So, yeah, what happened in CT happened and it shook us to the core. Not because we think that's going to happen where we live, but because a child is an innocent. Pure innocence, in a sense.
When I watched tv back in the day and something happened to a child I thought,
Ah, a plot point.
But now, as a parent, when I watch tv and something happens to a child, I get amped up and can feel all my skin.
Nothing better happen to that child!
What happened last Friday was a horror and a senseless tragedy. We can talk about gun control and mental health till we make ourselves crazy and shoot each other in the face; although, it seems a pretty simple first step is to take away the guns.
No guns, no gun violence.
innocence
in a sense
young lives
pure vessels
learning math
reading
playing tag
climbing jungle gyms
walking up slides
drinking milk at lunch
eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
on wheat bread
no crusts
apple slices
young lives
after morning bell
mowed down by bullets
steel shards
ripping through flesh
brains
and
tiny hearts,
tiny hearts stopping
innocence
in a sense
lost
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Flaming Hot Epiphany
Just saw something about some public schools banning Flaming Hot Cheetos because of their nutritional value, or lack thereof...
Hamster wheel turning..
Ok, wait a second...
Almost got it.
Everyone hold on...
Ok.
Did I just figure out the fundamental difference between Democrats and Republicans? I mean besides all the bible science wizard math magic vagina stuff.
The FLOTUS is working with the gov't school lunch program to make lunches better/healthier for kids. She's also working with Mars to STOP making king size candy bars. Perhaps she was in Bloomberg's ear regarding Big Gulp sodas...
...which brings me to...
DEMOCRATS believe we need to be led to filtered and fluoride modified water. Because left to our own devices we'd drink our own urine. REPUBLICANS believe we will build a fire, boil the water to rid it of contaminants, and cool it in the back of our caves - having first used a divining rod to find the water in the first place.
Gov't as provider vs gov't championing personal responsibility, no?
I know it's MUCH more than that, but that's the deep fried nutshell, right? Democrats say gov't should help those who can't help themselves. And the Republicans say gov't should stay out of it. I'm oversimplifying, I know, but this Flaming Hot Cheetos issue has shot a flaming hot light through my skull.
I'm not saying I lean left or right, but as a man who answers the question Are you gonna finish that? with You best mind my rib hand, I appreciate where the FLOTUS is coming from.
Truly.
You'd think I'd be all, Hey, whoa, don't lecture me about triple crust bacon pizzas, chocolate Moon Pies, and bonus size snack bags because I KNOW it's bad for me. I KNOW ALL TOO WELL the vaguely dissatisfied, lethargic, bloated corpse feeling that descends upon me post gorge. But if I want to eat that stuff it's my right as an American. You are not the boss of me. This isn't a fat farm police state. BACK OFF big Gov't!"
But I'm not.
First off, all that crap is readily available at the corner store for purchase, right across from the McDonalds. So no problem. Second off, if I NEED a king size candy bar, I'll do what I did before they existed. I'll buy two. If I need a bonus size bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos - but they're all out, I'll do what everyone else does. I'll buy the next size up, eat it in my car, and throw away the evidence before I get home.
Am I a Democrat or a Republican? I don't know. Don't care. I like to think of myself as an Independent, but I understand that party is no party. I believe sex education should be taught in public schools. I believe contraceptives should be readily/easily available - but not necessarily in a large bin next to shop class. I believe kids shouldn't smoke cigarettes. I believe kids shouldn't drink alcohol. But if you're old enough to vote, I believe you're old enough to smoke and drink. I am unsure about ads for tabacco and alcohol. They're just ads. Just because that ad for the Dodge Challenger is AWESOME doesn't mean I'm going to buy one and race it across an open field during a Revolutionary War reenactment. Same goes with Axe body spray, and who WOULDN'T want to be attractive to hot chicks everywhere? So concerning the new Bicardi 100 proof Slims 100s, the liberal side of me says, let it play. The conservative side says, whoa, shut it down. (Which is probably opposite of how it plays in the real world, no?)
Whether or not this really explains the difference between America's two parties, I like the Democrats. They seem to care about people and their frailties. (I'm sure the Republicans do, too. It's just really hard to tell.) So I am NOT saying that Flaming Hot Cheetos shouldn't be sold to minors. I'm also NOT saying they should be banned in public schools. But I AM saying that I'm totally fine with schools NOT providing those snacks themselves.
You go, FLOTUS!
Although, I should add this: I have a college education, my family is full of doctors, my pants continue to plot against me - yet I wither before a tiny cheese curd. A handful of honey roasted cashews bests me every time. My teen self would have hoarded a locker FULL of Flaming Hot Cheetos just BECAUSE they said I couldn't. So maybe the Republicans have it right...
Hamster wheel turning..
Ok, wait a second...
Almost got it.
Everyone hold on...
Ok.
Did I just figure out the fundamental difference between Democrats and Republicans? I mean besides all the bible science wizard math magic vagina stuff.
The FLOTUS is working with the gov't school lunch program to make lunches better/healthier for kids. She's also working with Mars to STOP making king size candy bars. Perhaps she was in Bloomberg's ear regarding Big Gulp sodas...
...which brings me to...
DEMOCRATS believe we need to be led to filtered and fluoride modified water. Because left to our own devices we'd drink our own urine. REPUBLICANS believe we will build a fire, boil the water to rid it of contaminants, and cool it in the back of our caves - having first used a divining rod to find the water in the first place.
Gov't as provider vs gov't championing personal responsibility, no?
I know it's MUCH more than that, but that's the deep fried nutshell, right? Democrats say gov't should help those who can't help themselves. And the Republicans say gov't should stay out of it. I'm oversimplifying, I know, but this Flaming Hot Cheetos issue has shot a flaming hot light through my skull.
I'm not saying I lean left or right, but as a man who answers the question Are you gonna finish that? with You best mind my rib hand, I appreciate where the FLOTUS is coming from.
Truly.
You'd think I'd be all, Hey, whoa, don't lecture me about triple crust bacon pizzas, chocolate Moon Pies, and bonus size snack bags because I KNOW it's bad for me. I KNOW ALL TOO WELL the vaguely dissatisfied, lethargic, bloated corpse feeling that descends upon me post gorge. But if I want to eat that stuff it's my right as an American. You are not the boss of me. This isn't a fat farm police state. BACK OFF big Gov't!"
But I'm not.
First off, all that crap is readily available at the corner store for purchase, right across from the McDonalds. So no problem. Second off, if I NEED a king size candy bar, I'll do what I did before they existed. I'll buy two. If I need a bonus size bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos - but they're all out, I'll do what everyone else does. I'll buy the next size up, eat it in my car, and throw away the evidence before I get home.
Am I a Democrat or a Republican? I don't know. Don't care. I like to think of myself as an Independent, but I understand that party is no party. I believe sex education should be taught in public schools. I believe contraceptives should be readily/easily available - but not necessarily in a large bin next to shop class. I believe kids shouldn't smoke cigarettes. I believe kids shouldn't drink alcohol. But if you're old enough to vote, I believe you're old enough to smoke and drink. I am unsure about ads for tabacco and alcohol. They're just ads. Just because that ad for the Dodge Challenger is AWESOME doesn't mean I'm going to buy one and race it across an open field during a Revolutionary War reenactment. Same goes with Axe body spray, and who WOULDN'T want to be attractive to hot chicks everywhere? So concerning the new Bicardi 100 proof Slims 100s, the liberal side of me says, let it play. The conservative side says, whoa, shut it down. (Which is probably opposite of how it plays in the real world, no?)
Whether or not this really explains the difference between America's two parties, I like the Democrats. They seem to care about people and their frailties. (I'm sure the Republicans do, too. It's just really hard to tell.) So I am NOT saying that Flaming Hot Cheetos shouldn't be sold to minors. I'm also NOT saying they should be banned in public schools. But I AM saying that I'm totally fine with schools NOT providing those snacks themselves.
You go, FLOTUS!
Although, I should add this: I have a college education, my family is full of doctors, my pants continue to plot against me - yet I wither before a tiny cheese curd. A handful of honey roasted cashews bests me every time. My teen self would have hoarded a locker FULL of Flaming Hot Cheetos just BECAUSE they said I couldn't. So maybe the Republicans have it right...
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Zombie Apocalypse
Last night around 2am an alarm goes off.
Beep beep beep beep...
It's not the clock. It's not my phone. I go out to the hallway. I'm still half asleep.
Beep beep beep beep...
Is it upstairs? Is it downstairs? Could it be the laundry or the dehumidifier? Did we run the dishes?
Beep beep beep beep...
I can't figure out where it's coming from.
Beep beep beep beep...
Is it carbon monoxide? Do I need to get everyone out of the house? Should I get jackets?
Beep beep beep beep...
Where the fuck is that coming from?
I reach for a light switch and turn it off.
Off? What the fuck?
There's no power.
Ah, no power. It must the backup battery. This happened once before. And I know where that damn thing is now. I punch in the code to shut off the alarm and then unplug the backup battery. I feel good about this. Experience has its rewards.
I call 311, report the outage. And I make a plan to go to Home Depot in the morning to get a new battery. No problem.
Beep.
What the fuck is that?
But it's just one beep, and different in tone. I wait and listen for more. Nothing. Ok, it's probably just a residual safety beep. I get back into bed.
Beep.
I listen, wait. It's only the one. Ok, maybe it's just two residual safety beeps.
Beep.
Fuck.
I get my phone and time the beeps. They're a minute apart. It must be a backup to the backup, but I have no idea where that is. Anyway, it's a power outage. Everything is fine. Maybe I can fall asleep between the beeps.
Beep.
Fuck.
I get out of bed and step into the hallway. I stand in the dark and listen. I wait for it...
Beep!
I make out a wall wart up near the ceiling, a smoke alarm.
Beep!
It's not a beep that says, hey wake up sleepyhead. It's an ugly beep. It says wake the fuck up dude.
How can my wife and child slumber through this?
I get a chair and investigate. I twist the alarm off the wall. It's hardwired. I hold my phone up to it, try to read what it says.
Beep!!
DO NOT REMOVE UNLESS ELECTRICITY IS OFF.
Electricity or not, I'm not removing this from the wall. It's got wires. An experience when I was ten says all wires are bad.
Beep!!
Fuck.
And now I notice my dull headache. Is it from the carbon monoxide? I grope at the alarm thinking there's a secret compartment. There is. It houses a 9 volt battery. I take it out.
Whoo hoo, I am THE MAN!
(I feel like I should go to the bathroom and pee with the door open. Huzzah!)
Beep!!
What?! But I took the battery out!
Fuck...
What to do, what to do...
Beep!!
Home Depot is 24 hour. I'll just run out right now and get a new 9 volt. Problem solv- wait, the garage door is electric. Shit.
Maybe, just maybe, and only just maybe, there's a 9 volt in the drawer...
O M F G! There are four new 9 volts just sitting there! I put one in the alarm.
No beeps.
Awesome.
I go back to bed.
Hello, sweet slee-
Beep!
FUCK!!
The dull throb in my skull is growing sharper. I google alarms and beeping. Apparently, everyone has this problem.
I read about pressing the silence button.
Ok, I have a test button.
I press it.
Beep!! Beep!!
Fuck!
I go to the front window and look outside, contemplate my next move. All the houses are dark. The streetlights are off, too. There is NO electricity. None. It's soooo quiet. What was that show I was supposed to watch tonight? The one where there's no more power? Revolution? Could this be a marketing gimmick? Is that legal? Or is this a mass survival of the fittest? It better not because I JUST started a new gym routine. I am NOT in shape for this unless that shape is round.
Fuck.
How long will our food last? I just made that chicken. Damn. We're probably only good until about lunch. Wait, are there any tomatoes left? Did I see a pepper the other day when I was watering?
Beep!
Fuck! I'm not a farmer. Hell, the basil went to seed in a month. We're so fucked...
I see a cat dart across the street. I imagine a pack of zombies walking down my block. Brains... I look at the front gate, which someone has left open. Classic. I remember the baseball bat in the back of my closet. Just aim for the head, crush it like a melon...
Beep!
FUCK!
I go downstairs and get some screwdrivers - which are a 'go to' tool for me. I get back on the chair and shine my phone on the alarm where the wires are. There's a little plastic lip. I bet if I just press it down and pull...
HA!
The alarm is free of the wall. It's off the grid. I pull the new 9 volt out as well.
NOW I am THE MAN!
Sleep will be mine and I'll deal with this in a few hours. It's all-
Beeeeeeee e e eep.
WHAT THE FUCK?!
I stare at the battery-less unconnected alarm in my hands. I am slightly unsettled. I consider taking it outside and servicing it with a brick.
Ok, the alarm must have held on to one last charge in trying to carry out its sole soul saving purpose.
I wait another two minutes in the dark with the smooth round piece of plastic in my hands.
Nothing...
It's over.
Phew...
Still, WTF?!
There's a scene in the Simpson's Itchy and Scratchy Land (Season 6 Ep 4) in which even though the robots are off, they scream when you take off their face plate.
