Today is the day we celebrate our nation's birthday. We have been part of a noble experiment that, for all its ups and downs, has brought us to unparalleled prosperity. Good things can go bad. If this nation and the principles upon which it was founded are to survive, we have to reach back and remember what it is our forefathers fought for. We have to acknowledge our mistakes and our abuses...correct them and move forward. Otherwise, all of the time since the "real" birthday of this nation will have passed by without any meaning, without any real progress. Watch these videos to see just some of the things we must correct. But be careful...the courts have ruled that the identity of viewers of YouTube.com must be revealed...
Friday, July 4, 2008
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Would You Like to Hear About My Bile Ducts, Too?
I was planning on a carefree holiday weekend. It will probably be pretty laid back, but carefree will be hard.
I mentioned a "bad" thing yesterday, i.e., being told by my cardiologist's office to quickly make an appointment with my family doctor because of alarming lab results that suggested "worsening kidney function." I'd already made an appointment with the family doc for next week for a checkup, so I figured I'd wait until then.
But today my family doctor's office called. He's on vacation, but apparently saw the results that my cardiologist had faxed to him and told his staff to call me to tell me to go right away to see a nephrologist. "I have an appointment to see the doctor next week; can't it wait?" I asked. "No, he wants you to see someone today." The nurse said she'd try to get me an appointment and call me back. She called back. She couldn't get me an appointment until the end of July, so she wanted me to come in to see another doctor at the family medical center, just to check me out..."we wouldn't want anything to happen over a long weekend," she said. She made an appointment for me at 1:00 pm and told me to bring in all medications I'm taking, prescription or not.
So, I went to see the stand-in doctor, a young woman who has seen me before when I've needed to get to a doctor while mine has been enjoying the fruits of his enormous wealth. I actually much prefer her. She's direct but pleasant and there's not a hint of accusatory tone coming out of her mouth.
Anyway, the doctor asked me lots of questions and advised me that one of the drugs I'm taking (an over-the-counter anti-inflammatory for arthritis) could cause problems so I should stop it. From there, I gave them a gift of a little urine and more blood and was given a plastic container the size of a tanker truck in which I was advised to collect all my urine output for 24 hours and bring it in for a huge party at the doctor's office on Saturday. OK, the party thing is stretching it. But, my god, I'd have to drink a couple of cases of see-through lager to be able to even partially fill the tanker truck.
The blood test and urinalysis should tell them something, she said, but she wants me to have a renal sonograph done...that, too, will have to wait until the end of the month.
While she didn't make light of the lab tests and said, indeed, that they could be signs of some very serious stuff, she calmed my nerves by allowing that the elevated urea level could have been caused by my "fasting" before my lab tests. The elevated creatinine, on the other hand, was of more concern. I, of course, don't have a fucking clue what either of them mean, except that they make me nervous.
God, I've done it. I've written an entire blog post about health issues. Shit, I'm getting old. Very, very old. And, at 54, I'm way too young for that.
I just want to be a curmudgeonly geezer. I do not want to be an old curmudgeonly geezer!
P.S. My old insurance shut down 6/30/08. My new insurance, after I select it and fill out the forms, will commence 7/1/08. In the meantime, everything goes on the credit card for reimbursement. Let's all hear it for "universal health care!"
I mentioned a "bad" thing yesterday, i.e., being told by my cardiologist's office to quickly make an appointment with my family doctor because of alarming lab results that suggested "worsening kidney function." I'd already made an appointment with the family doc for next week for a checkup, so I figured I'd wait until then.
But today my family doctor's office called. He's on vacation, but apparently saw the results that my cardiologist had faxed to him and told his staff to call me to tell me to go right away to see a nephrologist. "I have an appointment to see the doctor next week; can't it wait?" I asked. "No, he wants you to see someone today." The nurse said she'd try to get me an appointment and call me back. She called back. She couldn't get me an appointment until the end of July, so she wanted me to come in to see another doctor at the family medical center, just to check me out..."we wouldn't want anything to happen over a long weekend," she said. She made an appointment for me at 1:00 pm and told me to bring in all medications I'm taking, prescription or not.
So, I went to see the stand-in doctor, a young woman who has seen me before when I've needed to get to a doctor while mine has been enjoying the fruits of his enormous wealth. I actually much prefer her. She's direct but pleasant and there's not a hint of accusatory tone coming out of her mouth.
