nightmares as they "earn their Halloween candy." She and her husband turn their garage into a wild place to give kids a terror-fest, which, as I recall, is a real treat for kids of a certain age (maybe 10-12?). Anyway, as much as I'd like to go, I'll be out of town, celebrating my own birthday and my niece's birthday. The idea of getting all dressed up like a psycho clown has a bizarre appeal to me.
Instead of the Klownhouse, we'll be living it up in Falba, Texas, which is actually a place in the country that used to be the site of a town called Falba. Now, it's a cemetary and the occasional doublewide or small farmhouse, hidden behind groves of trees. It's a very quiet spot and a place one can kick back and relax in the country. My wife and I will get a motel room in a nearby town, because there will be too many people at my brother's place for us to have a place to sleep.
We'll take several pounds of shrimp with us when we go to Falba. We just got the shrimp from a Louisiana shrimper...I read about the Mariah Jade Shrimp Company in an article in Business Week this summer and decided to do business with them; it's a family-owned business that's been working hard to be a successful fresh seafood business.
So, I ordered 20 pounds of shrimp. The company takes its boat into the Gulf of Mexico and brings in "wild caught" shrimp, sorts them by size, quick-freezes them, and ships them off in styrofoam containers kept cold with dry ice. Our box arrived just two days ago, the day after I ordered the shrimp via email and telephone. The lady I ordered from, Kim Chauvin, is one of the owners; she emailed me after I got off the phone with her to let me know the shrimp had been shipped via DHL and would arrive the next morning at my office, which they did. When I got it home, I opened the box to see that the shrimp were packed directly into the styrofoam container...no one-pound bags ready to be stuck in the freezer...so I spent quite some time filling freezer bags with a pound of shrimp so we could put them in the freezer and conveniently pull them out to thaw and cook. I think I got considerably more than 20 pounds...but 20 pounds is what I paid for. The box contained some recipes and a container of spice mix. I got a call from Kim the next day; she wanted to confirm that my shrimp had arrived and that I was satisfied. Her business was hurt pretty badly by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, but their boat was repairable and they were able to get back to shrimping not long after the storms. We'll see how they taste when we have the Falba Shrimp-Fest.
Today, my wife and I are going to pretend we're tourists in our own town. We'll explore the light-rail train lines just to see where they go. We've ridden the light rail to downtown Dallas and have taken its big brother, the Trinity Railway Express, to downtown Fort Worth, but have never explored the other lines. Today we will.
One of the things I want to do today is find a copy of The Year of Magical Thinking, the book by Joan Didion that I wrote about in yesterday's post. So, as we wander about the city, we'll pop into some book stores to see what's of interest and to see if we can get an inexpensive copy of the book. As much as I like to read (though my eyesight makes it tough) and as much as I appreciate books, I think they're overpriced, in general.
Speaking of my eyesight making it tough to read, I'm finally getting my eyes checked again in early November and will get a new prescription (BADLY needed) and replace my glasses. The frames I wear now are in awful shape...they've been soldered back together where the bridge piece broke, painted (soldering ruined the gunmetal gray finish) with black paint that is peeling badly, etc. Most people ignore the frames, but someone will occasionally ask if I need their spare change...I look like a street person. I'm excited to be getting new glasses...I remember being able to read and if I recall correctly, it was fun...I want to do it again.
It's almost 7:30 am and I've only had one cup of coffee, so I'll finish this posting, drink another couple of cups of coffee, shower, wake my wife, and go explore the light rail. Happy Ides of October!
Instead of the Klownhouse, we'll be living it up in Falba, Texas, which is actually a place in the country that used to be the site of a town called Falba. Now, it's a cemetary and the occasional doublewide or small farmhouse, hidden behind groves of trees. It's a very quiet spot and a place one can kick back and relax in the country. My wife and I will get a motel room in a nearby town, because there will be too many people at my brother's place for us to have a place to sleep.
We'll take several pounds of shrimp with us when we go to Falba. We just got the shrimp from a Louisiana shrimper...I read about the Mariah Jade Shrimp Company in an article in Business Week this summer and decided to do business with them; it's a family-owned business that's been working hard to be a successful fresh seafood business.
So, I ordered 20 pounds of shrimp. The company takes its boat into the Gulf of Mexico and brings in "wild caught" shrimp, sorts them by size, quick-freezes them, and ships them off in styrofoam containers kept cold with dry ice. Our box arrived just two days ago, the day after I ordered the shrimp via email and telephone. The lady I ordered from, Kim Chauvin, is one of the owners; she emailed me after I got off the phone with her to let me know the shrimp had been shipped via DHL and would arrive the next morning at my office, which they did. When I got it home, I opened the box to see that the shrimp were packed directly into the styrofoam container...no one-pound bags ready to be stuck in the freezer...so I spent quite some time filling freezer bags with a pound of shrimp so we could put them in the freezer and conveniently pull them out to thaw and cook. I think I got considerably more than 20 pounds...but 20 pounds is what I paid for. The box contained some recipes and a container of spice mix. I got a call from Kim the next day; she wanted to confirm that my shrimp had arrived and that I was satisfied. Her business was hurt pretty badly by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, but their boat was repairable and they were able to get back to shrimping not long after the storms. We'll see how they taste when we have the Falba Shrimp-Fest.
Today, my wife and I are going to pretend we're tourists in our own town. We'll explore the light-rail train lines just to see where they go. We've ridden the light rail to downtown Dallas and have taken its big brother, the Trinity Railway Express, to downtown Fort Worth, but have never explored the other lines. Today we will.
One of the things I want to do today is find a copy of The Year of Magical Thinking, the book by Joan Didion that I wrote about in yesterday's post. So, as we wander about the city, we'll pop into some book stores to see what's of interest and to see if we can get an inexpensive copy of the book. As much as I like to read (though my eyesight makes it tough) and as much as I appreciate books, I think they're overpriced, in general.
Speaking of my eyesight making it tough to read, I'm finally getting my eyes checked again in early November and will get a new prescription (BADLY needed) and replace my glasses. The frames I wear now are in awful shape...they've been soldered back together where the bridge piece broke, painted (soldering ruined the gunmetal gray finish) with black paint that is peeling badly, etc. Most people ignore the frames, but someone will occasionally ask if I need their spare change...I look like a street person. I'm excited to be getting new glasses...I remember being able to read and if I recall correctly, it was fun...I want to do it again.