AHHHHHH!
Nothing has beeped in the last 10 minutes. I'm good.
I'm good...
I lie in bed a beeping victor. It's 3:30. My phone is almost out of juice. I'm so tired...
At 3:33 the power comes on. I hear clicks and whirrs. The ceiling fan begins to turn.
Well, I probably won't need the bat. And I'm sure the chicken is still good.
Beep beep beep beep...
It's not the clock. It's not my phone. I go out to the hallway. I'm still half asleep.
Beep beep beep beep...
Is it upstairs? Is it downstairs? Could it be the laundry or the dehumidifier? Did we run the dishes?
Beep beep beep beep...
I can't figure out where it's coming from.
Beep beep beep beep...
Is it carbon monoxide? Do I need to get everyone out of the house? Should I get jackets?
Beep beep beep beep...
Where the fuck is that coming from?
I reach for a light switch and turn it off.
Off? What the fuck?
There's no power.
Ah, no power. It must the backup battery. This happened once before. And I know where that damn thing is now. I punch in the code to shut off the alarm and then unplug the backup battery. I feel good about this. Experience has its rewards.
I call 311, report the outage. And I make a plan to go to Home Depot in the morning to get a new battery. No problem.
Beep.
What the fuck is that?
But it's just one beep, and different in tone. I wait and listen for more. Nothing. Ok, it's probably just a residual safety beep. I get back into bed.
Beep.
I listen, wait. It's only the one. Ok, maybe it's just two residual safety beeps.
Beep.
Fuck.
I get my phone and time the beeps. They're a minute apart. It must be a backup to the backup, but I have no idea where that is. Anyway, it's a power outage. Everything is fine. Maybe I can fall asleep between the beeps.
Beep.
Fuck.
I get out of bed and step into the hallway. I stand in the dark and listen. I wait for it...
Beep!
I make out a wall wart up near the ceiling, a smoke alarm.
Beep!
It's not a beep that says, hey wake up sleepyhead. It's an ugly beep. It says wake the fuck up dude.
How can my wife and child slumber through this?
I get a chair and investigate. I twist the alarm off the wall. It's hardwired. I hold my phone up to it, try to read what it says.
Beep!!
DO NOT REMOVE UNLESS ELECTRICITY IS OFF.
Electricity or not, I'm not removing this from the wall. It's got wires. An experience when I was ten says all wires are bad.
Beep!!
Fuck.
And now I notice my dull headache. Is it from the carbon monoxide? I grope at the alarm thinking there's a secret compartment. There is. It houses a 9 volt battery. I take it out.
Whoo hoo, I am THE MAN!
(I feel like I should go to the bathroom and pee with the door open. Huzzah!)
Beep!!
What?! But I took the battery out!
Fuck...
What to do, what to do...
Beep!!
Home Depot is 24 hour. I'll just run out right now and get a new 9 volt. Problem solv- wait, the garage door is electric. Shit.
Maybe, just maybe, and only just maybe, there's a 9 volt in the drawer...
O M F G! There are four new 9 volts just sitting there! I put one in the alarm.
No beeps.
Awesome.
I go back to bed.
Hello, sweet slee-
Beep!
FUCK!!
The dull throb in my skull is growing sharper. I google alarms and beeping. Apparently, everyone has this problem.
I read about pressing the silence button.
Ok, I have a test button.
I press it.
Beep!! Beep!!
Fuck!
I go to the front window and look outside, contemplate my next move. All the houses are dark. The streetlights are off, too. There is NO electricity. None. It's soooo quiet. What was that show I was supposed to watch tonight? The one where there's no more power? Revolution? Could this be a marketing gimmick? Is that legal? Or is this a mass survival of the fittest? It better not because I JUST started a new gym routine. I am NOT in shape for this unless that shape is round.
Fuck.
How long will our food last? I just made that chicken. Damn. We're probably only good until about lunch. Wait, are there any tomatoes left? Did I see a pepper the other day when I was watering?
Beep!
Fuck! I'm not a farmer. Hell, the basil went to seed in a month. We're so fucked...
I see a cat dart across the street. I imagine a pack of zombies walking down my block. Brains... I look at the front gate, which someone has left open. Classic. I remember the baseball bat in the back of my closet. Just aim for the head, crush it like a melon...
Beep!
FUCK!
I go downstairs and get some screwdrivers - which are a 'go to' tool for me. I get back on the chair and shine my phone on the alarm where the wires are. There's a little plastic lip. I bet if I just press it down and pull...
HA!
The alarm is free of the wall. It's off the grid. I pull the new 9 volt out as well.
NOW I am THE MAN!
Sleep will be mine and I'll deal with this in a few hours. It's all-
Beeeeeeee e e eep.
WHAT THE FUCK?!
I stare at the battery-less unconnected alarm in my hands. I am slightly unsettled. I consider taking it outside and servicing it with a brick.
Ok, the alarm must have held on to one last charge in trying to carry out its sole soul saving purpose.
I wait another two minutes in the dark with the smooth round piece of plastic in my hands.
Nothing...
It's over.
Phew...
Still, WTF?!
There's a scene in the Simpson's Itchy and Scratchy Land (Season 6 Ep 4) in which even though the robots are off, they scream when you take off their face plate.
AHHHHHH!
Nothing has beeped in the last 10 minutes. I'm good.
I'm good...
I lie in bed a beeping victor. It's 3:30. My phone is almost out of juice. I'm so tired...
At 3:33 the power comes on. I hear clicks and whirrs. The ceiling fan begins to turn.
Well, I probably won't need the bat. And I'm sure the chicken is still good.
Monday, September 10, 2012
The Walking Blessed
So we were visiting friends in Charlotte NC. Beautiful city, beautiful weather, we had a lovely time... Late morning on Sunday we went to a playground at their church so the kids could climb and run around. Yes, the parking lot was full, but we weren't thinking about the time. We just needed a jungle gym and it was the closest one. Well, the bells started to ring.
"Oh, crap," said our friends. "They're letting out. We have to go or we're never getting out of here. Go, go, go!"
I know this is wrong for me to say, but it was like something out of 'The Walking Dead' with everyone slowly exiting the church in a blessed daze. Sure, instead of rags and rotting flesh, it was fresh crisp clothes and bright clean skin, but we were soon surrounded. And trapped...
Although slightly delayed, we made it home for lunch unscathed.
"Oh, crap," said our friends. "They're letting out. We have to go or we're never getting out of here. Go, go, go!"
I know this is wrong for me to say, but it was like something out of 'The Walking Dead' with everyone slowly exiting the church in a blessed daze. Sure, instead of rags and rotting flesh, it was fresh crisp clothes and bright clean skin, but we were soon surrounded. And trapped...
Although slightly delayed, we made it home for lunch unscathed.
Hard Math
Good news: I found my bike bag with my keys and wallet.
Bad news: For about 1/2 hour, I wallowed in the hard math of canceling credit cards, remembering what other cards and passes would have to be replaced, getting a new drivers license, getting all new locks for the condo building, getting all new keys for the condo building peeps, getting new car keys, changing the lock on car, etc.
Grrrrrrrrrrrrr...
Long story short, it had fallen off when I was riding. Once I figured it out, I rode against traffic retracing my steps. (Stupid) But I also made the Office Depot people search through their security tapes because that was the last place I was. (Desperate.) But that was after looking in all the trash cans like cop show procedural. (Pathetic.)
All the hard math was making my head and chest explode as I. And then my cell phone buzzed. A couple from Green Bay celebrating their 25th anniversary had seen my bag on the street and picked it up. They had called my gym and my gym was now calling me. I called the couple and met them where they were about to order dinner. I thanked them, I hugged them, I bought them dinner.
'No, we're fine,' they said.
'I did all the math,' I said. 'You don't have a choice.'
TEXT: Thanks again. Your dinner is just like me... all taken care of. Happy 25th anniversary!
Bad news: For about 1/2 hour, I wallowed in the hard math of canceling credit cards, remembering what other cards and passes would have to be replaced, getting a new drivers license, getting all new locks for the condo building, getting all new keys for the condo building peeps, getting new car keys, changing the lock on car, etc.
Grrrrrrrrrrrrr...
Long story short, it had fallen off when I was riding. Once I figured it out, I rode against traffic retracing my steps. (Stupid) But I also made the Office Depot people search through their security tapes because that was the last place I was. (Desperate.) But that was after looking in all the trash cans like cop show procedural. (Pathetic.)
All the hard math was making my head and chest explode as I. And then my cell phone buzzed. A couple from Green Bay celebrating their 25th anniversary had seen my bag on the street and picked it up. They had called my gym and my gym was now calling me. I called the couple and met them where they were about to order dinner. I thanked them, I hugged them, I bought them dinner.
'No, we're fine,' they said.
'I did all the math,' I said. 'You don't have a choice.'
TEXT: Thanks again. Your dinner is just like me... all taken care of. Happy 25th anniversary!
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Chick-Fil-A-Holes, or Some Fowl Thinking...
I've long been disappointed by Chick-Fil-A's stance on Sunday. It's a day of rest, a day to worship, blah blah blah. I'm a Jew. And I feel slightly discriminated against. Of course, I'm pretty much agnostic. So I respect CFA's position. Good for them not having their employees work, or raking in all that weekend cash.
Bully for them!
So it doesn't surprise me AT ALL that Mr Cathy believes marriage should be between a man and a woman. It wasn't until a few months ago that our president said he believed any different. Of course, our president is a politician.
Right? Remember all that?
So when Mr Cathy said out loud, "Guilty as charged," he got crucified - pun intended. I got swept up in it, too.
How dare he be so unenlightened! How dare he not respect all walks of life? Who is he to say who should marry whom?
Etc...
But then I thought about it. And I changed positions.
All Cathy did was exercise his freedom of speech. I LOVE freedom of speech. I fucking love it. You can say what you want to say in this country. You can love who you want to love (issue notwithstanding), and you can hate who you want to hate.
The bible, apparently, has led Cathy to believe in a man/woman union. That doesn't make him a bad person. I believe differently. That doesn't make me a better person. But what makes Cathy 'less than good' is what he does with his money.
That said (and linked above), not everyone in the roost feels the same way, and there is plenty that CFA does for its communities concerning blood drives, giving food to the homeless, etc - which is ultimately GOOD.
And besides, doesn't Nike and the Gap own slaves in Asia or something? I mean, not everyone can be Ben & Jerry's or Patagonia.
Bam! Cluck off, mothercluckers!
So thinking again, I was back to eating at CFA. [Full disclosure: I eat at CFA maybe 3 times a year.] I wasn't going to be 'cowed' into not eating it. After all, being politically correct is not without its creepiness and groupthink as well. I mean, I don't pledge allegiance to a fucking chicken sandwich. And I don't want to have to choose between red foods and blue foods every time I leave my house. Also, my ignorance on how they raise and slaughter their chickens is sweet breaded bliss. (Sigh...)
But then I read this on a friend's FB post:
I have a hard time seeing the issue of equality as just one of those things people can disagree on, like it was the same as an opinion about a television program or a consumer product. Because it's not. It's people's lives and happiness. I'm glad that you have gay friends you feel close to. But if you don't support their right to be married, it's a little like having black friends but supporting Jim Crow laws. I'm sorry if that sounds harsh, but I think it's an apt analogy.
Damn, he's right. Same sex marriage isn't Coke Zero vs Diet Coke. A soft drink is a soft drink. Equal is equal.
Ok, but what about the slippery slope of plural marriage?
Well, let's not go there yet. Let's get this one out of the gate first.
So thinking yet again - I was now back to NOT eating at CFA...
Snap!
Ultimately, this isn't about chicken sandwiches. It's about politics, religion, and sexual identity; which, if these were ingredients, would be a shit sub dripping in hate sauce and anger garnish.
Actual living/working politicians have suggested a ban on CFA. Whoa... Refusing to grant a permit to build a CFA because of what its COO personally believes is un-American. Period. That's not how we do it, people. No one wants the thought police.
(It upsets me to no end that I'm with Sarah Palin on this.)
Bottom line, I'm not eating CFA. Cathy's statement/position has ultimately left a bad taste in my mouth. I'm sure with enough time I will fill it again with snow white breaded chicken breasts, waffle fries, and sweet tea. But for right now, I'm giving Cathy a timeout.
You think about what you said, sir. You think about it long and hard.
[Fullest disclosure: my wife LOVES CFA. Years ago on our way to a wedding dinner in Dallas, we stopped for a chicken sandwich. True story. I've had them. They're delicious. Also, I have found that every CFA I've ever been to has been clean and friendly. Every. One. It's always been a good fast food experience.]
Traveling this weekend, my wife (knowing we weren't going to stop at CFA) asked, "Should we stop at Culvers?"
"I don't know," I said. "What's their position on abortion and stem cell research?"
PS. Really, what about what CFA does to the diabetic and obese? That's the crime! How are the round and rotund supposed resist all that's tender, juicy, and breaded?