Anyway, the doctor asked me lots of questions and advised me that one of the drugs I'm taking (an over-the-counter anti-inflammatory for arthritis) could cause problems so I should stop it. From there, I gave them a gift of a little urine and more blood and was given a plastic container the size of a tanker truck in which I was advised to collect all my urine output for 24 hours and bring it in for a huge party at the doctor's office on Saturday. OK, the party thing is stretching it. But, my god, I'd have to drink a couple of cases of see-through lager to be able to even partially fill the tanker truck.
The blood test and urinalysis should tell them something, she said, but she wants me to have a renal sonograph done...that, too, will have to wait until the end of the month.
While she didn't make light of the lab tests and said, indeed, that they could be signs of some very serious stuff, she calmed my nerves by allowing that the elevated urea level could have been caused by my "fasting" before my lab tests. The elevated creatinine, on the other hand, was of more concern. I, of course, don't have a fucking clue what either of them mean, except that they make me nervous.
God, I've done it. I've written an entire blog post about health issues. Shit, I'm getting old. Very, very old. And, at 54, I'm way too young for that.
I just want to be a curmudgeonly geezer. I do not want to be an old curmudgeonly geezer!
P.S. My old insurance shut down 6/30/08. My new insurance, after I select it and fill out the forms, will commence 7/1/08. In the meantime, everything goes on the credit card for reimbursement. Let's all hear it for "universal health care!"
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Good and Bad
Good: I have a fully-executed copy of our lease for our new office space in hand.
Good: We picked out carpet and paint colors today for the new space.
Bad: It's going to cost $310 for the door sign and building directory signs for our clients.
Bad: I'm not sure I can count on a Voice Over Internet Protocol (VOIP) phone system to meet our needs, for various reasons.
Good: My wife and I had Thai food for lunch.
Bad: My cardiologist's office called, urging me to make an immediate appointment with my family doctor due to the fact that my recent lab work revealed "worsening renal function" that commands my family doctor's immediate attention. No other explanation.
Good: Tomorrow (July 3) is a "Friday-equivalent," so we'll all dress casually at the office.
Good: I have two proposals I have to finish ASAP for what could be very good business contracts...but no assurances.
Good: We picked out carpet and paint colors today for the new space.
Bad: It's going to cost $310 for the door sign and building directory signs for our clients.
Bad: I'm not sure I can count on a Voice Over Internet Protocol (VOIP) phone system to meet our needs, for various reasons.
Good: My wife and I had Thai food for lunch.
Bad: My cardiologist's office called, urging me to make an immediate appointment with my family doctor due to the fact that my recent lab work revealed "worsening renal function" that commands my family doctor's immediate attention. No other explanation.
Good: Tomorrow (July 3) is a "Friday-equivalent," so we'll all dress casually at the office.
Good: I have two proposals I have to finish ASAP for what could be very good business contracts...but no assurances.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Something There Is That Doesn't Love a Wall, That Wants it Down...
On rare occasion I am confronted with something so upsetting that I cannot find it in me to write about it, at least not for awhile. So it was Sunday.
During a meeting with some neighbors about how to deal with "the wall" (a sculptured concrete wall around parts of our neighborhood...a wall that is about to fall down), I learned of a death in the neighborhood.
A woman in her late 50s inherited her mother's home about 2 blocks from me a year or two ago. I did not know her mother, nor did I know her. Both were described to me by my visiting neighbors as "reclusive."
Within the past two weeks, one of the neighbors who lived next door to the reclusive neighbor complained to the president of the homeowners' association (HOA) that the yard had been neglected and mail hadn't been picked up and flyers were left unattended at the door. A notice from the Post Office, from December, was an alert to the recipient that no more mail would be delivered until the mail box was emptied and the peron came to call at the Post Office. The notice was dated from December, just before Christmas. The HOA president asked if the neighbors had tried to call or knock on the door to see if anyone was home. "No." Have you called the police, since the neighbor might be ill or hurt? "No."
To make a long story short, the complaining neighbor finally called the police and insisted they take a close look to see whether anyone was there. They found the woman dead in her car, in the garage, along with a suicide note, dated in late November. She had been dead for about seven months.
I know nothing about the dead woman other than what I've been told. I find it heartbreaking that the poor woman was so alone that no one cared enough to try to find her after she went missing in November. I don't know whether she worked, but I'd have to assume not. I don't know whether she knew any of her neighbors, but I have to assume not. She must have been completely and uttlerly alone. No one knew her well enough to even notice that she was not around. It was her yard and her mailbox and the commercial flyers that caught someone's attention, not the woman's absence.
How can we not miss someone's presence, even someone who may have been a recluse? How could her next-door neighbors not notice long ago that something was out of place? I wonder if I had lived next door whether I would have cared enough to try to find out if something was wrong.