It's almost 7:30 am and I've only had one cup of coffee, so I'll finish this posting, drink another couple of cups of coffee, shower, wake my wife, and go explore the light rail. Happy Ides of October!
Friday, October 14, 2005
Simple Stories
Yesterday, or was it the day before, I heard Susan Stamberg interview Joan Didion about her latest book, The Year of Magical Thinking. I've not read any of Didion's work, nor do I recall reading anything written by her late husband, John Gregory Dunne.
I was intrigued hearing Didion reading a few lines from her book, so I decided to check the NPR website to read a bit more. Didion's book is about her life during the year after her husband of forty years suffered a massive heart attack at their dining table and died. I've only read the excerpt, but it alone was enough to make me think, "this is an excellent book...I have to read it." It's not the topic that intrigued me, it's the idea of hearing, first hand, how a person dealt with an immense personal trauma...a trauma like all of us will face at one time or another.
What I find compelling about Joan Didion's story (the little bit I've read) is the detail, and the acknowledgement of missed detail, of dealing with this personal trauma. It's a personal story, a simple story about a simple but horrible event, that, told properly, can interest the reader and draw the reader into the author's life.
I thought, after reading the excerpt from Didion's book, that I should write about my experience of having troubling chest pains, visiting a doctor, and then finding myself rushing into a fairly major surgery that would change my life in some significant ways. My experience was nothing if not commonplace...but where are the stories about such commonplace experiences that can help others who have not had them truly understand them?
I've always been told, and have read many times, "write what you know." While I don't always buy that admonition, I think it can't hurt from time to time. So, before long, I'll write about my own experiences. And I'll read The Year of Magical Thinking.
I was intrigued hearing Didion reading a few lines from her book, so I decided to check the NPR website to read a bit more. Didion's book is about her life during the year after her husband of forty years suffered a massive heart attack at their dining table and died. I've only read the excerpt, but it alone was enough to make me think, "this is an excellent book...I have to read it." It's not the topic that intrigued me, it's the idea of hearing, first hand, how a person dealt with an immense personal trauma...a trauma like all of us will face at one time or another.
What I find compelling about Joan Didion's story (the little bit I've read) is the detail, and the acknowledgement of missed detail, of dealing with this personal trauma. It's a personal story, a simple story about a simple but horrible event, that, told properly, can interest the reader and draw the reader into the author's life.
I thought, after reading the excerpt from Didion's book, that I should write about my experience of having troubling chest pains, visiting a doctor, and then finding myself rushing into a fairly major surgery that would change my life in some significant ways. My experience was nothing if not commonplace...but where are the stories about such commonplace experiences that can help others who have not had them truly understand them?
I've always been told, and have read many times, "write what you know." While I don't always buy that admonition, I think it can't hurt from time to time. So, before long, I'll write about my own experiences. And I'll read The Year of Magical Thinking.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
There are men too gentle...
I am trying hard to remember a book of poetry I read many, many years ago. I don't recall the name of the poet, but I do recall, at least in part, the name of the book of poetry: "There Are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves." I am not one of them; I cannot turn the other cheek, look for the good in bad people, or "forgive them, for they know not what they do." I'm not a good Christian. I'd make a great lion though, at least sometimes I would. Such is life.
But, on occasion, I read something that touches me, for reasons unknown, and I want to share it. I encourage you to read a post on A Curmudgeonly Crab's blog. The blogger, a woman, could be my twin...except that she has at least one child (a daughter), which does not...could not...will never...describe me. Some people shouldn't have children. MOST people shouldn't have children. I'm one of them. At any rate, the Curmudgeonly Crab posted something I found quite moving...just don't know why. The fact that she hates Bush is a positive thing, but there's more. Look at the post in question at http://crabbiness.blogspot.com/2005/10/musings.html.
So, who IS the poet who wrote There Are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves? I'm sure I can find out quickly if I just do a Google search. Why do I remember it just now? Perhaps it's because I am thinking of George Bush and his repetitive claim that he is a "compassionate conservative." He is a lying piece of shit. I would like very much to broil his liver and do a taste test, complete with onions...is beef or Bush better?
It's late...I should go to bed...but I'm awake, aware, and angry that my country is being destroyed by a man who deserves nothing better than a bath in boiling oil. It's getting worse by the day. Either we will have a real revolution, a concept which I increasingly support, or we will be a purely fascist state before Bush's term ends. I am ready for revolution. I really do like the Constitution and its acknowledgement that we, the People, have a right to protect ourselves against George Bush and his cronies. Let's use that right!
==========================
After posting my vitriolic message, I looked for the poem that I remembered. Somehow, my diatribe seems unconnected, irrelevant. What could possess me to remember this gentle poem, recognizing the gentler ones among us, yet be so violent and angry? I'm feeling, tonight, like I am very, very confused about who I am, what I want, what I need from life. These are the feelings of a teenager...these are feelings that don't belong to a geezer. Oh well, I'll get through them again.
Here is the poem:
"There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who prey upon them with IBM eyes
And sell their hearts and guts for martinis at noon.
There are men to gentle for a savage world
Who dream instead of snow and children and Halloween
And wonder if the leaves will change their color soon.
There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who anoint them for burial with greedy claws
And murder them for a merchant's profit and gain.
There are men too gentle for a corporate world
Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass
And pause to hear the distant whistle of a train.
There are men too gentle too live amoung wolves
Who devour them with appetite and search
For other men to prey upon and suck their childhood dry.
There are men too gentle for an accountant's world
Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass
And search for beauty in the mystery of the sky.
o
There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who toss them like a lost and wounded dove
Such gentle men are lonely in a merchant's world
Unless they have a gentle one to love."
James Kavanaugh
And, finally...I am awfully tired. This blog is so rarely read, I wonder why I'm writing anything. Very rare that any comments are left, and I've been able to get a count of visitors, which is very, very low. But what the hell...I'm writing this for me, much more for me than for anyone else. I may, one day, pull lots of this crap off the blog and use it to form the skeleton of a book...or something.