Annnnd now we're on to universal health care, which is a whole other can of deep fried worms.
Bully for them!
So it doesn't surprise me AT ALL that Mr Cathy believes marriage should be between a man and a woman. It wasn't until a few months ago that our president said he believed any different. Of course, our president is a politician.
Right? Remember all that?
So when Mr Cathy said out loud, "Guilty as charged," he got crucified - pun intended. I got swept up in it, too.
How dare he be so unenlightened! How dare he not respect all walks of life? Who is he to say who should marry whom?
Etc...
But then I thought about it. And I changed positions.
All Cathy did was exercise his freedom of speech. I LOVE freedom of speech. I fucking love it. You can say what you want to say in this country. You can love who you want to love (issue notwithstanding), and you can hate who you want to hate.
The bible, apparently, has led Cathy to believe in a man/woman union. That doesn't make him a bad person. I believe differently. That doesn't make me a better person. But what makes Cathy 'less than good' is what he does with his money.
That said (and linked above), not everyone in the roost feels the same way, and there is plenty that CFA does for its communities concerning blood drives, giving food to the homeless, etc - which is ultimately GOOD.
And besides, doesn't Nike and the Gap own slaves in Asia or something? I mean, not everyone can be Ben & Jerry's or Patagonia.
Bam! Cluck off, mothercluckers!
So thinking again, I was back to eating at CFA. [Full disclosure: I eat at CFA maybe 3 times a year.] I wasn't going to be 'cowed' into not eating it. After all, being politically correct is not without its creepiness and groupthink as well. I mean, I don't pledge allegiance to a fucking chicken sandwich. And I don't want to have to choose between red foods and blue foods every time I leave my house. Also, my ignorance on how they raise and slaughter their chickens is sweet breaded bliss. (Sigh...)
But then I read this on a friend's FB post:
I have a hard time seeing the issue of equality as just one of those things people can disagree on, like it was the same as an opinion about a television program or a consumer product. Because it's not. It's people's lives and happiness. I'm glad that you have gay friends you feel close to. But if you don't support their right to be married, it's a little like having black friends but supporting Jim Crow laws. I'm sorry if that sounds harsh, but I think it's an apt analogy.
Damn, he's right. Same sex marriage isn't Coke Zero vs Diet Coke. A soft drink is a soft drink. Equal is equal.
Ok, but what about the slippery slope of plural marriage?
Well, let's not go there yet. Let's get this one out of the gate first.
So thinking yet again - I was now back to NOT eating at CFA...
Snap!
Ultimately, this isn't about chicken sandwiches. It's about politics, religion, and sexual identity; which, if these were ingredients, would be a shit sub dripping in hate sauce and anger garnish.
Actual living/working politicians have suggested a ban on CFA. Whoa... Refusing to grant a permit to build a CFA because of what its COO personally believes is un-American. Period. That's not how we do it, people. No one wants the thought police.
(It upsets me to no end that I'm with Sarah Palin on this.)
Bottom line, I'm not eating CFA. Cathy's statement/position has ultimately left a bad taste in my mouth. I'm sure with enough time I will fill it again with snow white breaded chicken breasts, waffle fries, and sweet tea. But for right now, I'm giving Cathy a timeout.
You think about what you said, sir. You think about it long and hard.
[Fullest disclosure: my wife LOVES CFA. Years ago on our way to a wedding dinner in Dallas, we stopped for a chicken sandwich. True story. I've had them. They're delicious. Also, I have found that every CFA I've ever been to has been clean and friendly. Every. One. It's always been a good fast food experience.]
Traveling this weekend, my wife (knowing we weren't going to stop at CFA) asked, "Should we stop at Culvers?"
"I don't know," I said. "What's their position on abortion and stem cell research?"
PS. Really, what about what CFA does to the diabetic and obese? That's the crime! How are the round and rotund supposed resist all that's tender, juicy, and breaded?
Annnnd now we're on to universal health care, which is a whole other can of deep fried worms.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
#Olympics
So I've been sort of half watching the Olympics.
No, that's not it. I have no idea what's going on.
The social media and news outlets combined with the universal broadcasting rights in the Venn diagram of Greenwich Mean Time have me all confused.
That is, my phone and internet tell me things as they happen, and then my TV tells me in widescreen HD glory half a day later. My Olympic experience is a micromoment of factual joy sans nail-biting thrill, like a suspended automatic nostalgia.
Let's start with the opening ceremonies? They piped in 'sulphur smell' for the part about the industrial revolution? Whuh? Seriously? And then... what... was... everything?
Is that a shire? Are they now removing sod? Is Kenneth Branagh the ghost of Olympics past? Ok, now there's dancing, texting, and status updates... Wait, what's happening? Who's the girl with the big hair? That's the guy who invented the internet - not Robert Cailliau and Vinton Cerf? Beckham as Bond? Bond and the Queen skydiving? Ok, that was kinda cool, but corny - props to the queen, though. But Mr Bean gets a whole 'Chariots of Fire' bit? Is that Vodlemort? WHAT... IS... GOING... ON?
Just give us amazing fireworks and Paul McCartney. Otherwise China kicked everyone's ass from 2008.
All I know is that I'm vaguely disappointed Michael Phelps didn't win a gold medal in EVERYTHING he swam. (Yes, sure, he's the most decorated Olympic athlete in history, but I just wanted more. Didn't we all?) And NBC seems to be all over the place, but not in a good way.
Also, the woman's* gymnastics team makes me feel inadequate; like I'm some sort of soft fat un-limber man. Yet, somehow I feel superior in how I choose to wear my hair (or lack thereof). The gymnasts' hair is pulled back and staple gunned SO FREAKING TIGHT, they are unable to blink. But maybe that's the secret to their balance beam success.
Lastly, beyond gymnastics, aren't we all sort of checking for Olympic cameltoes and wedgies during beach volleyball and diving? No? Just me?
(Hmmm, I think that last part was out loud. Ooops.)
And when did wearing bras on the outside become a thing? Or is that just Australia?
Speaking of Australia. Two words; Michelle Jenneke.
Ok, back to your regular scheduled programming.
USA! USA!
PS. NBC, what are you doing? Seriously?
* At the risk of sounding like a cranky old man, the women's gymnastics team is really a girl's gymnastic team. There is only one who is 18. Totally get that youth is unappreciated/uncelebrated in this country and that greatness knows no age, but shouldn't there be a 'tween Olympics or something? Because it seems unfair to train balls out as a kid and lose parts of your childhood. And that as a college freshman you are considered over the hill. Ok, soapbox removed. Have a nice day!
No, that's not it. I have no idea what's going on.
The social media and news outlets combined with the universal broadcasting rights in the Venn diagram of Greenwich Mean Time have me all confused.
That is, my phone and internet tell me things as they happen, and then my TV tells me in widescreen HD glory half a day later. My Olympic experience is a micromoment of factual joy sans nail-biting thrill, like a suspended automatic nostalgia.
Let's start with the opening ceremonies? They piped in 'sulphur smell' for the part about the industrial revolution? Whuh? Seriously? And then... what... was... everything?
Is that a shire? Are they now removing sod? Is Kenneth Branagh the ghost of Olympics past? Ok, now there's dancing, texting, and status updates... Wait, what's happening? Who's the girl with the big hair? That's the guy who invented the internet - not Robert Cailliau and Vinton Cerf? Beckham as Bond? Bond and the Queen skydiving? Ok, that was kinda cool, but corny - props to the queen, though. But Mr Bean gets a whole 'Chariots of Fire' bit? Is that Vodlemort? WHAT... IS... GOING... ON?
Just give us amazing fireworks and Paul McCartney. Otherwise China kicked everyone's ass from 2008.
All I know is that I'm vaguely disappointed Michael Phelps didn't win a gold medal in EVERYTHING he swam. (Yes, sure, he's the most decorated Olympic athlete in history, but I just wanted more. Didn't we all?) And NBC seems to be all over the place, but not in a good way.
Also, the woman's* gymnastics team makes me feel inadequate; like I'm some sort of soft fat un-limber man. Yet, somehow I feel superior in how I choose to wear my hair (or lack thereof). The gymnasts' hair is pulled back and staple gunned SO FREAKING TIGHT, they are unable to blink. But maybe that's the secret to their balance beam success.
Lastly, beyond gymnastics, aren't we all sort of checking for Olympic cameltoes and wedgies during beach volleyball and diving? No? Just me?
(Hmmm, I think that last part was out loud. Ooops.)
And when did wearing bras on the outside become a thing? Or is that just Australia?
Speaking of Australia. Two words; Michelle Jenneke.
Ok, back to your regular scheduled programming.
USA! USA!
PS. NBC, what are you doing? Seriously?
* At the risk of sounding like a cranky old man, the women's gymnastics team is really a girl's gymnastic team. There is only one who is 18. Totally get that youth is unappreciated/uncelebrated in this country and that greatness knows no age, but shouldn't there be a 'tween Olympics or something? Because it seems unfair to train balls out as a kid and lose parts of your childhood. And that as a college freshman you are considered over the hill. Ok, soapbox removed. Have a nice day!
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Dark Knight Rises Blah Blah Blah
Do not read this. There are spoilers and I am spoiling the whole thing. I am not being snowed by hype and hoopla of how AWESOME 'Dark Knight' is.
Go ahead, click back to where you came...
I'll wait.
Ok.
Yes, it's cool looking. The effects are amazing. Bain's mask is neat. Catwoman is hot. And how about that Bat-cycle?!
Bam! Pow! Zowie!
First let me say that I am NOT a comic book nerd. I have nothing against comic book nerds, I am just not one. I don't know when Batman was first published and what in society's timeline it was reflecting. I don't know Bruce Wayne's blood type or what his dad did for a living. I know the Joker, Riddler, and Penguin. Oh, and the Boy Wonder.
That's my disclaimer. I'm coming to this movie clean. Although, I have to say the last one was pretty good, but made great because of Heath Ledger. Stellar performance there. Stellar. Made Jack Nicholson look silly...
But let's move on. Let's start with Bane.
Who the fuck is Bane?
Bane?
Ok, ok, he's one of many villains who pop up from out of nowhere and into Gotham. Let's just accept that. Gotham, which seemed like it was Chicago, but now seems like New York, is all about costumed psychopaths. Fine.
Bane was apparently born in prison and then he studied under Ra's al Ghul - who all of sudden appears as a Qui-Gon Jinn vision in Bruce Wayne's prison cell... which is where exactly? Isn't it in some Southeast Asian desert? What world is this? This isn't 'Game of Thrones'.
But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
We start with a plane jacking. Cool. Very 007. Then we're introduced to Bruce Wayne as Howard Hughes. Catwoman makes her appearance. Miranda Tate is apparently someone. Then Bane and his thugs storm into the stock market, guns pop pop popping.
THIS SCENE IS TERRIFYING BECAUSE OF AURORA. And it makes me sort of sick to see the violence being celebrated here in the movie theater now where it was devastating in another theater just a few days ago.
#TooSoon.
The stock market scene, by the way, is also a bit too 'on the nose' for me. Yes, we all hate those fat cats on Wall Street.
Yup.
I get it.
We meet Blake - a cop who seems to know from his own orphan experience that Bruce Wayne is Batman. Well, ok then. Good detecting, detective. We also meet Foley - the chief of police who's character has a dimension of 1. (Really, Nolan brothers? That's all you have for Mathew Modine? Fine.)
Now Bane begins destroying Gotham by blasting the bridges and buildings, and burying the cops underground.
WHY?
Because Gotham is corrupt?
And... uh, what else?
No? That's it?
Ok.
The football field is destroyed as Heinz Ward runs for a touchdown. You've seen this in the trailer. Cool special effects. Nice! Bane then takes the microphone and addresses the crowd. He explains he's their great liberator and they should take back their city. 'Enjoy the spoils,' he says. The movie cuts to well dressed men being pulled out of their sports cars and women in fur coats being dragged out onto the sidewalk in front of their posh apartment buildings.
I have two issues.
A) Really? A lady in a fur coat? Why not some old guy in a top hat and tails?
Biff! Pow!
B) Bane is addressing people at a pro football game. This is the upper middle class. Tickets are at least $100 a pop. They're wearing $75 jerseys, eating $6 hot dogs, and drinking $8 beers. These people are NOT the oppressed demographic. The uprising is NOT starting at a pro-football game.
I mean the gridlock getting out of the parking lot alone - especially now that it's destroyed - is not going to help Bane's cause.
;-)
Ok, now Gotham sucks. It's like 1940s Poland. How is this helping, Bane? What is this proving? Corruption is now on a more base level. Also, to what end is this happening now that we know the bomb is going to destroy everything in 5 months anyway?
Fine, let's just accept it.