I suppose what upset me as much as anything was the fact that the people who told me about this seemed so unmoved by it. The telling was a juicy bit of gossip, not a tale of tragedy. I felt myself physically withdraw from the other four people in the room when the story was told and I saw their reactions; not horror or terror or sadness, but distaste and excitement. That made me feel a little closer to the lady I never met who decided to end her life, perhaps because she was so alone in this world. I don't know what the suicide note said, but I can't help but think that isolation may have played a role in a terrible, irreversible decision.
During a meeting with some neighbors about how to deal with "the wall" (a sculptured concrete wall around parts of our neighborhood...a wall that is about to fall down), I learned of a death in the neighborhood.
A woman in her late 50s inherited her mother's home about 2 blocks from me a year or two ago. I did not know her mother, nor did I know her. Both were described to me by my visiting neighbors as "reclusive."
Within the past two weeks, one of the neighbors who lived next door to the reclusive neighbor complained to the president of the homeowners' association (HOA) that the yard had been neglected and mail hadn't been picked up and flyers were left unattended at the door. A notice from the Post Office, from December, was an alert to the recipient that no more mail would be delivered until the mail box was emptied and the peron came to call at the Post Office. The notice was dated from December, just before Christmas. The HOA president asked if the neighbors had tried to call or knock on the door to see if anyone was home. "No." Have you called the police, since the neighbor might be ill or hurt? "No."
To make a long story short, the complaining neighbor finally called the police and insisted they take a close look to see whether anyone was there. They found the woman dead in her car, in the garage, along with a suicide note, dated in late November. She had been dead for about seven months.
I know nothing about the dead woman other than what I've been told. I find it heartbreaking that the poor woman was so alone that no one cared enough to try to find her after she went missing in November. I don't know whether she worked, but I'd have to assume not. I don't know whether she knew any of her neighbors, but I have to assume not. She must have been completely and uttlerly alone. No one knew her well enough to even notice that she was not around. It was her yard and her mailbox and the commercial flyers that caught someone's attention, not the woman's absence.
How can we not miss someone's presence, even someone who may have been a recluse? How could her next-door neighbors not notice long ago that something was out of place? I wonder if I had lived next door whether I would have cared enough to try to find out if something was wrong.
I suppose what upset me as much as anything was the fact that the people who told me about this seemed so unmoved by it. The telling was a juicy bit of gossip, not a tale of tragedy. I felt myself physically withdraw from the other four people in the room when the story was told and I saw their reactions; not horror or terror or sadness, but distaste and excitement. That made me feel a little closer to the lady I never met who decided to end her life, perhaps because she was so alone in this world. I don't know what the suicide note said, but I can't help but think that isolation may have played a role in a terrible, irreversible decision.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Somebody Likes Me...or They Want to Sell Me Something
I was curious to see where a visitor to my blog came from, so I clicked on the link that brought someone here today. Below is where that link led me. I'm a skeptic, so I assume the "editor" who "rated" my blog wants to sell me something. Of course, if I'm proven wrong, I will blush and gingerly retract my skepticism.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Birthday Blast
Yesterday was my wife's birthday. I took her to a restaurant that we've never been to and, until recently, I'd not even read about, but which turned out to be an inspired choice. How I missed all the hullaballoo about Bijoux is beyond me.
I'm just glad we went. And I'm even happier that, upon learning where we were going, my wife had the presence of mind to pull out the $100 American Express gift card that had been moldering in a drawer so the sticker shock on my credit card was only half of what it could have been. It's pricey...well beyond my price comfort zone. We did not hold back, but we easily could have gone far beyond what we spent. Good grief, to think there are people who frequent these sorts of places on a regular basis! Here are our respective prixe fix menus:
My Wife's Meal
Appetizer of fresh crab on a tiny, crip shred of potato with cucumber shavings
Crispy Pork Belly, with fava bean "succotash," corn, and tomatoes
Tilefish (not quite sure how it was prepared, but it was good)
Long Island Duck Breast with foie gras fried rice, snap peas, spicy Asian jus
Combe cheese
My Meal
Appetizer of fresh crab on a tiny, crip shred of potato with cucumber shavings
East Coast Oysters, ponzu, tomato, black pepper mignonette
Scallops with pork cheek ravioli, tomato fondue, frisee
Maytag cheese, with potato bellini with corn, pancetta crisp, and caramelized red onion
There was more, of course. The obligatory "palate cleansers" between courses, the special "goodies" from the pastry chef, a half-bottle of 2006 Duckhorn sauvignon blanc.