But, on occasion, I read something that touches me, for reasons unknown, and I want to share it. I encourage you to read a post on A Curmudgeonly Crab's blog. The blogger, a woman, could be my twin...except that she has at least one child (a daughter), which does not...could not...will never...describe me. Some people shouldn't have children. MOST people shouldn't have children. I'm one of them. At any rate, the Curmudgeonly Crab posted something I found quite moving...just don't know why. The fact that she hates Bush is a positive thing, but there's more. Look at the post in question at http://crabbiness.blogspot.com/2005/10/musings.html.
So, who IS the poet who wrote There Are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves? I'm sure I can find out quickly if I just do a Google search. Why do I remember it just now? Perhaps it's because I am thinking of George Bush and his repetitive claim that he is a "compassionate conservative." He is a lying piece of shit. I would like very much to broil his liver and do a taste test, complete with onions...is beef or Bush better?
It's late...I should go to bed...but I'm awake, aware, and angry that my country is being destroyed by a man who deserves nothing better than a bath in boiling oil. It's getting worse by the day. Either we will have a real revolution, a concept which I increasingly support, or we will be a purely fascist state before Bush's term ends. I am ready for revolution. I really do like the Constitution and its acknowledgement that we, the People, have a right to protect ourselves against George Bush and his cronies. Let's use that right!
==========================
After posting my vitriolic message, I looked for the poem that I remembered. Somehow, my diatribe seems unconnected, irrelevant. What could possess me to remember this gentle poem, recognizing the gentler ones among us, yet be so violent and angry? I'm feeling, tonight, like I am very, very confused about who I am, what I want, what I need from life. These are the feelings of a teenager...these are feelings that don't belong to a geezer. Oh well, I'll get through them again.
Here is the poem:
"There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who prey upon them with IBM eyes
And sell their hearts and guts for martinis at noon.
There are men to gentle for a savage world
Who dream instead of snow and children and Halloween
And wonder if the leaves will change their color soon.
There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who anoint them for burial with greedy claws
And murder them for a merchant's profit and gain.
There are men too gentle for a corporate world
Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass
And pause to hear the distant whistle of a train.
There are men too gentle too live amoung wolves
Who devour them with appetite and search
For other men to prey upon and suck their childhood dry.
There are men too gentle for an accountant's world
Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass
And search for beauty in the mystery of the sky.
o
There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who toss them like a lost and wounded dove
Such gentle men are lonely in a merchant's world
Unless they have a gentle one to love."
James Kavanaugh
And, finally...I am awfully tired. This blog is so rarely read, I wonder why I'm writing anything. Very rare that any comments are left, and I've been able to get a count of visitors, which is very, very low. But what the hell...I'm writing this for me, much more for me than for anyone else. I may, one day, pull lots of this crap off the blog and use it to form the skeleton of a book...or something.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Deadly People Need to be Treated Like the Scum They Are
Bush and his fascist scum chums are talking about Harriet Miers' religion, saying it is important. Bush has taken everything about his so-called faith too far.
I am not a Christian...simply don't believe the fables...and it's scary to be in my shoes. I have no quarrel with people who have deep religious beliefs, so long as the do not try to rule my life on the basis of those beliefs. The religious beliefs of a nominee to the Supreme Court should be utterly irelevant. Unfortunately, Bush and his right-wing nutcase administration have decided that born-again Christians are the only real Americans and they, and they alone, should dictate the moral values of the U.S. The fact that their moral values are so screwed up matters not; the right to lifers are the very ones calling on murder in the name of God when it comes to executing people, attacking people in foreign lands...it goes on and on.
I have reached the point that I no longer simply disagree with people who support Bush. I feel I have no reasonable option other than to consider them very, very dangerous people. The either are not smart enough to understand what kind of fascist thug they are supporting, or they are people who are actively involved in the process. Bush supporters are the enemy...they are doing all they can to kill the constitution and the country. And they are trying to take away my rights, my freedoms, my ability to think and live the way I believe is right.
Today, I feel very threatened, like I'm backed up against a wall. That makes me dangerous, as well. I won't go quietly. The bastards will have a horrific fight on their hands.
I am not a Christian...simply don't believe the fables...and it's scary to be in my shoes. I have no quarrel with people who have deep religious beliefs, so long as the do not try to rule my life on the basis of those beliefs. The religious beliefs of a nominee to the Supreme Court should be utterly irelevant. Unfortunately, Bush and his right-wing nutcase administration have decided that born-again Christians are the only real Americans and they, and they alone, should dictate the moral values of the U.S. The fact that their moral values are so screwed up matters not; the right to lifers are the very ones calling on murder in the name of God when it comes to executing people, attacking people in foreign lands...it goes on and on.
I have reached the point that I no longer simply disagree with people who support Bush. I feel I have no reasonable option other than to consider them very, very dangerous people. The either are not smart enough to understand what kind of fascist thug they are supporting, or they are people who are actively involved in the process. Bush supporters are the enemy...they are doing all they can to kill the constitution and the country. And they are trying to take away my rights, my freedoms, my ability to think and live the way I believe is right.
Today, I feel very threatened, like I'm backed up against a wall. That makes me dangerous, as well. I won't go quietly. The bastards will have a horrific fight on their hands.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Two Part Post: 1) Ha!; 2) Demand DeLay's Resignation
The Center for Disease Control has issued a warning about a new virulent strain of STD
This disease is contracted through dangerous and high risk behavior.
The disease is called Gonorrhea Lectim(pronounced "gonna re-elect him.") Many victims contracted it in 2004, after having been screwed for the past 4 years, in spite of having taken measures to protect themselves from this especially troublesome disease.
Cognitive sequelae of individuals infected with Gonorrhea Lectim include, but are not limited to: Anti-social personality disorder traits; delusions of grandeur with a distinct messianic flavor; chronic mangling of the English language; extreme cognitive dissonance; inability to incorporate new information; pronounced xenophobia; inability to accept responsibility for actions; exceptional cowardice masked by acts of misplaced bravado; uncontrolled facial smirking; ignorance of geography and history; tendencies toward creating evangelical theocracies; and a strong propensity for categorical, all-or-nothing behavior.
The disease is sweeping Washington. Naturalists and epidemiologists are amazed and baffled that this malignant disease originated only a few years ago from a Texas Bush.
Demand DeLay's Resignation
"Tom DeLay was recently indicted by a Texas Grand Jury on two charges; criminal conspiracy and money laundering. Tom DeLay is the personification of the corrupt pay-to-play politics that is the hallmark of today’s Republican-controlled Congress.