Bruce Wayne loses all his money. He starts a relationship with Miranda Tate. Really? Ok. Then Bane breaks Batman's back and takes him to the prison he grew up in, which again, is WHERE? Mordor? Fine. Batman heals, does his Rocky thing, and focuses his anger. (The thing about jumping without the rope - that was a good bit.) Now Bruce Wayne shows up in Gotham - where NO ONE is allowed in or out - even though he is without costume and fancy devices. Fine. He hooks up with Catwoman and is able to get to all his fancy weaponry with Lucius Fox. Really? That stuff isn't locked up or guarded? Ok. Fine. Batman's also able to get to his fancy Batplane. No one was able to find it in the 5 months it's been sitting there on top of the building under mosquito netting? Really? Fine. So now there's a big fight between the thugs and the police who have come escaped from the tunnels.
Biff! Bam! Kapow!
**Big Ass Spoiler Coming Through!**
And NOW we learn Miranda Tate is actually Ra's al Ghul's daughter - the one who grew up in prison and escaped with the help of her protector Bane. And then Bane became her lover, but was banished from the League of Shadows by her father - whom she hated and couldn't ever forgive until Batman killed him.
Ah, now it all makes sense.
WHAT?!
Seriously?
#ConvolutedAsFuck
Nolan brothers, there's a difference between plot and story. I mean think about the story of 'Inception' because remember how-
Oh, right. Nevermind.
Now Catwoman comes back and saves the day. You go, girl! Then Batman chases down the bomb and flies it out over the bay - which maybe should have been Plan A from the get go.
Ka-BOOM!
So yes, it looks like Batman is dead, but we know he's in Italy with Catwoman. He has to be. She's too hot a piece of ass. So when I see this at the end, I imagine Ratboy and Gnatgirl - it just makes sense, and completes the rhyme scheme. But there's one more thing at the the very very end. Blake discovers the Bat Cave, and we discover his real name is Robin.
Bum bum bummmmm...
Blammo! Zoiks!
Onto the next franchise...
Go ahead, click back to where you came...
I'll wait.
Ok.
Yes, it's cool looking. The effects are amazing. Bain's mask is neat. Catwoman is hot. And how about that Bat-cycle?!
Bam! Pow! Zowie!
First let me say that I am NOT a comic book nerd. I have nothing against comic book nerds, I am just not one. I don't know when Batman was first published and what in society's timeline it was reflecting. I don't know Bruce Wayne's blood type or what his dad did for a living. I know the Joker, Riddler, and Penguin. Oh, and the Boy Wonder.
That's my disclaimer. I'm coming to this movie clean. Although, I have to say the last one was pretty good, but made great because of Heath Ledger. Stellar performance there. Stellar. Made Jack Nicholson look silly...
But let's move on. Let's start with Bane.
Who the fuck is Bane?
Bane?
Ok, ok, he's one of many villains who pop up from out of nowhere and into Gotham. Let's just accept that. Gotham, which seemed like it was Chicago, but now seems like New York, is all about costumed psychopaths. Fine.
Bane was apparently born in prison and then he studied under Ra's al Ghul - who all of sudden appears as a Qui-Gon Jinn vision in Bruce Wayne's prison cell... which is where exactly? Isn't it in some Southeast Asian desert? What world is this? This isn't 'Game of Thrones'.
But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
We start with a plane jacking. Cool. Very 007. Then we're introduced to Bruce Wayne as Howard Hughes. Catwoman makes her appearance. Miranda Tate is apparently someone. Then Bane and his thugs storm into the stock market, guns pop pop popping.
THIS SCENE IS TERRIFYING BECAUSE OF AURORA. And it makes me sort of sick to see the violence being celebrated here in the movie theater now where it was devastating in another theater just a few days ago.
#TooSoon.
The stock market scene, by the way, is also a bit too 'on the nose' for me. Yes, we all hate those fat cats on Wall Street.
Yup.
I get it.
We meet Blake - a cop who seems to know from his own orphan experience that Bruce Wayne is Batman. Well, ok then. Good detecting, detective. We also meet Foley - the chief of police who's character has a dimension of 1. (Really, Nolan brothers? That's all you have for Mathew Modine? Fine.)
Now Bane begins destroying Gotham by blasting the bridges and buildings, and burying the cops underground.
WHY?
Because Gotham is corrupt?
And... uh, what else?
No? That's it?
Ok.
The football field is destroyed as Heinz Ward runs for a touchdown. You've seen this in the trailer. Cool special effects. Nice! Bane then takes the microphone and addresses the crowd. He explains he's their great liberator and they should take back their city. 'Enjoy the spoils,' he says. The movie cuts to well dressed men being pulled out of their sports cars and women in fur coats being dragged out onto the sidewalk in front of their posh apartment buildings.
I have two issues.
A) Really? A lady in a fur coat? Why not some old guy in a top hat and tails?
Biff! Pow!
B) Bane is addressing people at a pro football game. This is the upper middle class. Tickets are at least $100 a pop. They're wearing $75 jerseys, eating $6 hot dogs, and drinking $8 beers. These people are NOT the oppressed demographic. The uprising is NOT starting at a pro-football game.
I mean the gridlock getting out of the parking lot alone - especially now that it's destroyed - is not going to help Bane's cause.
;-)
Ok, now Gotham sucks. It's like 1940s Poland. How is this helping, Bane? What is this proving? Corruption is now on a more base level. Also, to what end is this happening now that we know the bomb is going to destroy everything in 5 months anyway?
Fine, let's just accept it.
Bruce Wayne loses all his money. He starts a relationship with Miranda Tate. Really? Ok. Then Bane breaks Batman's back and takes him to the prison he grew up in, which again, is WHERE? Mordor? Fine. Batman heals, does his Rocky thing, and focuses his anger. (The thing about jumping without the rope - that was a good bit.) Now Bruce Wayne shows up in Gotham - where NO ONE is allowed in or out - even though he is without costume and fancy devices. Fine. He hooks up with Catwoman and is able to get to all his fancy weaponry with Lucius Fox. Really? That stuff isn't locked up or guarded? Ok. Fine. Batman's also able to get to his fancy Batplane. No one was able to find it in the 5 months it's been sitting there on top of the building under mosquito netting? Really? Fine. So now there's a big fight between the thugs and the police who have come escaped from the tunnels.
Biff! Bam! Kapow!
**Big Ass Spoiler Coming Through!**
And NOW we learn Miranda Tate is actually Ra's al Ghul's daughter - the one who grew up in prison and escaped with the help of her protector Bane. And then Bane became her lover, but was banished from the League of Shadows by her father - whom she hated and couldn't ever forgive until Batman killed him.
Ah, now it all makes sense.
WHAT?!
Seriously?
#ConvolutedAsFuck
Nolan brothers, there's a difference between plot and story. I mean think about the story of 'Inception' because remember how-
Oh, right. Nevermind.
Now Catwoman comes back and saves the day. You go, girl! Then Batman chases down the bomb and flies it out over the bay - which maybe should have been Plan A from the get go.
Ka-BOOM!
So yes, it looks like Batman is dead, but we know he's in Italy with Catwoman. He has to be. She's too hot a piece of ass. So when I see this at the end, I imagine Ratboy and Gnatgirl - it just makes sense, and completes the rhyme scheme. But there's one more thing at the the very very end. Blake discovers the Bat Cave, and we discover his real name is Robin.
Bum bum bummmmm...
Blammo! Zoiks!
Onto the next franchise...
Furthur - Deadheads Walking, or Filthy Dirty Hippies
So I went to see Furthur the other evening. Yes, that's spelled correctly.
I've never done any research, but my guess is that the band is named after the Ken Kesey bus of the same name/spelling. Perhaps it's also a play at 'some great notion' that since the Grateful Dead cannot be the Grateful Dead without Jerry Garcia, the remaining members have decided to go 'further'.
However, not all the remaining members are in Furthur. Some are in other bands, some do their own thing. Again, this is un-googled, but Furthur is essentially Bob Weir, Phil Lesh and some younger musicians - one of whom I think was the drummer for Primus, and another who was the Jerry Garcia of a GD cover band - Dark Star Orchestra.
None of this means one thing or another, although it's interesting to note that Furthur is probably the most awesome cover band in the history of rock and roll... save for the two members who were actually in the actual band.
But what IS important is how the more things change, the more they stay the same.
In high school, the druggies were into Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. Maybe the Doors and The Who as well. Sure, I had those names scrawled on my Trapper Keeper - along with Springsteen and Dylan. But the serious druggies were into the Grateful Dead. I did NOT listen to the Dead then. In my head I imagined they were like Iron Butterfly or Black Sabbath - something über heavy... I just couldn't go there.
But I started listening to the Dead in college. And I was SHOCKED to find it was country jugband music with some improvisation. Whuh?! Of course, once you get into it, you realize the lyrics are open to life-changing interpretation, and a 3 minute pop song played live can turn into a 45 minute magnum opus that goes in and out of several songs and then back to the original song so that when the line 'What a long strange trip it's been' resurfaces, it's MINDBLOWING.
Damn, that works on at least two levels...
I saw the Dead in the 80s and 90s. I've been to several shows. I once 'followed' them over a long weekend. But I am NOT a deadhead. I don't have that kind of commitment. Rather, I am committed to showering regularly and sleeping in a clean bed. But I appreciate the counter culture groove and the unintended irony of being anti-establishment in a sea of tie-dyes and dreadlocks.
The other evening, my friends and I went to Charter One Pavilion to see/hear Furthur. There are always two shows; the one that happens outside the venue and the one that happens inside. Both are entertaining in their own ways. I remember a Dead show in Milwaukee we didn't have tickets for. We just wandered around the parking lot all night. It was awesome.
Shakedown Street is a song AND a mall. Specifically, aside from also being a song, it's the string of tents in the parking lot that sell t-shirts, glass pipes, beads, and vegan burritos. It's where all walks of life walk; a parade of pasta rasta dreads in guatemalan pajamas. Here the whites of people's eyes are red, the older the tie-dye the more authentic, and the air is thick with pot, patchouli, and BO. It's a freak show. I love it.
Walking around Northerly Island before the show, I was struck by how young a lot of the fans are. They're kids, late teens/early 20s. I felt old. But to put it another way, Phil Lesh is 72. I believe that's a generation, right? It's like being a year or two in college and going to see a band whose members are your grandparents age.
Sure, these kids were tripping out of their skulls and wearing their fun freak clothes, but it seemed it was more than just a summer fling before hitting the books in the Fall. They were full on filthy dirty hippies; deadheads walking. If you've tattooed the lyrics of Sugar Magnolia on your ribcage, you're probably in it for the long haul. You believe.
But the walking dead also included people who were at the actual acid tests 50+ years ago as well. Well, maybe not the actual acid tests, but they could have been. There were at least that old. They were of that era.
e·ra (îr, r)
n.
1. A period of time as reckoned from a specific date serving as the basis of its chronological system.
2.
a. A period of time characterized by particular circumstances, events, or personages: the Colonial era of U.S. history; the Reagan era.
b. A point that marks the beginning of such a period of time. See Synonyms at period.
3. The longest division of geologic time, made up of one or more periods.
It's fascinating to see this demographic of the time/space continuum play out. Almost as much as the band itself play out. I've long believed members of the Grateful Dead are merely vessels for the music. There is no, "Hello, Cleveland!" or, "How's it going tonight?' Nothing. They do not talk. They just stand and play, let the music do the talking. Maybe they sway every now and then, but that's it. If they show any emotion, the crowd goes insane.
"BOBBY! BOBBY! PHILLLLLL! AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
But here's the bottom line. The band rocks. The band is really truly awesome. Yes, you have to like that kind of music. You have to appreciate all the noodling and solos. But the historical significance of the band/music is HUGE. That is undeniable. If you consider the 60's counterculture revolution as axis points, Bob and Phil were right at X and Y. Or Haight and Ashbury if you will. They KNEW Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady. They KNEW Allen Ginsberg. They were ON the bus WITH Ken Kesey. They are friends with Bob Dylan.
Which brings us back to Furthur. The show outside was great. The show inside was great. And I forgot about the other show; the one that happens right in front of you wherever you are. We had front row right behind the VIP section and the VIP box right in front of us was empty. The theater we were witness was awesome. Soooo many 'heads sat in those seats only to be kicked out by the petite Northwestern coed with the walkie talking and green back pack. Almost every one of them took out their actual ticket which clearly showed they were not where they were supposed to be. Dudes, really? It's bad enough she's trapped in a drug addled time warp.
But credit to this woman, she was good. Very earnest, polite. Kudos to her. Although the last fifteen minutes of the show I think she could have let it go a little. Whoever was supposed to show was not going to show now. It's not a crime to sit where you're not supposed to sit. It's not against the law. C'mon, just be cool...
All in all, we had a good time. The band was in good form. I preferred the second set to the first. I thought 'All Along the Watchtower' was awesome. As well as 'Morning Dew'. Getting home was a bit of a challenge, though. Rather, it was a long hot walk.
And somehow we were able to find a pile of buffalo wings at the end of the night. AWESOME!
PS. I had elote as my halftime theater snack. As the band launched into "Feel Like a Stranger' my boys leaned in and were all like, 'Uh, dude, what are you eating?"
"Elote."
"What's elote?"
"Just corn, man. You want some?"