Despite the snotty menu, the place was very comfortable and the staff were extraordinary. There was none of the snobbery that I associate with the typical "upscale" restaurant (which is one reason I like to avoid "upscale" restaurants). It was obvious that the young owners truly care about fine food and they avoid pretentions (except, I must say, in the descriptions of the food, which I found more than a bit pretentious...but that may be because of living a relatively sheltered life).
The most important part about the entire evening was that my wife really liked the place and felt that it was a special celebration for her birthday. She likes high-end restaurants much more than I do, I think, and she knows how I feel about most of them, so she appreciated that I sought the place out and made the reservations in spite of my normal misgivings. And, of course, I was blown away by the food and want to go back.
But, on my birthday, I want to go someplace I can wear shorts. Or, at least, jeans.
I'm just glad we went. And I'm even happier that, upon learning where we were going, my wife had the presence of mind to pull out the $100 American Express gift card that had been moldering in a drawer so the sticker shock on my credit card was only half of what it could have been. It's pricey...well beyond my price comfort zone. We did not hold back, but we easily could have gone far beyond what we spent. Good grief, to think there are people who frequent these sorts of places on a regular basis! Here are our respective prixe fix menus:
My Wife's Meal
Appetizer of fresh crab on a tiny, crip shred of potato with cucumber shavings
Crispy Pork Belly, with fava bean "succotash," corn, and tomatoes
Tilefish (not quite sure how it was prepared, but it was good)
Long Island Duck Breast with foie gras fried rice, snap peas, spicy Asian jus
Combe cheese
My Meal
Appetizer of fresh crab on a tiny, crip shred of potato with cucumber shavings
East Coast Oysters, ponzu, tomato, black pepper mignonette
Scallops with pork cheek ravioli, tomato fondue, frisee
Maytag cheese, with potato bellini with corn, pancetta crisp, and caramelized red onion
There was more, of course. The obligatory "palate cleansers" between courses, the special "goodies" from the pastry chef, a half-bottle of 2006 Duckhorn sauvignon blanc.
Despite the snotty menu, the place was very comfortable and the staff were extraordinary. There was none of the snobbery that I associate with the typical "upscale" restaurant (which is one reason I like to avoid "upscale" restaurants). It was obvious that the young owners truly care about fine food and they avoid pretentions (except, I must say, in the descriptions of the food, which I found more than a bit pretentious...but that may be because of living a relatively sheltered life).
The most important part about the entire evening was that my wife really liked the place and felt that it was a special celebration for her birthday. She likes high-end restaurants much more than I do, I think, and she knows how I feel about most of them, so she appreciated that I sought the place out and made the reservations in spite of my normal misgivings. And, of course, I was blown away by the food and want to go back.
But, on my birthday, I want to go someplace I can wear shorts. Or, at least, jeans.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
The Story of Steve
Please do not be alarmed. The following is a departure from my "normal" post (if there is any such thing). I just happened to be in the mood to fabricate a new reality and this is what came out.
All About Steve
I once had a friend, Steve, who developed a wonderful talent late in life. He learned to communicate with ants.
Steve would come by the house every so often and regale us with stories about his conversations with ants. He once explained to us why ants so often seem like they’re in a massively-confused state of methamphetamine-induced frenzy as they zig-zag from one place to the next, retrace their steps, almost crash into other ants, and then take off like rockets, just to do it all over again. I don’t remember that explanation, but it seemed perfectly rational to me.
Steve’s cross-species linguistic talent enabled him to die a rich and very happy man. It was just a few years after he started communicating with ants that he told us that ants mourned the loss of their loved ones just like people do. The difference, of course, is that ants’ facial expressions, tears, and cries of sorrow are almost impossible for us to perceive. So we did not know.
Well, Steve knew. And he decided he would do something to comfort them in their times of grief. He created an ant funeral home.
He took the limp little bodies (or crisp little bodies, as the case may have been) of dead ants, placed them in tiny coffins made of hollowed-out coffee beans, and arranged solemn services at which friends and relatives of the dear-departed ants would speak in hushed tones about how wonderfully well the dead ants treated their friends and families. Because there is really no appropriate place for ant coffins to be buried, they would burn them after the services, sending tiny little whiffs of coffee-scented smoke into the sky, carrying the remains of the little dead ants up into the air to be deposited a few feet or a few miles away, depending on the prevailing winds.
The families and friends of dead ants paid Steve handsomely for his highly dignified funeral services. They did not have money, of course, but they did have what amounted to armies of friends and relatives who could find miniscule little scraps of gold and platinum amongst all the tiny grains of sand and dirt they carried from place to place. They deposited those scraps of precious metal in a seldom-used room in Steve’s house.