Congress is no place for scoundrels like DeLay who blatantly abuse their power for personal and corporate gain -- at the expense of the American people. Please, write your Representative and demand that they call publicly for Tom DeLay's resignation from Congress."
This message brought to you by Campaign for America's Future.
This disease is contracted through dangerous and high risk behavior.
The disease is called Gonorrhea Lectim(pronounced "gonna re-elect him.") Many victims contracted it in 2004, after having been screwed for the past 4 years, in spite of having taken measures to protect themselves from this especially troublesome disease.
Cognitive sequelae of individuals infected with Gonorrhea Lectim include, but are not limited to: Anti-social personality disorder traits; delusions of grandeur with a distinct messianic flavor; chronic mangling of the English language; extreme cognitive dissonance; inability to incorporate new information; pronounced xenophobia; inability to accept responsibility for actions; exceptional cowardice masked by acts of misplaced bravado; uncontrolled facial smirking; ignorance of geography and history; tendencies toward creating evangelical theocracies; and a strong propensity for categorical, all-or-nothing behavior.
The disease is sweeping Washington. Naturalists and epidemiologists are amazed and baffled that this malignant disease originated only a few years ago from a Texas Bush.
Demand DeLay's Resignation
"Tom DeLay was recently indicted by a Texas Grand Jury on two charges; criminal conspiracy and money laundering. Tom DeLay is the personification of the corrupt pay-to-play politics that is the hallmark of today’s Republican-controlled Congress.
Congress is no place for scoundrels like DeLay who blatantly abuse their power for personal and corporate gain -- at the expense of the American people. Please, write your Representative and demand that they call publicly for Tom DeLay's resignation from Congress."
This message brought to you by Campaign for America's Future.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Grilled Okra
Today's post is completely apolitical. Do not read anything in to it beyond its surface message. Really.
Grilled okra is wonderful. It sounds awful. It is not. It is good.
To prepare it, wash a bunch of whole okra and blot it dry. Place it on a sheet of aluminum foil that has been lightly coated with olive oil. Mist olive oil onto the okra, then season the okra with either a vegetable seasoning mix or use a mix of salt, chili powder, garlic powder, a touch of cumin, and a touch of oregano (ground or flakes). Place the foil with okra onto a hot grill. Turn occasionally until the okra has slight burn marks all around. Serve it with sausage, steak, chicken...whatever. It's really excellent!
More blazing vitriol later. But today is my okra recipe day.
Grilled okra is wonderful. It sounds awful. It is not. It is good.
To prepare it, wash a bunch of whole okra and blot it dry. Place it on a sheet of aluminum foil that has been lightly coated with olive oil. Mist olive oil onto the okra, then season the okra with either a vegetable seasoning mix or use a mix of salt, chili powder, garlic powder, a touch of cumin, and a touch of oregano (ground or flakes). Place the foil with okra onto a hot grill. Turn occasionally until the okra has slight burn marks all around. Serve it with sausage, steak, chicken...whatever. It's really excellent!
More blazing vitriol later. But today is my okra recipe day.
Sunday, October 9, 2005
Why George Bush Doesn't Care About You and Me
How can I put this delicately...how can I introduce this gently? I can't. The simple truth is that George Bush doesn't care about you and me because we're not important to him...in fact, we're so utterly unimportant to him that he doesn't know that we exist, and he doesn't care whether we do or not.
The simple truth, bare of all explanatory apologies, is this:
George Bush doesn't care about you and me because he is a sociopathic asshole.
Don't feel bad, though. He doesn't care about our troops in Afghanistan or Iraq, either. They are just pawns to him. He doesn't care about his "buddies" in government, his former colleagues in the oil business, his former employees, his current employees...nobody. He doesn't give one little shit. He mouths concern about people, he feigns respect and admiration, but in reality none of us matter to him at all. Large numbers of dead black people in Louisiana do not matter to him. The dead from yesterday's earthquake in Asia do not matter to him. His mother and father do not matter to him. He cares only for himself. He'd as soon slit his wife's throat as look at her...but he does understand such behavior is unbecoming a President, so he refrains from acting on his whims.
Why doesn't George care about us? He's sick...mentally. Psycho. Nuts. Out of his gourd. He is a fuckin' nutcase. So we should feel empathy and pity and sorrow for him, right? I guess so. We should not fault him for things he can't control. It's not the "Christian" thing to do, treating such sociopathic nutcases badly. We should heed the words of the bible and treat him with dignity and respect and try to heal him, right? Perhaps...but some think we should treat him very differently...
I care about George Bush. I care so much that, if it were within my power, I would enable him to actually have the compassion he talks about. I would enable him to understand and feel badly about the pain he causes so many people around this earth. Some people, though, would simply have him put him out of our misery.
Step down, George, along with your entire administration.
The simple truth, bare of all explanatory apologies, is this:
George Bush doesn't care about you and me because he is a sociopathic asshole.
Don't feel bad, though. He doesn't care about our troops in Afghanistan or Iraq, either. They are just pawns to him. He doesn't care about his "buddies" in government, his former colleagues in the oil business, his former employees, his current employees...nobody. He doesn't give one little shit. He mouths concern about people, he feigns respect and admiration, but in reality none of us matter to him at all. Large numbers of dead black people in Louisiana do not matter to him. The dead from yesterday's earthquake in Asia do not matter to him. His mother and father do not matter to him. He cares only for himself. He'd as soon slit his wife's throat as look at her...but he does understand such behavior is unbecoming a President, so he refrains from acting on his whims.
Why doesn't George care about us? He's sick...mentally. Psycho. Nuts. Out of his gourd. He is a fuckin' nutcase. So we should feel empathy and pity and sorrow for him, right? I guess so. We should not fault him for things he can't control. It's not the "Christian" thing to do, treating such sociopathic nutcases badly. We should heed the words of the bible and treat him with dignity and respect and try to heal him, right? Perhaps...but some think we should treat him very differently...
I care about George Bush. I care so much that, if it were within my power, I would enable him to actually have the compassion he talks about. I would enable him to understand and feel badly about the pain he causes so many people around this earth. Some people, though, would simply have him put him out of our misery.
Step down, George, along with your entire administration.