"Uh, no. Wait, what is it?"
Classic.
I've never done any research, but my guess is that the band is named after the Ken Kesey bus of the same name/spelling. Perhaps it's also a play at 'some great notion' that since the Grateful Dead cannot be the Grateful Dead without Jerry Garcia, the remaining members have decided to go 'further'.
However, not all the remaining members are in Furthur. Some are in other bands, some do their own thing. Again, this is un-googled, but Furthur is essentially Bob Weir, Phil Lesh and some younger musicians - one of whom I think was the drummer for Primus, and another who was the Jerry Garcia of a GD cover band - Dark Star Orchestra.
None of this means one thing or another, although it's interesting to note that Furthur is probably the most awesome cover band in the history of rock and roll... save for the two members who were actually in the actual band.
But what IS important is how the more things change, the more they stay the same.
In high school, the druggies were into Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. Maybe the Doors and The Who as well. Sure, I had those names scrawled on my Trapper Keeper - along with Springsteen and Dylan. But the serious druggies were into the Grateful Dead. I did NOT listen to the Dead then. In my head I imagined they were like Iron Butterfly or Black Sabbath - something über heavy... I just couldn't go there.
But I started listening to the Dead in college. And I was SHOCKED to find it was country jugband music with some improvisation. Whuh?! Of course, once you get into it, you realize the lyrics are open to life-changing interpretation, and a 3 minute pop song played live can turn into a 45 minute magnum opus that goes in and out of several songs and then back to the original song so that when the line 'What a long strange trip it's been' resurfaces, it's MINDBLOWING.
Damn, that works on at least two levels...
I saw the Dead in the 80s and 90s. I've been to several shows. I once 'followed' them over a long weekend. But I am NOT a deadhead. I don't have that kind of commitment. Rather, I am committed to showering regularly and sleeping in a clean bed. But I appreciate the counter culture groove and the unintended irony of being anti-establishment in a sea of tie-dyes and dreadlocks.
The other evening, my friends and I went to Charter One Pavilion to see/hear Furthur. There are always two shows; the one that happens outside the venue and the one that happens inside. Both are entertaining in their own ways. I remember a Dead show in Milwaukee we didn't have tickets for. We just wandered around the parking lot all night. It was awesome.
Shakedown Street is a song AND a mall. Specifically, aside from also being a song, it's the string of tents in the parking lot that sell t-shirts, glass pipes, beads, and vegan burritos. It's where all walks of life walk; a parade of pasta rasta dreads in guatemalan pajamas. Here the whites of people's eyes are red, the older the tie-dye the more authentic, and the air is thick with pot, patchouli, and BO. It's a freak show. I love it.
Walking around Northerly Island before the show, I was struck by how young a lot of the fans are. They're kids, late teens/early 20s. I felt old. But to put it another way, Phil Lesh is 72. I believe that's a generation, right? It's like being a year or two in college and going to see a band whose members are your grandparents age.
Sure, these kids were tripping out of their skulls and wearing their fun freak clothes, but it seemed it was more than just a summer fling before hitting the books in the Fall. They were full on filthy dirty hippies; deadheads walking. If you've tattooed the lyrics of Sugar Magnolia on your ribcage, you're probably in it for the long haul. You believe.
But the walking dead also included people who were at the actual acid tests 50+ years ago as well. Well, maybe not the actual acid tests, but they could have been. There were at least that old. They were of that era.
e·ra (îr, r)
n.
1. A period of time as reckoned from a specific date serving as the basis of its chronological system.
2.
a. A period of time characterized by particular circumstances, events, or personages: the Colonial era of U.S. history; the Reagan era.
b. A point that marks the beginning of such a period of time. See Synonyms at period.
3. The longest division of geologic time, made up of one or more periods.
It's fascinating to see this demographic of the time/space continuum play out. Almost as much as the band itself play out. I've long believed members of the Grateful Dead are merely vessels for the music. There is no, "Hello, Cleveland!" or, "How's it going tonight?' Nothing. They do not talk. They just stand and play, let the music do the talking. Maybe they sway every now and then, but that's it. If they show any emotion, the crowd goes insane.
"BOBBY! BOBBY! PHILLLLLL! AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
But here's the bottom line. The band rocks. The band is really truly awesome. Yes, you have to like that kind of music. You have to appreciate all the noodling and solos. But the historical significance of the band/music is HUGE. That is undeniable. If you consider the 60's counterculture revolution as axis points, Bob and Phil were right at X and Y. Or Haight and Ashbury if you will. They KNEW Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady. They KNEW Allen Ginsberg. They were ON the bus WITH Ken Kesey. They are friends with Bob Dylan.
Which brings us back to Furthur. The show outside was great. The show inside was great. And I forgot about the other show; the one that happens right in front of you wherever you are. We had front row right behind the VIP section and the VIP box right in front of us was empty. The theater we were witness was awesome. Soooo many 'heads sat in those seats only to be kicked out by the petite Northwestern coed with the walkie talking and green back pack. Almost every one of them took out their actual ticket which clearly showed they were not where they were supposed to be. Dudes, really? It's bad enough she's trapped in a drug addled time warp.
But credit to this woman, she was good. Very earnest, polite. Kudos to her. Although the last fifteen minutes of the show I think she could have let it go a little. Whoever was supposed to show was not going to show now. It's not a crime to sit where you're not supposed to sit. It's not against the law. C'mon, just be cool...
All in all, we had a good time. The band was in good form. I preferred the second set to the first. I thought 'All Along the Watchtower' was awesome. As well as 'Morning Dew'. Getting home was a bit of a challenge, though. Rather, it was a long hot walk.
And somehow we were able to find a pile of buffalo wings at the end of the night. AWESOME!
PS. I had elote as my halftime theater snack. As the band launched into "Feel Like a Stranger' my boys leaned in and were all like, 'Uh, dude, what are you eating?"
"Elote."
"What's elote?"
"Just corn, man. You want some?"
"Uh, no. Wait, what is it?"
Classic.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Facebook Rules
(Disclaimer: There are no rules. These are MY rules. Take them, leave them.)
Accept timeline. Don't be such a scardy pants. This is your life. Own it.
Of ALL your hundreds of friends on Facebook, only 5 will pick you up at the airport or help you move. This is VERY important to understand.
That's why you need thick skin if you post something you care about and no one 'likes' it.
Of course, the converse goes is true when you post a picture of your Converse and you get a TON of likes/comments.
Don't post more than 5 times a day. It looks bad. Seriously. Get a life. Or get a blog.
But post something at least once a week. Otherwise it looks like you have no life.
You can create your own lists so you can organize and categorize your 'friends'. This allows you to read news only from these friends and post only to these friends. No one can see these lists but you.
Your friends see your updates. Sure, some algorithms are better than others, but they see them - most of them anyway. They don't always know what to say, or are comfortable liking ALL your stuff, but they see your updates.
That said, sometimes they don't. Maybe they're too busy or just not into FB. That's ok. Message them, or pick up the phone.
Post what interests you on your timeline - short of porn and hyper-controversial subjects. But keep it varied, only because otherwise you look like that woman who believes in UFOs and lives with a dozen cats.
Understand that who you are in real life is often who you are on FB. If you're a loudmouth know-it-all, a political blowhard, or an annoying 'look at me' numbskull - that's who you'll be on FB. If you're a decent, caring, creative, normal person - you should be fine.
But make a note of how that works.
Try to say a little something about the video, music, article, etc. Please. Don't be lazy. Or mysterious. That sh*t is annoying.
Stay away from politics and religion - within reason. Seriously. You look like a lunatic. This is what Twitter is for.
Or again, get a blog.
If you have friends who feel it's necessary to tell all the people all the stuff all the time, you can unsubscribe or unfriend them. Or you can simply choose to see only important updates. With the latter, FB will cull their posts down considerably.
Sports. The timeline on FB moves much slower than on Twitter. So when you cheer your team on FB, you look like a lunatic. Also, hashtags don't work on FB - unless you're using it as punctuation. #SeeWhatIDidThere
Don't share what you don't want to share. It's that simple. If you don't want people to know you're a grand dragon, don't post that video of you giving the keynote at the Klan rally...
Don't sh*t in the stream. It looks lazy. And crazy. Pinterest goes to Pinterest. Instagram to Instagram. Linkedin to Linkedin. Twitter to Twitter*. Etc.
Because otherwise it looks like all your posts are coming from the Department of the Redundancy Department.
If you don't want people to know you're reading crap stories about Kim Kardashian and Lindsey Lohan, go to your apps in your privacy settings and set them to Only Me.
Go ahead and like something your friend says. It shows you saw it and liked what they said. It's like a warm fuzzy. But if you don't, then don't. If you want to comment accordingly, go ahead, but understand it's hard to see sarcasm.
Use emoticons. It helps people undertand you're being sarcastic and not just an a**hole.
;-)
Try not to swear. Think of FB as a community center. There are people you know well, not so well, and some you've just met. And there are kids hanging around. If you need to tell the state of Arizona to go f*ck themselves - Twitter.
No one cares if you have a cold or your shoulder hurts. Tell your significant other, or better yet your doctor.
Also no one cares if you're hungry, or if you're bored. Or sad. C'mon, are you 5?
If you say you're sad or bored, you're fishing. Two words. Grow. Up.
You are sad and bored? Seriously? C'mon! It's the internet! Hello! It has EVERYTHING from self help blogs to videos of cats playing piano. Bored? Sad? Pullllease....
But if you break a bone, or run anything more than a 5K - we'll like that. We want to be supportive.
Obviously, no one likes it if you break a bone, but hopefully you've included an amusing anecdote. Or a gruesome picture.
When you 'like' brands, it means you get their stuff in your newsfeed. This means the internet now comes to you. That's actually pretty cool.
But you can choose to unlike a brand if gets to be too much.
Also, there are interest lists which means you can manage what you want to see without having to like anything - if that's more your thing.
The profile picture of you that's actually your kid, or your dog, or a celebrity you want to be - it's time to let it go. The web is maturing. So should you.
Of course, it's just FB - which is social and fun. Maybe on Linkedin use a grown up picture.
Use your cover photo to show your amusing, creative, topical, and clever side.
Why use FB at all? Email sucks - 5 emails out of 100 are useful/important, and when's the last time you used your phone as a phone?
FB gives you/your friends a chance to peek in and see what's going on each other's lives. That's ok. That's good.
FB will never replace a wave or a head nod. It will never replace a handshake and a smile. It will never replace a hug and kiss. But it will do in the interim. It will do.
* The exception is Twitter, but only if the tweet is particularly brilliant/poignant. For example, when Michael Vick got a 100M contract after being in jail for dogfighting, $100,000,000... That's horse fighting money can be shared on FB. But a lame observation like, A hair band combined with a scrunchy is not that different than a belt combined with suspenders should not.
Accept timeline. Don't be such a scardy pants. This is your life. Own it.
Of ALL your hundreds of friends on Facebook, only 5 will pick you up at the airport or help you move. This is VERY important to understand.
That's why you need thick skin if you post something you care about and no one 'likes' it.
Of course, the converse goes is true when you post a picture of your Converse and you get a TON of likes/comments.
Don't post more than 5 times a day. It looks bad. Seriously. Get a life. Or get a blog.
But post something at least once a week. Otherwise it looks like you have no life.
You can create your own lists so you can organize and categorize your 'friends'. This allows you to read news only from these friends and post only to these friends. No one can see these lists but you.
Your friends see your updates. Sure, some algorithms are better than others, but they see them - most of them anyway. They don't always know what to say, or are comfortable liking ALL your stuff, but they see your updates.
That said, sometimes they don't. Maybe they're too busy or just not into FB. That's ok. Message them, or pick up the phone.
Post what interests you on your timeline - short of porn and hyper-controversial subjects. But keep it varied, only because otherwise you look like that woman who believes in UFOs and lives with a dozen cats.
Understand that who you are in real life is often who you are on FB. If you're a loudmouth know-it-all, a political blowhard, or an annoying 'look at me' numbskull - that's who you'll be on FB. If you're a decent, caring, creative, normal person - you should be fine.
But make a note of how that works.
Try to say a little something about the video, music, article, etc. Please. Don't be lazy. Or mysterious. That sh*t is annoying.
Stay away from politics and religion - within reason. Seriously. You look like a lunatic. This is what Twitter is for.
Or again, get a blog.
If you have friends who feel it's necessary to tell all the people all the stuff all the time, you can unsubscribe or unfriend them. Or you can simply choose to see only important updates. With the latter, FB will cull their posts down considerably.
Sports. The timeline on FB moves much slower than on Twitter. So when you cheer your team on FB, you look like a lunatic. Also, hashtags don't work on FB - unless you're using it as punctuation. #SeeWhatIDidThere
Don't share what you don't want to share. It's that simple. If you don't want people to know you're a grand dragon, don't post that video of you giving the keynote at the Klan rally...
Don't sh*t in the stream. It looks lazy. And crazy. Pinterest goes to Pinterest. Instagram to Instagram. Linkedin to Linkedin. Twitter to Twitter*. Etc.