In short order, Steve realized that he had hundreds and hundreds of pounds of precious metals in his store-room. As fast as he’d sell it (making quite a lot of money each time), the grateful ants would refill the room again. Steve used his money to build a coffee-bean-hollowing factory, along with a lovely house for himself, and to buy a weekly quart of Partida Elegante Extra Añejo Tequila. He also bought a fabulous river boat he named Felicity, where he entertained untold numbers of eccentric women.
Steve truly adored his ant friends and he grieved along with them when their family members and dear friends died. But he was so happy that he could relieve their pain, if for just a little while, that he devoted his attention to keeping the funeral pyres burning.
When Steve died just after his 97th birthday, his ant friends returned his devotion by fashioning a gigantic (in their eyes) coffin of whole, French-roaste coffee beans. After an extraordinary procession, during which billions of ants passed solemnly by his coffin, his best ant friends worked hard to hollow out a large number coffee beans, fill each of them with Partida Elegante Extra Añejo Tequila, drag them one by one to Steve’s coffin, and pour it over Steve. Finally, they lit the pyre and Steve’s happily drunken ashes drifted across the sky, dropping bit by bit onto the ground where his beloved ants toiled so tirelessly.
Steve had trained a number of his ant friends to run the coffee-bean-hollowing factory, so when he died his legacy lived on.
This is Steve’s story and he’s sticking to it.
All About Steve
I once had a friend, Steve, who developed a wonderful talent late in life. He learned to communicate with ants.
Steve would come by the house every so often and regale us with stories about his conversations with ants. He once explained to us why ants so often seem like they’re in a massively-confused state of methamphetamine-induced frenzy as they zig-zag from one place to the next, retrace their steps, almost crash into other ants, and then take off like rockets, just to do it all over again. I don’t remember that explanation, but it seemed perfectly rational to me.
Steve’s cross-species linguistic talent enabled him to die a rich and very happy man. It was just a few years after he started communicating with ants that he told us that ants mourned the loss of their loved ones just like people do. The difference, of course, is that ants’ facial expressions, tears, and cries of sorrow are almost impossible for us to perceive. So we did not know.
Well, Steve knew. And he decided he would do something to comfort them in their times of grief. He created an ant funeral home.
He took the limp little bodies (or crisp little bodies, as the case may have been) of dead ants, placed them in tiny coffins made of hollowed-out coffee beans, and arranged solemn services at which friends and relatives of the dear-departed ants would speak in hushed tones about how wonderfully well the dead ants treated their friends and families. Because there is really no appropriate place for ant coffins to be buried, they would burn them after the services, sending tiny little whiffs of coffee-scented smoke into the sky, carrying the remains of the little dead ants up into the air to be deposited a few feet or a few miles away, depending on the prevailing winds.
The families and friends of dead ants paid Steve handsomely for his highly dignified funeral services. They did not have money, of course, but they did have what amounted to armies of friends and relatives who could find miniscule little scraps of gold and platinum amongst all the tiny grains of sand and dirt they carried from place to place. They deposited those scraps of precious metal in a seldom-used room in Steve’s house.
In short order, Steve realized that he had hundreds and hundreds of pounds of precious metals in his store-room. As fast as he’d sell it (making quite a lot of money each time), the grateful ants would refill the room again. Steve used his money to build a coffee-bean-hollowing factory, along with a lovely house for himself, and to buy a weekly quart of Partida Elegante Extra Añejo Tequila. He also bought a fabulous river boat he named Felicity, where he entertained untold numbers of eccentric women.
Steve truly adored his ant friends and he grieved along with them when their family members and dear friends died. But he was so happy that he could relieve their pain, if for just a little while, that he devoted his attention to keeping the funeral pyres burning.
When Steve died just after his 97th birthday, his ant friends returned his devotion by fashioning a gigantic (in their eyes) coffin of whole, French-roaste coffee beans. After an extraordinary procession, during which billions of ants passed solemnly by his coffin, his best ant friends worked hard to hollow out a large number coffee beans, fill each of them with Partida Elegante Extra Añejo Tequila, drag them one by one to Steve’s coffin, and pour it over Steve. Finally, they lit the pyre and Steve’s happily drunken ashes drifted across the sky, dropping bit by bit onto the ground where his beloved ants toiled so tirelessly.
Steve had trained a number of his ant friends to run the coffee-bean-hollowing factory, so when he died his legacy lived on.
This is Steve’s story and he’s sticking to it.