Saturday, October 8, 2005
Car Names
I frequently think about car names...don't ask why, I just do. But I don't think about them because I like them...I think about them because I want to change them. Here are some cars I'd like to see on the road:
Chevrolet Slut
Ford Fool
Dodge Dolt
Buick Bastard
Nissan Nazi
Toyota Tramp
Porche Potato
Kia KaFlubbalot
I've also considered that it would be fun to have the power to snap my fingers and change all brand names to a new name of my choice. For example, I might change the Chevrolet brand to the Melish brand. If I were to change both the brand and the model, I could transform the mighty Chevrolet Corvette into the Melish GaSqueenk. Or, I could rebrand Nissan into Blup. And I might change the 350Z model into the L½. So, how very cool would it be to drive up to the party in your brand new Blup L½? Not very.
If would be different, of course, if I were to successfully open Geezer (I wrote about it yesterday). Then, it would be über-cool to drive up in the Melish GaSqueenk or Blup L½; doubly so if they were older models with faded paint, bumper stickers sporting peace messages, and words of wisdom from the likes of Hunter S. Thompson and Allen Ginsberg.
Chevrolet Slut
Ford Fool
Dodge Dolt
Buick Bastard
Nissan Nazi
Toyota Tramp
Porche Potato
Kia KaFlubbalot
I've also considered that it would be fun to have the power to snap my fingers and change all brand names to a new name of my choice. For example, I might change the Chevrolet brand to the Melish brand. If I were to change both the brand and the model, I could transform the mighty Chevrolet Corvette into the Melish GaSqueenk. Or, I could rebrand Nissan into Blup. And I might change the 350Z model into the L½. So, how very cool would it be to drive up to the party in your brand new Blup L½? Not very.
If would be different, of course, if I were to successfully open Geezer (I wrote about it yesterday). Then, it would be über-cool to drive up in the Melish GaSqueenk or Blup L½; doubly so if they were older models with faded paint, bumper stickers sporting peace messages, and words of wisdom from the likes of Hunter S. Thompson and Allen Ginsberg.
Folk Music, Coffee, Wine, and Poetry
Today's message is short...too much going on today. Started the day at a quarter after five in the morning, got home about 7:00 pm.
So...back to the subject at hand. I listened for hours last night to a folk music radio station that's only available over the Internet (folkalley.com). By the time I finished listening, I'd decided I want to move to Kent, Ohio and open a bar/coffee house/poetry hangout. I'll call it Geezer: Proof of Adequate Age & Eccentricity Required for Admittance. If I don't open it in Kent, Ohio, I want to open it someplace. Am I regressing to a time before I was aware?
So...back to the subject at hand. I listened for hours last night to a folk music radio station that's only available over the Internet (folkalley.com). By the time I finished listening, I'd decided I want to move to Kent, Ohio and open a bar/coffee house/poetry hangout. I'll call it Geezer: Proof of Adequate Age & Eccentricity Required for Admittance. If I don't open it in Kent, Ohio, I want to open it someplace. Am I regressing to a time before I was aware?
Thursday, October 6, 2005
A Different Perspective
Lately, I've been concerned about my business...I seem to be spending way too much time getting far too little done. My staff are very busy, I'm very busy, but we're not getting enough done. More than that, we're not getting more business. I don't have time to market. I don't have time to participate in networking groups, give speeches, think about marketing strategies. I've allowed things to take control of me. I'm not running the business...I'm scrambling to serve clients and ignoring the business.
So, I decided I needed someone else to help me get a vision of where the company is, where it should be headed, and perhaps how to get it there. I have a strong sense that we could have much more business, be making more money, and be accomplishing more, but...how. Well, I have invited a group of people to spend the day with me early in November to give me their perspectives. I'm looking to them to be blunt and to offer a no-holds-barred assessment of what I'm doing right, what I'm doing wrong, and what I should consider changing.
The people I've invited are a varied lot: a highly successful executive who runs a multi-million dollar service business; a Ph.D. who used to work for me, but isn't in to having his own business...but is doing independent contract work now; a couple of people who run fairly large and successful associations; an attorney who knows a bit about association work; a couple of entrepreneurs who used to be corporate types in an engineering environment, but now run a very succesful franchise business, and a scattering of others. I'd like more people from different perspectives, but I find I don't have a particularly diverse circle of acquaintenances.
I need someone with fresh eyes to look at what I do, what I could do...and offer suggestions. I want to either grow the business dramatically, or I want to sell it and do something completely different. The status quo is absolutely not an option. Maybe this experience will get me pumped up...or maybe it will convince me I'm not built for this business. In any event, I need to get shook up and I need to take action.
So, I decided I needed someone else to help me get a vision of where the company is, where it should be headed, and perhaps how to get it there. I have a strong sense that we could have much more business, be making more money, and be accomplishing more, but...how. Well, I have invited a group of people to spend the day with me early in November to give me their perspectives. I'm looking to them to be blunt and to offer a no-holds-barred assessment of what I'm doing right, what I'm doing wrong, and what I should consider changing.
The people I've invited are a varied lot: a highly successful executive who runs a multi-million dollar service business; a Ph.D. who used to work for me, but isn't in to having his own business...but is doing independent contract work now; a couple of people who run fairly large and successful associations; an attorney who knows a bit about association work; a couple of entrepreneurs who used to be corporate types in an engineering environment, but now run a very succesful franchise business, and a scattering of others. I'd like more people from different perspectives, but I find I don't have a particularly diverse circle of acquaintenances.
I need someone with fresh eyes to look at what I do, what I could do...and offer suggestions. I want to either grow the business dramatically, or I want to sell it and do something completely different. The status quo is absolutely not an option. Maybe this experience will get me pumped up...or maybe it will convince me I'm not built for this business. In any event, I need to get shook up and I need to take action.
Wednesday, October 5, 2005
Blog Searching
I learned today about two search engines that focus on blog searches. One is beta test that is being conducted by Google (http://blogsearch.google.com/) and the other is Clusty's Blog Search (http://blogs.clusty.com/). I've only done a bit of checking on both of them, looking for "due process," the title of my blog yesterday.
Google listed my blog from yesterday as the third item on its list; Clusty did not list my blog in the first five pages of results; I did not bother to look further.
I did a search on the title and a phrase from my September 30 diatribe and it was unable to find anything.
Just found this stuff interesting...you may, as well.