Because otherwise it looks like all your posts are coming from the Department of the Redundancy Department.
If you don't want people to know you're reading crap stories about Kim Kardashian and Lindsey Lohan, go to your apps in your privacy settings and set them to Only Me.
Go ahead and like something your friend says. It shows you saw it and liked what they said. It's like a warm fuzzy. But if you don't, then don't. If you want to comment accordingly, go ahead, but understand it's hard to see sarcasm.
Use emoticons. It helps people undertand you're being sarcastic and not just an a**hole.
;-)
Try not to swear. Think of FB as a community center. There are people you know well, not so well, and some you've just met. And there are kids hanging around. If you need to tell the state of Arizona to go f*ck themselves - Twitter.
No one cares if you have a cold or your shoulder hurts. Tell your significant other, or better yet your doctor.
Also no one cares if you're hungry, or if you're bored. Or sad. C'mon, are you 5?
If you say you're sad or bored, you're fishing. Two words. Grow. Up.
You are sad and bored? Seriously? C'mon! It's the internet! Hello! It has EVERYTHING from self help blogs to videos of cats playing piano. Bored? Sad? Pullllease....
But if you break a bone, or run anything more than a 5K - we'll like that. We want to be supportive.
Obviously, no one likes it if you break a bone, but hopefully you've included an amusing anecdote. Or a gruesome picture.
When you 'like' brands, it means you get their stuff in your newsfeed. This means the internet now comes to you. That's actually pretty cool.
But you can choose to unlike a brand if gets to be too much.
Also, there are interest lists which means you can manage what you want to see without having to like anything - if that's more your thing.
The profile picture of you that's actually your kid, or your dog, or a celebrity you want to be - it's time to let it go. The web is maturing. So should you.
Of course, it's just FB - which is social and fun. Maybe on Linkedin use a grown up picture.
Use your cover photo to show your amusing, creative, topical, and clever side.
Why use FB at all? Email sucks - 5 emails out of 100 are useful/important, and when's the last time you used your phone as a phone?
FB gives you/your friends a chance to peek in and see what's going on each other's lives. That's ok. That's good.
FB will never replace a wave or a head nod. It will never replace a handshake and a smile. It will never replace a hug and kiss. But it will do in the interim. It will do.
* The exception is Twitter, but only if the tweet is particularly brilliant/poignant. For example, when Michael Vick got a 100M contract after being in jail for dogfighting, $100,000,000... That's horse fighting money can be shared on FB. But a lame observation like, A hair band combined with a scrunchy is not that different than a belt combined with suspenders should not.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
An Open Letter to NC
Dear North Carolina,
I feel like I don't even know you. Sure, we've only met a few times - mostly through Steve - but I thought you were cool and carefree. I thought you were fun and hip. Doesn't Zach Galifianakis own a farm with you?
I remember there was that donut place, that beautiful park, and all that lovely furniture.
We hung out at the beach...
We had BBQ together. It was so good!
I thought, well, I don't know what I thought.
Although now that I think about it, I remember going to that flea market and seeing all those racist ashtrays. That was weird. That was kind of disturbing actually. And those pickups in the parking lot with their gun racks... Unsettling if you want to know the truth.
Amendment 1? Seriously? You're that lame and square? You're that uptight? That uncool?
Really, Raleigh?
You're homophobia is totally showing. It's embarrassing.
I'm not trying to get all dramatic here, but doesn't that just fan the flames of hate? By default? I mean what about people who are gay? Can you even imagine how they feel? How are they supposed - oh, wait. Right. That's what this is about.
I thought you were better than that. I really did. I might expect this from South Carolina, but not you.
I don't know. This is weird. I feel like we can't even be friends. I don't even want to make eye contact.
Honestly, this is very awkward. And disappointing. I think it's best we don't see each other for awhile. And in the meantime, I need you think about this.
I never thought I'd say this, but I wish you were more like Maryland.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Music Identification, or Proud Papa Moment
So it's a typical Sunday and we're pulling into Target. The radio is on and Pam and I are talking about what we need to get.
"Chobani, wipes, paper towels..."
A little voice pops out of the backseat.
"What's Simon and Garfunkel doing?"
I look at the radio display, which she cannot see - nor read for that matter.
"Um, they're doing The Boxer, sweetheart."
"I love Simon and Garfunkel."
Sponges. Everyone says kids are sponges. I'm going to suggest they are actually brain coral.
What floored me is that S&G is not part of any regular playlists. Maybe they pop up when we have an oldies dance party via digital music on cable. I'm sure I've pointed them out when Nola looks up at the tv and asks, "Who that?" It's just a photo, but I give a name to the short one and the tall one. But that's it. I don't go into their Greenwich Village to Central Park VH1 Behind the Music biography...
Here in the back of the car Nola was able to just hear the music and put it all together. She's only two. I think it took me till I was fifteen.
Sure, I know what you're thinking - the man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest... But you can ask Pam. It happened. And made daddy very proud...
Attagirl!
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Meat Ethics
My sister sent me a contest link. It was to the NY Times Ethicist, to write a 600 word essay on why it's ethical to eat meat. I did not make the cut, but you can go here to see what did. They clearly thought it out more than I did.
Mine is below...
Us and Them (592 words)
Ethically there are plenty of reasons to eat animals. The earth would be overrun with cows, chickens, and pigs for one. Okay, maybe chickens are no big deal. But a cow is pretty much like a Camry. And those pigs at the state fair – a Prius at least. You think there’s gridlock now?
Which brings us to dung. Think about the huge amounts - NO - let’s go right to all the methane produced. Boy, howdy! I’m not a scientician, but I’m pretty sure this amount of gas unleashed into the atmosphere would destroy the ozone and leave us all quickly crisping and sizzling in the sun… like bacon in a hot skillet on a cold Novem-
Sorry, distracted.
I think the most obvious ethical reason to eat animals is to keep them from eating us. Duh. I include this poem I wrote in the 9th grade as evidence.
O'er the Fields They did Come
I woke up that morning to the sound of a moo
Inside my head the worries they grew
I looked out my window and saw with surprise
Renegade cows a great many in size
I was filled with much fear and suddenly felt numb
For cows were here, o'er the fields they did come
I saw them come down my very own street
Plodding along with greatly hoofed feet
Their udders were as daggers and their horns were as swords
They closed the horizon these bovine hordes
I had to warn the neighbors but my voice had gone mum
For the cows were here, o'er the fields they did come
I could hear the nearing of their bellows and roars
so I ran down the stairs and locked all the doors
I looked out the window to see they'd marched up the lane
The look in their eyes said they meant to pillage and maim
I knew what was to happen and felt awfully glum
For the cows were here, o'er the fields they did come
They marched to the Smith's house like blood thirsty teams
I sat there and listened to the blood curdling screams
The squirrels screamed, "Bloody murder" Robins echoed their call
The cows paid them no mind and continued their maul
I hadn't gave warning and felt like a crumb
For the cows were here, o'er the fields they did come
From house to house they killed and destroyed
This was their goal and thus they enjoyed
They laughed and giggled and chuckled and snorted
Their minds were twisted as well as distorted
I sat in my home so helpless and dumb
For the cows were here, o'er the fields they did come
Time was fast running out and so was my luck
I thought quickly and encircled my house with ground chuck
The cows were sickened and at once they did flee
I'd saved the town and certainly me
I stood there the victor my heart like a drum
For the cows had left, o'er the fields they had come
In closing, I love animals. I wouldn’t eat them if they weren’t so delicious. Although; more honestly, I wouldn’t eat them if there weren’t butchers. I have a hard enough time doing away with spiders and creepy crawlies. In fact, I usually collect them in a paper towel and toss them outside. (My wife is the killer.) Full disclosure - I hunt and gather at the grocery.
Sadly, I consider veal a vegetable and won't eat it. Same with foie gras. But concerning everything else – ethically speaking - I'm doing my part.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Verti-whoa!
Monday morning 2am (one week ago) I wake up and the room is crazy spinning. Crazy. Tea cups at Disney x 1000. I think, Whoa, that's weird. And then I start to feel incredibly nauseous - back of the throat something wicked this way comes nauseous. I lay back down and start to sweat violently. In a minute my shirt is soaked. I place my hand on my chest to feel my heart. It seems fine. In fact, it doesn't even seem like it's beating at all - which freaks me out, but it has to be beating. I try to feel if there is a shooting pain down my left arm. There isn't.
I wake up Pam. "Sweetheart, I think I have a problem."
For the next 4 hours I throw up EVERYTHING. And then some. Pam and I (and the internet) conclude it must be food poisoning. We had gone to a Middle Eastern restaurant around the corner because we've been reading Nola a story about felafel. But Pam is fine. And Nola is sleeping soundly.
"It must have been that red sauce," I say. I was the only one who spiced things up. "I'm yelping this shit later!"
Whenever I am flat on my back, I feel the sea come rushing in and out. It takes me awhile to figure that out. My dizziness has such gravity. My face is smashed into the floor. Eventually I fall asleep on my side. I wake up an hour later and I'm like, Whew, glad that's over. But in a quick second I am back on the Tsunami Tea Cups from hell.
I discover there are 8 degrees of not feeling well.
1. I don't feel good. I'm going to lay down.
2. I feel like crap. I'm going to take some over the counter medicine and lie down.
3. I feel like total shit. Can you go to the pharmacy for me?
4. I feel like I'm dying, but it just needs to run its course, I'm going to be fine.
5. I feel like I'm really dying, but I'll call the doctor tomorrow.
6. I feel like I'm really really dying, but there's no need to call 911. Seriously, put down the phone.
7. Yeah, go ahead and call 911. That's a good idea.
8. Please for the love of god call 911 I'm dying here!
Throughout the night I have held on to number 4, Just gotta run its course... But as daylight starts to appear, I start considering other numbers. When Pam says she is calling 911, I'm at number 7. "Yeah, go ahead."
I hope to never get to 8.
The paramedics arrive and immediately diagnose food poisoning. "Just gotta run its course," says one of them. I throw up some bile right then and Pam says, "No, you're taking him."
I am able to crawl up on the gurney, but they have to carry me out. There is a great seriousness to an ambulance. It has a siren and it's written backwards so there is no guesswork. You pull the fuck over. It's embarrassing and humiliating to be put into an ambulance. It means you have no control. It means you are unable.
People are prideful.
I can't lay on my side in the ambulance because I am strapped in. I am miserable because I can feel every turn and pothole, and the siren isn't winning any favors either. But I have nothing in me to throw up. I dry heave when we get to St Mary's.
I have my eyes closed most of the time because everything is still spinning. But I blink out images of sad people slumped in chairs and one guy in a bed hooked up to a bunch of tubes staring at the ceiling without blinking. I am wheeled into a room and I crawl onto a bed. I then crawl up to the rails to lie on my side, seasick, in short quick breaths, eyes closed. I listen to people crying and shouting. I hear a nurse say, "No, sir, what are you doing? Do not pee there! Stop peeing right now!" Some guy in the very back of somewhere keeps moaning, 'Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.'
Pam arrives and that is good. She is my advocate, my champion. She speaks, because I cannot.
The ER staff gives me a bunch of different medicines and fluids to right my ship, but nothing helps. I continue to list. Someone says food poisoning. Someone else says stomach flu. Another says dehydration.
My EKG is normal. Most are thinking food poisoning except for the woman who gets me blankets and the main ER doc. The blanket woman - by the way - knows WITHOUT shining a light in my eyes and observing the subtle shifting back and forth of my pupils.
Vertigo, they say.
I have to pee, but I can't get up. So I have to pee on my side. But my body is telling me, Dude, this is not how we pee. Pam says she'll run the water. I guess there's water in this room. Eventually I am able to pee on my side because my body says, Dude, you're going to burst.
At some point I am brought upstairs and I crawl onto a different bed. More fluids, more medicines, more readings... Still dizzy, but not as nauseous.
Time passes. I am finally able to stand up and pee into the container. THAT feels good. But when I lie back down in the bed I fall into it like bricks. Eventually I can make it to the bathroom and back. But the pee remains in the container at my bedside. I point it out to an orderly. "Um, that apple juice tastes funny." She laughs and I explain that I don't need it any more.
Progress.
Pam has to go back home to relieve our nanny who has put Nola to bed. Pam hasn't seen Nola all day. Nola is like air for her.
I am visited throughout the night by lots of different medical staff who reach for an arm, bring a tiny cup of pills, or have me drink more water. There is no rest for the very sick. At three in the morning, one doctor explains he is going to test for diabetes and something else. When I see this doctor at dawn I ask if I might also see a neurologist. He says, "Oh, no, you just need to drink more fluids, you are just dehydrated."
"Are you sure," I ask, "because I'm not sure what they told you, but..."
After I explain in detail, he says, "I will get the neurologist right away."
Right away when you're bleeding out and right away when you have your own room probably mean different things. After a couple hours I am taken to get an MRI. An MRI is a claustrophobe's nightmare. You've seen this in commercials for big hospitals and General Electric. It's its own showpiece. It's the big white wall with a hole in it that says GE right above. You body goes in that hole. Luckily they run the air at full blast so it feels like less of a horror. And your legs remain outside. Otherwise you are ENCLOSED, like in a tomb.
I am given earplugs because they are sending me into a jack hammering water break at rush hour on Main street. Pound pound pound. Thwap ssss thwap ssss thwap ssss. Chukka chukka chukka chukka chukka. Pound pound pound.
The machine fails.
"We're having some technical difficulties," says the tech. "Why don't you have a seat?"
"Damn, I should have brought the one we have at home."
"You have one of these?"
"Yeah, only we call it a microwave."
They get the machine working and I have my test done, dye shooting into my hand and then up into my brain.
Throughout all my tests and stormy repose, Pam has been texting, phoning, and emailing our families. She is the communications officer, an unfair position for anyone. Nurses, doctors, interior rooms, access to a window and a clear signal, etc. My immediate family tends to lean on the dramatic, thus making her position even more unfair. To be fair, when my mom called work this morning, they said, "Oh, I think he's in the hospital." Still, I need to have a communications intervention with them and explain that in a hospital situation, texting is the right way to communicate. Just texting. The info will come in short bursts on your phone. Texting, people. Just texting. Let's not make this harder than it has to be.
After the MRI (and MRA) we are taken back up to my room. I am drowsy and slip in and out of naps. Time passes. Lunch comes. Or is it dinner? I guess you could call it meat loaf. It's brown. And ultimately flavorless. Lime sherbert? Seriously? Who likes lime sherbert? Why not any of the reds? Cherry, strawberry, mixed berry... Do hospitals get all the lime sherbert by default? Mmmm, it's curiously refreshing.
Friends call and text. Some word is out. Steve Keith calls and says, "Dude, as opposed to my heart attack that I could have done something about with my smoking and poor diet, it seems like you got bitch slapped outta nowhere."
It's good to laugh.
The neurologist comes. He looks in my eyes, leans me back, taps me on my knees. He has me push against his hands. He whispers in my ear. I apologize, and explain his accent makes it hard to understand. He instructs Pam to administer the test. She asks me simple questions with barely a breath. I pass. I even bonus up when I say Pam is only 35.
The doctor hasn't seen the MRI results yet, but after examining me he thinks it's Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo, almost positive. He explains that we all have small stones or rocks in our heads that are set in specific locations to help us balance. If they move, we don't.
He says he's going to look at the films now and will let us know. A nurse pops into the room a moment later and asks us to come to the nurse's station. "He wants to show you the films," she says.
The neurologist explains the butterfly loaves of my brain. (I'm guessing there's an after market for MRI's as a Rorschach test.) He says my brain is normal. (And by default, I have one.)
"No tumor, no stroke," he says. "You do have a gray area in the back, but it's isolated and nothing to worry about. If there were more of if, or if it were bigger - it could be multiple sclerosis, but it appears to be nothing."
Multiple sclerosis? Multiple sclerosis wasn't even in the consideration set. Food poisoning, heart attack, tumor, cancer...
I never thought of stroke either; which was either very very bad or very very good.
I should explain.
Bad because you need to act FAST if it's a stroke.
F=Face Ask the person to smile. Does one side of the face droop?
A=Arm Ask the person to raise both arms. Does one arm drift downward?
S=Speech Ask the person to repeat a simple phrase. Is the speech slurred or strange?
T=Time If you observe any of these signs, phone 9-1-1 because ambulance staff can expedite treatment.
The only reason it was good to not consider stroke was because I WOULD HAVE FREAKED OUT!
(Which really isn't good.)
Still, there was a gray spot on the film. And the cost of an MRI doesn't suggest a printing issue.
"How did it get there?" Pam asks. "Do we have to monitor it? Should we be concerned?"
"It's like a pot with a burn mark," says the neurologist. "You look at it one day and you don't know how it got there. But it's still a pot and it works fine."
It's very zen and I'll take it.
It seems that this is the VERY BEST DIAGNOSIS I could have received. It may be a long way around my ass to get to my elbow, but I have a clean bill of health. We'll find out about diabetes and whatever else tomorrow.
The neurologist comes back to my room and I put him on the phone with my dad. They talk shop. I listen to the neurologist speak.
"The patient exhibits no signs of uhhhhhhhhh trauma to the head uhhhhhhhh or neck as we did both an MRI and MRA uhhhhhhh...'
It's dictaspeak! I am shot decades into the past when I made rounds with my dad and listened as he dictated his findings. They ALL speak like that.
After the neurologist leaves dinner arrives. It resembles a chicken sandwich and it's actually pretty close. My aunt Audrey calls. She, like my father, is also a neurologist. I explain what has happened. Her diagnosis, like Pam's dad (also a doctor, but not a neurologist - who actually weighed in first) is slightly different. Labyrinthitis. My aunt also explains that if it is BPPV, there is a therapy that will reset my crystals (stones, rocks) such that I could walk out as if nothing has happened.
Pam and I watch some TV (M*A*S*H) and she soon makes her exit. I listen to the person in the next room cough up an Oldsmobile until I fall asleep.
I wake up the next day excited to see how the body repairs itself during sleep. I'm disappointed. Still no sea legs. But I imagine I can manage better.
The neurologist's partner visits me. I show her how I walk heel to toe. It's comical, because I can't. In fact I have to start over a few times before making it two steps. She says it's probably better than yesterday and that it will continue to get better. I ask her about therapy. She echoes what my aunt said and writes me a referral.
My attending physician makes an appearance a minute after and it's sort of like a game show. He has index cards. "Remember I said we were going to test for diabetes?"
"Yes."
He looks down at his cards.
"Your results are... negative."
It takes me a second to remember that anything negative in a hospital is positive.
"Right," I say. "That's good!"
"Yes, yes, it's good."
He's excited that I'm excited and I want him to release me. I don't mention about the neurologists.
"I can probably get out of here, right?"
"Yes, yes, I'll start the paperwork."
I call to make an appt with the therapist before the door closes.
Pam arrives and we check out. We go to Milk and Honey Cafe to get some food. Pam parks in a no parking zone so she can help me inside. I'm definitely not 100%. I feel different. I feel handicapped.
The sun is so bright. It's blinding.
Pam sits me down, and because Milk and Honey is weird about ordering first and then sitting down, she explains that I am not a vagrant before she re-parks the car.
I get the soup and salad. It's nice to eat real food.
We go home.
Nola.
She's so beautiful. She starts to sing when she sees me.
"A B C D E F G..."
This means she's happy.
"Daddy's home from the hospital," says Pam.
"Daddy, are you better?" Her voice is so tiny, precise, and perfect.
"Yes, sweetheart. Daddy's better."
I kiss her tiny head and smell her hair. She smells good.
Nola finishes her lunch and goes sleepy time. I do the same. Pam goes to the grocery and does other errands to keep our lives moving forward.
Next day Pam drives me to work. As we drive, I recognize that I'm not nauseous, but I'm hyper aware of all movement and it makes me dizzy to see it all. I close my eyes.
We park and Pam walks me to work, doesn't let go of my hand. I know I'm fine, that I'm not going to fall over, but Pam doesn't. We take the elevator up. She asks if it bothers me. "No, I'm good," I say. She gives me a kiss goodbye when we get to my floor and lets go of my hand. She knows she has to let go and let me do this on my own, like it's the first day of school.
Don't let those kids make fun of you.
I KNOW I shouldn't be here. I feel alien. But I'm not a danger to others. There is no heavy machinery, no hazardous chemicals.
I'm all about the down low as I give a cursory nod to the front desk and continue to my office. I don't know who knows I was carried out of my home and put into an ambulance. And that I got out of the hospital YESTERDAY. Walking down the hall, I know it's not in a straight line. It's like I'm drunk, but without the euphoria.
I print out the questionnaire for the therapist, fill it out, and find out how my jobs are going. People ask how I'm doing. "Fine," I say. "All good. No big."
I've lost so much time. Before this week started I knew there were going to be issues. Now time and space have piled up on each other. In short, I'm behind and under.
Pam arrives to take me to the therapist, says she doesn't want me to return to work.
"Let's talk to the therapist," I say.
That said, I know I shouldn't walk the half mile and agree to the cab.
The therapist knows within two minutes of my story that it's vestibular neuritis. She does a simple test to confirm it. She puts my head in her hands and says to focus on her nose. She's going to move my head quickly back and forth, but keep looking at her nose. She turns my head to the left, and then the right.
"You had an inner ear infection on your right side."
I imagine this test being given in the cave man days. "Yup, that's why you having jump vision, or nystagmus."
The therapist explains that my right eye takes a moment to find its destination. "That's why you're having jump vision, or nystagmus."
To confirm her confirmation, I put on a blackened scuba mask that records my eye movement. She plays the video after she runs me through the test. My pupil keeps jumping over.
"No hearing loss, thank god, but you have some nerve damage," she says. "That's why you're unsteady. You may not ever be 100%, but you should be 99% no problem. You probably won't even know the difference unless you're on a beach at night walking on sand up a hill."
I can live with that.
"How long will it take to recover?"
"It could take a few weeks, maybe a couple of months."
My heart sinks momentarily. But I remember I have my faculties, although yesterday when I put on a new roll of toilet paper, I put it on underhand. Toilet paper should NEVER be underhand.
"It could be sooner," she says. "It depends. It seems like you're doing amazing for just getting out of the hospital yesterday."
"Driving?" I ask.
"Probably not for awhile."
My heart AND shoulders sink.
"The dizziness and jump vision will go away," she continues. "I'll give you some exercises and we'll see if you're still in range of taking steroids to help the healing process. You're going to be fine."
She takes me through the different exercises. One is where I stare at something eye level an arm's length away. I turn my head but keep my eyes locked on the target. When I turn to the right, the target seems to drag over.
Fascinating...
I get a script for the 'roids. It's just a dose pack so it will be done in a week. Pam and I go immediately to the Walgreens to drop it off. We have lunch and go back to get it. She walks me near work and lets me go. The therapist said she wasn't worried about me falling over and I know that helped Pam. Still, she wants me to text her when I get back to work, and encourages me to leave early. I text her when I get back. But I can't leave early; however, when I do leave, I walk to the corner and cross. I can do that.
I SHOULD do that.
We should ALL do that.
The spot I'm cutting right now is a six camera shoot. My client wants to see a cut on Monday. So when my assistant shows me the multi-cam display I am dazzled by the cruelty. It couldn't suck more. It's hard enough to fixate on a single object let alone six moving screens. I guess it could have been a nine camera shoot.
Sigh...
Bottom line, I'm fine. My vertigo is vertigone. I'm still a bit wobbly, and sometimes I just need to close my eyes, but I feel INCREDIBLY LUCKY. Even though this was not a wake up call per se, Pam and I are going to treat it as one. We are going to try to lead a healthier lifestyle. It was frightening and it happened just like that. And it has served its purpose.
I wake up Pam. "Sweetheart, I think I have a problem."
For the next 4 hours I throw up EVERYTHING. And then some. Pam and I (and the internet) conclude it must be food poisoning. We had gone to a Middle Eastern restaurant around the corner because we've been reading Nola a story about felafel. But Pam is fine. And Nola is sleeping soundly.
"It must have been that red sauce," I say. I was the only one who spiced things up. "I'm yelping this shit later!"
Whenever I am flat on my back, I feel the sea come rushing in and out. It takes me awhile to figure that out. My dizziness has such gravity. My face is smashed into the floor. Eventually I fall asleep on my side. I wake up an hour later and I'm like, Whew, glad that's over. But in a quick second I am back on the Tsunami Tea Cups from hell.
I discover there are 8 degrees of not feeling well.
1. I don't feel good. I'm going to lay down.
2. I feel like crap. I'm going to take some over the counter medicine and lie down.
3. I feel like total shit. Can you go to the pharmacy for me?
4. I feel like I'm dying, but it just needs to run its course, I'm going to be fine.
5. I feel like I'm really dying, but I'll call the doctor tomorrow.
6. I feel like I'm really really dying, but there's no need to call 911. Seriously, put down the phone.
7. Yeah, go ahead and call 911. That's a good idea.
8. Please for the love of god call 911 I'm dying here!
Throughout the night I have held on to number 4, Just gotta run its course... But as daylight starts to appear, I start considering other numbers. When Pam says she is calling 911, I'm at number 7. "Yeah, go ahead."
I hope to never get to 8.
The paramedics arrive and immediately diagnose food poisoning. "Just gotta run its course," says one of them. I throw up some bile right then and Pam says, "No, you're taking him."
I am able to crawl up on the gurney, but they have to carry me out. There is a great seriousness to an ambulance. It has a siren and it's written backwards so there is no guesswork. You pull the fuck over. It's embarrassing and humiliating to be put into an ambulance. It means you have no control. It means you are unable.
People are prideful.