Google listed my blog from yesterday as the third item on its list; Clusty did not list my blog in the first five pages of results; I did not bother to look further.
I did a search on the title and a phrase from my September 30 diatribe and it was unable to find anything.
Just found this stuff interesting...you may, as well.
Tuesday, October 4, 2005
Due Process
Some people argue that the liberal-leaning-left is using due process as a political tool. Those who think due process is being abused seem to believe that--by calling our attention to the fact that the current administration is holding U.S. citizens without charge, without trial, and without access to legal counsel--we are making an unpatriotic attack on the United States. They point to attempts to give Jose Padilla, the accused Al Queda sympathizer, access to due process; they say efforts to grant Padilla due process under the Constitution are purely political, motivated not by true concern about due process but, instead, out of concern for political gain.
Perhaps so. It depends on how one defines politics and how one defines inalienable rights.
If Padilla is, indeed, an Al Queda sympathizer and if, indeed, he intends to cause physical harm to the United States and its citizens, then he should be restrained and detained. The thing is, no one knows whether Padilla is guilty of a crime. Padilla has not had the opportunity to argue his innocence. True, he's a U.S. citizen. True, U.S. citizens are protected against unreasonable search and seizure.
But this is different. This is an attack on the homeland. Due process was never intended to apply to such situations.
It's not different. Whether an attack on the homeland or an attack on the President's wife, the person accused of the attack is guaranteed due process. Due process does apply to such situations; at least, it should.
The reason we are so protective of due process is that people and governments are fallible. Individuals and governments make mistakes. Sometimes, they lie. The government cannot be trusted with unchecked absolute power over our lives and our liberties; that is why the framers of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, in their extraordinary foresight, provided the citizens of this country with protections...such as due process.
Admittedly, it's scary to consider the possibility that a terrorist could be freed, thanks to due process, and could then launch an attack on American soil. It's frightening to think that our system of government would ever let such a person free to attack us.
It's more frightening to me, though, to think that our system of government would be compromised to such an extent as to eradicate a key component of freedom that might protect us in the short term, but could destroy us in the long term.
If the President is permitted to call Jose Padilla, a U.S. citizen, an enemy combatant who is not eligible for the protections of due process, what is to stop the President from claiming his political opponent is an enemy combatant? What is to stop the President from claiming I am an enemy combatant simply because I am writing to protest the treatment of the "enemy?"
Excuse me, there's someone at the door...oh, well, I'll finish this piece if they release me from the U.S. Naval brig...
Perhaps so. It depends on how one defines politics and how one defines inalienable rights.
If Padilla is, indeed, an Al Queda sympathizer and if, indeed, he intends to cause physical harm to the United States and its citizens, then he should be restrained and detained. The thing is, no one knows whether Padilla is guilty of a crime. Padilla has not had the opportunity to argue his innocence. True, he's a U.S. citizen. True, U.S. citizens are protected against unreasonable search and seizure.
But this is different. This is an attack on the homeland. Due process was never intended to apply to such situations.
It's not different. Whether an attack on the homeland or an attack on the President's wife, the person accused of the attack is guaranteed due process. Due process does apply to such situations; at least, it should.
The reason we are so protective of due process is that people and governments are fallible. Individuals and governments make mistakes. Sometimes, they lie. The government cannot be trusted with unchecked absolute power over our lives and our liberties; that is why the framers of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, in their extraordinary foresight, provided the citizens of this country with protections...such as due process.
Admittedly, it's scary to consider the possibility that a terrorist could be freed, thanks to due process, and could then launch an attack on American soil. It's frightening to think that our system of government would ever let such a person free to attack us.
It's more frightening to me, though, to think that our system of government would be compromised to such an extent as to eradicate a key component of freedom that might protect us in the short term, but could destroy us in the long term.
If the President is permitted to call Jose Padilla, a U.S. citizen, an enemy combatant who is not eligible for the protections of due process, what is to stop the President from claiming his political opponent is an enemy combatant? What is to stop the President from claiming I am an enemy combatant simply because I am writing to protest the treatment of the "enemy?"
Excuse me, there's someone at the door...oh, well, I'll finish this piece if they release me from the U.S. Naval brig...
Monday, October 3, 2005
Ideas for Geezer-Based Income
I am a believe in trying to take advantage of opportunities by filling emerging needs...not that I've ever had the resources to actually invest the necessary capital to do so. However, if I ever find myself in a position of having resources to address some of these needs, I think it's a safe bet I could recover my investment and make a handsome profit. Don't you agree?
I'm interested in getting more feedback...more ideas. Where can we invest to maximize the likelihood of good return, while simultaneously looking out after the interests of geezers, would-be geezers, etc.?
- Help aging people maintain their independence in their multi-story homes by installing personal elevators in existing homes...it's being done.
- Sell magnifiers, etc. for books, forms, websites, etc. for people whose eyesight is weakening.
- Create localized database of services of particular interest to older people, e.g., lawncare, house-sitting, handy-man service, errand service, general support organizations, etc.
- Publish Consumer Reports type assessments of investment companies, annuities, retirement communities, nursing homes, assisted living facilities, etc.
I'm interested in getting more feedback...more ideas. Where can we invest to maximize the likelihood of good return, while simultaneously looking out after the interests of geezers, would-be geezers, etc.?
Sunday, October 2, 2005
Ninety Years Old
Yesterday, October 1, was my mother-in-law's 90th birthday. My wife and her sister flew out to the west coast to see her and to celebrate the occasion. Unfortunately, my wife reported that her mother was only vaguely aware that anyone was visiting her. She was certainly not celebrating.
Two or three years ago, my mother-in-law suffered a stroke and she has been only semi-coherent since then. It's hard to see a person just occupying space, her mind almost completely vacant.
If I ever reach a stage at which I am not conscious of the people around me, my surroundings, or the world at large, I hope to be able to quickly slip away. I would not want to simply exist, even if my existence is not painful in the traditional sense; simply existing, to me, would be painful enough.
Two or three years ago, my mother-in-law suffered a stroke and she has been only semi-coherent since then. It's hard to see a person just occupying space, her mind almost completely vacant.
If I ever reach a stage at which I am not conscious of the people around me, my surroundings, or the world at large, I hope to be able to quickly slip away. I would not want to simply exist, even if my existence is not painful in the traditional sense; simply existing, to me, would be painful enough.
Saturday, October 1, 2005
What Are Moral Values?
One of my favorite sisters-in-law sent this to me. It's an excellent rebuttal to the Bush administration's claim that its extermination of civil liberties is based on its basic "moral values."
What Are Moral Values?
by Rev. Dr. Robin Meyers
Mayflower Church, Oklahoma City
As some of you know, I am minister of Mayflower Congregational Church
in Oklahoma City, a church in northwest Oklahoma City, and professor of
Rhetoric at Oklahoma City University. But you would most likely have
encountered me on the pages of the Oklahoma Gazette, where I have been
a columnist for six years, and hold the record for the most number of
angry letters to the editor.
Tonight, I join ranks of those who are angry, because I have watched
as the faith I love has been taken over by those who claim to speak for
Jesus, but whose actions are anything but Christian.
We've heard a lot lately about so-called "moral values" as having
swung the election to President Bush. Well, I'm a great believer in
moral values, but we need to have a discussion, all over this country,
about exactly what constitutes a moral value -- I mean what are we
talking about? Because we don't get to make them up as we go along,
especially not if we are people of faith. We have an inherited
tradition of what is right and wrong, and moral is as moral does. Let
me give you just a few of the reasons why I take issue with those in
power who claim moral values are on their side:
When you start a war on false pretenses, and then act as if your
deceptions are justified because you are doing God's will, and that
your critics are either unpatriotic or lacking in faith, there are some
of us who have given our lives to teaching and preaching the faith who
believe that this is not only not moral, but immoral.
When you live in a country that has established international rules for
waging a just war, build the United Nations on your own soil to
enforce them, and then arrogantly break the very rules you set down for
the rest of the world, you are doing something immoral.
When you claim that Jesus is the Lord of your life, and yet fail to
acknowledge that your policies ignore his essential teaching, or turn
them on their head (you know, Sermon on the Mount, stuff like we
must never return violence for violence and those who live by the
sword will die by the sword), you are doing something immoral.
When you act as if the lives of Iraqi civilians are not as important as
the lives of American soldiers, and refuse to even count them, you are
doing something immoral.
When you find a way to avoid combat in Vietnam, and then question the
patriotism of someone who volunteered to fight, and came home a hero,
you are doing something immoral.
When you ignore the fundamental teachings of the gospel, which says
that the way the strong treat the weak is the ultimate ethical test,
by giving tax breaks to the wealthiest among us so the strong will get
stronger and the weak will get weaker, you are doing something
immoral.
When you wink at the torture of prisoners, and deprive so-called "enemy
combatants" of the rules of the Geneva Conventions, which your own
country helped to establish and insists that other countries follow,
you are doing something immoral.
When you claim that the world can be divided up into the good guys and
the evil doers, slice up your own nation into those who are with you,
or with the terrorists -- and then launch a war which enriches your own
friends and seizes control of the oil to which we are addicted, instead
of helping us to kick the habit, you are doing something immoral.
When you fail to veto a single spending bill, but ask us to pay for a
war with no exit strategy and no end in sight, creating an enormous
deficit that hangs like a great m illstone around the necks of our
children, you are doing something immoral.
When you cause most of the rest of the world to hate a country that was
once the most loved country in the world, and act like it doesn't
matter what others think of us, only what God thinks of you, you have
done something immoral.
When you use hatred of homosexuals as a wedge issue to turn out record
numbers of evangelical voters, and use the Constitution as a tool of
discrimination, you are doing something immoral.
When you favor the death penalty, and yet claim to be a follower of
Jesus, who said an eye for an eye was the old way, not the way of the
kingdom, you are doing something immoral.
When you dismantle countless environmental laws designed to protect
the earth which is God's gift to us all, so that the corporations that
bought you and paid for your favors will make higher profits while our
children breathe dirty air and live in a toxic world, you have done
something immoral. The Earth belongs to the Lord, not Halliburton.
When you claim that our God is bigger than their God, and that our
killing is righteous, while theirs is evil, we have begun to resemble
the enemy we claim to be fighting, and that is immoral. We have met the
enemy, and the enemy is us.
When you tell people that you intend to run and govern as a
"compassionate conservative," using the word which is the essence of
all religious faith -- compassion, and then show no compassion for
anyone who disagrees with you, and no patience with those who cry to
you for help, you are doing something immoral.
When you talk about Jesus constantly, who was a healer of the sick, but
do not hing to make sure that anyone who is sick can go to see a
doctor, even if she doesn't have a penny in her pocket, you are doing
something immoral.
When you put judges on the bench who are racist, and will set women
back a hundred years, and when you surround yourself with preachers
who say gays ought to be killed, you are doing something immoral.
I'm tired of people thinking that because I'm a Christian, I must be a
supporter of President Bush, or that because I favor civil rights and
gay rights I must not be a person of faith.
I'm tired of people saying that I can't support the troops but
oppose the war.
I heard that when I was your age, when the Vietnam war was raging. We
knew that that war was wrong, and you know that this war is wrong --
the only question is how many people are going to die before these
make-believe Christians are removed from power?
This country is bankrupt. The war is morally bankrupt. The claim of
this
administration to be Christian is bankrupt. And the only people who
can turn things around are people like you--young people who are just
beginning to wake up to what is happening to them.It's your country to
take back. It's your faith to take back. It's your future to take
back.
Don't be afraid to speak out. Don't back down when your friends begin
to tell you that the cause is righteous and that the flag should be
wrapped around the cross, while the rest of us keep our mouths shut.
Real Christians take chances for peace. So do real Jews, and real
Muslims, and real Hindus, and real Buddhists--so do all the faith
traditions of the world at their heart believe one thing: life is
precious. Every human being is precious.
Arrogance is the opposite of faith. Greed is the opposite of charity.
And believing that one has never made a mistake is the mark of a
deluded man, not a man of faith. And war -- war is the greatest failure
of the human race -- and thus the grea test failure of faith.
There's an old rock and roll song, whose lyrics say it all: War, what
is it good for? Absolutely nothing! And what is the dream of the
prophets? That we should study war no more, that we should beat our
swords into plowshares and our spears into pruning hooks. Who would
Jesus bomb, indeed?
How many wars does it take to know that too many people have died? What
if they gave a war and nobody came? Maybe one day we will find out.
Time to march again, my friends. Time to commit acts of civil
disobedience, time to sing, and to pray, and refuse to participate in
the madness.
What Are Moral Values?
by Rev. Dr. Robin Meyers
Mayflower Church, Oklahoma City
As some of you know, I am minister of Mayflower Congregational Church
in Oklahoma City, a church in northwest Oklahoma City, and professor of
Rhetoric at Oklahoma City University. But you would most likely have
encountered me on the pages of the Oklahoma Gazette, where I have been
a columnist for six years, and hold the record for the most number of
angry letters to the editor.
Tonight, I join ranks of those who are angry, because I have watched
as the faith I love has been taken over by those who claim to speak for
Jesus, but whose actions are anything but Christian.
We've heard a lot lately about so-called "moral values" as having
swung the election to President Bush. Well, I'm a great believer in
moral values, but we need to have a discussion, all over this country,
about exactly what constitutes a moral value -- I mean what are we
talking about? Because we don't get to make them up as we go along,
especially not if we are people of faith. We have an inherited
tradition of what is right and wrong, and moral is as moral does. Let
me give you just a few of the reasons why I take issue with those in
power who claim moral values are on their side:
When you start a war on false pretenses, and then act as if your
deceptions are justified because you are doing God's will, and that
your critics are either unpatriotic or lacking in faith, there are some
of us who have given our lives to teaching and preaching the faith who
believe that this is not only not moral, but immoral.
When you live in a country that has established international rules for
waging a just war, build the United Nations on your own soil to
enforce them, and then arrogantly break the very rules you set down for
the rest of the world, you are doing something immoral.
When you claim that Jesus is the Lord of your life, and yet fail to
acknowledge that your policies ignore his essential teaching, or turn
them on their head (you know, Sermon on the Mount, stuff like we
must never return violence for violence and those who live by the
sword will die by the sword), you are doing something immoral.
When you act as if the lives of Iraqi civilians are not as important as
the lives of American soldiers, and refuse to even count them, you are
doing something immoral.
When you find a way to avoid combat in Vietnam, and then question the
patriotism of someone who volunteered to fight, and came home a hero,
you are doing something immoral.
When you ignore the fundamental teachings of the gospel, which says
that the way the strong treat the weak is the ultimate ethical test,
by giving tax breaks to the wealthiest among us so the strong will get
stronger and the weak will get weaker, you are doing something
immoral.
When you wink at the torture of prisoners, and deprive so-called "enemy
combatants" of the rules of the Geneva Conventions, which your own
country helped to establish and insists that other countries follow,
you are doing something immoral.
When you claim that the world can be divided up into the good guys and
the evil doers, slice up your own nation into those who are with you,
or with the terrorists -- and then launch a war which enriches your own
friends and seizes control of the oil to which we are addicted, instead
of helping us to kick the habit, you are doing something immoral.
When you fail to veto a single spending bill, but ask us to pay for a
war with no exit strategy and no end in sight, creating an enormous
deficit that hangs like a great m illstone around the necks of our
children, you are doing something immoral.
When you cause most of the rest of the world to hate a country that was
once the most loved country in the world, and act like it doesn't
matter what others think of us, only what God thinks of you, you have
done something immoral.
When you use hatred of homosexuals as a wedge issue to turn out record
numbers of evangelical voters, and use the Constitution as a tool of
discrimination, you are doing something immoral.
When you favor the death penalty, and yet claim to be a follower of
Jesus, who said an eye for an eye was the old way, not the way of the
kingdom, you are doing something immoral.
When you dismantle countless environmental laws designed to protect
the earth which is God's gift to us all, so that the corporations that
bought you and paid for your favors will make higher profits while our
children breathe dirty air and live in a toxic world, you have done
something immoral. The Earth belongs to the Lord, not Halliburton.
When you claim that our God is bigger than their God, and that our
killing is righteous, while theirs is evil, we have begun to resemble
the enemy we claim to be fighting, and that is immoral. We have met the
enemy, and the enemy is us.
When you tell people that you intend to run and govern as a
"compassionate conservative," using the word which is the essence of
all religious faith -- compassion, and then show no compassion for
anyone who disagrees with you, and no patience with those who cry to
you for help, you are doing something immoral.
When you talk about Jesus constantly, who was a healer of the sick, but
do not hing to make sure that anyone who is sick can go to see a
doctor, even if she doesn't have a penny in her pocket, you are doing
something immoral.
When you put judges on the bench who are racist, and will set women
back a hundred years, and when you surround yourself with preachers
who say gays ought to be killed, you are doing something immoral.
I'm tired of people thinking that because I'm a Christian, I must be a
supporter of President Bush, or that because I favor civil rights and
gay rights I must not be a person of faith.
I'm tired of people saying that I can't support the troops but
oppose the war.
I heard that when I was your age, when the Vietnam war was raging. We
knew that that war was wrong, and you know that this war is wrong --
the only question is how many people are going to die before these
make-believe Christians are removed from power?
This country is bankrupt. The war is morally bankrupt. The claim of
this
administration to be Christian is bankrupt. And the only people who
can turn things around are people like you--young people who are just
beginning to wake up to what is happening to them.It's your country to
take back. It's your faith to take back. It's your future to take
back.
Don't be afraid to speak out. Don't back down when your friends begin
to tell you that the cause is righteous and that the flag should be
wrapped around the cross, while the rest of us keep our mouths shut.
Real Christians take chances for peace. So do real Jews, and real
Muslims, and real Hindus, and real Buddhists--so do all the faith
traditions of the world at their heart believe one thing: life is
precious. Every human being is precious.
Arrogance is the opposite of faith. Greed is the opposite of charity.
And believing that one has never made a mistake is the mark of a
deluded man, not a man of faith. And war -- war is the greatest failure
of the human race -- and thus the grea test failure of faith.
There's an old rock and roll song, whose lyrics say it all: War, what
is it good for? Absolutely nothing! And what is the dream of the
prophets? That we should study war no more, that we should beat our
swords into plowshares and our spears into pruning hooks. Who would
Jesus bomb, indeed?
How many wars does it take to know that too many people have died? What
if they gave a war and nobody came? Maybe one day we will find out.
Time to march again, my friends. Time to commit acts of civil
disobedience, time to sing, and to pray, and refuse to participate in
the madness.