I can't lay on my side in the ambulance because I am strapped in. I am miserable because I can feel every turn and pothole, and the siren isn't winning any favors either. But I have nothing in me to throw up. I dry heave when we get to St Mary's.
I have my eyes closed most of the time because everything is still spinning. But I blink out images of sad people slumped in chairs and one guy in a bed hooked up to a bunch of tubes staring at the ceiling without blinking. I am wheeled into a room and I crawl onto a bed. I then crawl up to the rails to lie on my side, seasick, in short quick breaths, eyes closed. I listen to people crying and shouting. I hear a nurse say, "No, sir, what are you doing? Do not pee there! Stop peeing right now!" Some guy in the very back of somewhere keeps moaning, 'Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.'
Pam arrives and that is good. She is my advocate, my champion. She speaks, because I cannot.
The ER staff gives me a bunch of different medicines and fluids to right my ship, but nothing helps. I continue to list. Someone says food poisoning. Someone else says stomach flu. Another says dehydration.
My EKG is normal. Most are thinking food poisoning except for the woman who gets me blankets and the main ER doc. The blanket woman - by the way - knows WITHOUT shining a light in my eyes and observing the subtle shifting back and forth of my pupils.
Vertigo, they say.
I have to pee, but I can't get up. So I have to pee on my side. But my body is telling me, Dude, this is not how we pee. Pam says she'll run the water. I guess there's water in this room. Eventually I am able to pee on my side because my body says, Dude, you're going to burst.
At some point I am brought upstairs and I crawl onto a different bed. More fluids, more medicines, more readings... Still dizzy, but not as nauseous.
Time passes. I am finally able to stand up and pee into the container. THAT feels good. But when I lie back down in the bed I fall into it like bricks. Eventually I can make it to the bathroom and back. But the pee remains in the container at my bedside. I point it out to an orderly. "Um, that apple juice tastes funny." She laughs and I explain that I don't need it any more.
Progress.
Pam has to go back home to relieve our nanny who has put Nola to bed. Pam hasn't seen Nola all day. Nola is like air for her.
I am visited throughout the night by lots of different medical staff who reach for an arm, bring a tiny cup of pills, or have me drink more water. There is no rest for the very sick. At three in the morning, one doctor explains he is going to test for diabetes and something else. When I see this doctor at dawn I ask if I might also see a neurologist. He says, "Oh, no, you just need to drink more fluids, you are just dehydrated."
"Are you sure," I ask, "because I'm not sure what they told you, but..."
After I explain in detail, he says, "I will get the neurologist right away."
Right away when you're bleeding out and right away when you have your own room probably mean different things. After a couple hours I am taken to get an MRI. An MRI is a claustrophobe's nightmare. You've seen this in commercials for big hospitals and General Electric. It's its own showpiece. It's the big white wall with a hole in it that says GE right above. You body goes in that hole. Luckily they run the air at full blast so it feels like less of a horror. And your legs remain outside. Otherwise you are ENCLOSED, like in a tomb.
I am given earplugs because they are sending me into a jack hammering water break at rush hour on Main street. Pound pound pound. Thwap ssss thwap ssss thwap ssss. Chukka chukka chukka chukka chukka. Pound pound pound.
The machine fails.
"We're having some technical difficulties," says the tech. "Why don't you have a seat?"
"Damn, I should have brought the one we have at home."
"You have one of these?"
"Yeah, only we call it a microwave."
They get the machine working and I have my test done, dye shooting into my hand and then up into my brain.
Throughout all my tests and stormy repose, Pam has been texting, phoning, and emailing our families. She is the communications officer, an unfair position for anyone. Nurses, doctors, interior rooms, access to a window and a clear signal, etc. My immediate family tends to lean on the dramatic, thus making her position even more unfair. To be fair, when my mom called work this morning, they said, "Oh, I think he's in the hospital." Still, I need to have a communications intervention with them and explain that in a hospital situation, texting is the right way to communicate. Just texting. The info will come in short bursts on your phone. Texting, people. Just texting. Let's not make this harder than it has to be.
After the MRI (and MRA) we are taken back up to my room. I am drowsy and slip in and out of naps. Time passes. Lunch comes. Or is it dinner? I guess you could call it meat loaf. It's brown. And ultimately flavorless. Lime sherbert? Seriously? Who likes lime sherbert? Why not any of the reds? Cherry, strawberry, mixed berry... Do hospitals get all the lime sherbert by default? Mmmm, it's curiously refreshing.
Friends call and text. Some word is out. Steve Keith calls and says, "Dude, as opposed to my heart attack that I could have done something about with my smoking and poor diet, it seems like you got bitch slapped outta nowhere."
It's good to laugh.
The neurologist comes. He looks in my eyes, leans me back, taps me on my knees. He has me push against his hands. He whispers in my ear. I apologize, and explain his accent makes it hard to understand. He instructs Pam to administer the test. She asks me simple questions with barely a breath. I pass. I even bonus up when I say Pam is only 35.
The doctor hasn't seen the MRI results yet, but after examining me he thinks it's Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo, almost positive. He explains that we all have small stones or rocks in our heads that are set in specific locations to help us balance. If they move, we don't.
He says he's going to look at the films now and will let us know. A nurse pops into the room a moment later and asks us to come to the nurse's station. "He wants to show you the films," she says.
The neurologist explains the butterfly loaves of my brain. (I'm guessing there's an after market for MRI's as a Rorschach test.) He says my brain is normal. (And by default, I have one.)
"No tumor, no stroke," he says. "You do have a gray area in the back, but it's isolated and nothing to worry about. If there were more of if, or if it were bigger - it could be multiple sclerosis, but it appears to be nothing."
Multiple sclerosis? Multiple sclerosis wasn't even in the consideration set. Food poisoning, heart attack, tumor, cancer...
I never thought of stroke either; which was either very very bad or very very good.
I should explain.
Bad because you need to act FAST if it's a stroke.
F=Face Ask the person to smile. Does one side of the face droop?
A=Arm Ask the person to raise both arms. Does one arm drift downward?
S=Speech Ask the person to repeat a simple phrase. Is the speech slurred or strange?
T=Time If you observe any of these signs, phone 9-1-1 because ambulance staff can expedite treatment.
The only reason it was good to not consider stroke was because I WOULD HAVE FREAKED OUT!
(Which really isn't good.)
Still, there was a gray spot on the film. And the cost of an MRI doesn't suggest a printing issue.
"How did it get there?" Pam asks. "Do we have to monitor it? Should we be concerned?"
"It's like a pot with a burn mark," says the neurologist. "You look at it one day and you don't know how it got there. But it's still a pot and it works fine."
It's very zen and I'll take it.
It seems that this is the VERY BEST DIAGNOSIS I could have received. It may be a long way around my ass to get to my elbow, but I have a clean bill of health. We'll find out about diabetes and whatever else tomorrow.
The neurologist comes back to my room and I put him on the phone with my dad. They talk shop. I listen to the neurologist speak.
"The patient exhibits no signs of uhhhhhhhhh trauma to the head uhhhhhhhh or neck as we did both an MRI and MRA uhhhhhhh...'
It's dictaspeak! I am shot decades into the past when I made rounds with my dad and listened as he dictated his findings. They ALL speak like that.
After the neurologist leaves dinner arrives. It resembles a chicken sandwich and it's actually pretty close. My aunt Audrey calls. She, like my father, is also a neurologist. I explain what has happened. Her diagnosis, like Pam's dad (also a doctor, but not a neurologist - who actually weighed in first) is slightly different. Labyrinthitis. My aunt also explains that if it is BPPV, there is a therapy that will reset my crystals (stones, rocks) such that I could walk out as if nothing has happened.
Pam and I watch some TV (M*A*S*H) and she soon makes her exit. I listen to the person in the next room cough up an Oldsmobile until I fall asleep.
I wake up the next day excited to see how the body repairs itself during sleep. I'm disappointed. Still no sea legs. But I imagine I can manage better.
The neurologist's partner visits me. I show her how I walk heel to toe. It's comical, because I can't. In fact I have to start over a few times before making it two steps. She says it's probably better than yesterday and that it will continue to get better. I ask her about therapy. She echoes what my aunt said and writes me a referral.
My attending physician makes an appearance a minute after and it's sort of like a game show. He has index cards. "Remember I said we were going to test for diabetes?"
"Yes."
He looks down at his cards.
"Your results are... negative."
It takes me a second to remember that anything negative in a hospital is positive.
"Right," I say. "That's good!"
"Yes, yes, it's good."
He's excited that I'm excited and I want him to release me. I don't mention about the neurologists.
"I can probably get out of here, right?"
"Yes, yes, I'll start the paperwork."
I call to make an appt with the therapist before the door closes.
Pam arrives and we check out. We go to Milk and Honey Cafe to get some food. Pam parks in a no parking zone so she can help me inside. I'm definitely not 100%. I feel different. I feel handicapped.
The sun is so bright. It's blinding.
Pam sits me down, and because Milk and Honey is weird about ordering first and then sitting down, she explains that I am not a vagrant before she re-parks the car.
I get the soup and salad. It's nice to eat real food.
We go home.
Nola.
She's so beautiful. She starts to sing when she sees me.
"A B C D E F G..."
This means she's happy.
"Daddy's home from the hospital," says Pam.
"Daddy, are you better?" Her voice is so tiny, precise, and perfect.
"Yes, sweetheart. Daddy's better."
I kiss her tiny head and smell her hair. She smells good.
Nola finishes her lunch and goes sleepy time. I do the same. Pam goes to the grocery and does other errands to keep our lives moving forward.
Next day Pam drives me to work. As we drive, I recognize that I'm not nauseous, but I'm hyper aware of all movement and it makes me dizzy to see it all. I close my eyes.
We park and Pam walks me to work, doesn't let go of my hand. I know I'm fine, that I'm not going to fall over, but Pam doesn't. We take the elevator up. She asks if it bothers me. "No, I'm good," I say. She gives me a kiss goodbye when we get to my floor and lets go of my hand. She knows she has to let go and let me do this on my own, like it's the first day of school.
Don't let those kids make fun of you.
I KNOW I shouldn't be here. I feel alien. But I'm not a danger to others. There is no heavy machinery, no hazardous chemicals.
I'm all about the down low as I give a cursory nod to the front desk and continue to my office. I don't know who knows I was carried out of my home and put into an ambulance. And that I got out of the hospital YESTERDAY. Walking down the hall, I know it's not in a straight line. It's like I'm drunk, but without the euphoria.
I print out the questionnaire for the therapist, fill it out, and find out how my jobs are going. People ask how I'm doing. "Fine," I say. "All good. No big."
I've lost so much time. Before this week started I knew there were going to be issues. Now time and space have piled up on each other. In short, I'm behind and under.
Pam arrives to take me to the therapist, says she doesn't want me to return to work.
"Let's talk to the therapist," I say.
That said, I know I shouldn't walk the half mile and agree to the cab.
The therapist knows within two minutes of my story that it's vestibular neuritis. She does a simple test to confirm it. She puts my head in her hands and says to focus on her nose. She's going to move my head quickly back and forth, but keep looking at her nose. She turns my head to the left, and then the right.
"You had an inner ear infection on your right side."
I imagine this test being given in the cave man days. "Yup, that's why you having jump vision, or nystagmus."
The therapist explains that my right eye takes a moment to find its destination. "That's why you're having jump vision, or nystagmus."
To confirm her confirmation, I put on a blackened scuba mask that records my eye movement. She plays the video after she runs me through the test. My pupil keeps jumping over.
"No hearing loss, thank god, but you have some nerve damage," she says. "That's why you're unsteady. You may not ever be 100%, but you should be 99% no problem. You probably won't even know the difference unless you're on a beach at night walking on sand up a hill."
I can live with that.
"How long will it take to recover?"
"It could take a few weeks, maybe a couple of months."
My heart sinks momentarily. But I remember I have my faculties, although yesterday when I put on a new roll of toilet paper, I put it on underhand. Toilet paper should NEVER be underhand.
"It could be sooner," she says. "It depends. It seems like you're doing amazing for just getting out of the hospital yesterday."
"Driving?" I ask.
"Probably not for awhile."
My heart AND shoulders sink.
"The dizziness and jump vision will go away," she continues. "I'll give you some exercises and we'll see if you're still in range of taking steroids to help the healing process. You're going to be fine."
She takes me through the different exercises. One is where I stare at something eye level an arm's length away. I turn my head but keep my eyes locked on the target. When I turn to the right, the target seems to drag over.
Fascinating...
I get a script for the 'roids. It's just a dose pack so it will be done in a week. Pam and I go immediately to the Walgreens to drop it off. We have lunch and go back to get it. She walks me near work and lets me go. The therapist said she wasn't worried about me falling over and I know that helped Pam. Still, she wants me to text her when I get back to work, and encourages me to leave early. I text her when I get back. But I can't leave early; however, when I do leave, I walk to the corner and cross. I can do that.
I SHOULD do that.
We should ALL do that.
The spot I'm cutting right now is a six camera shoot. My client wants to see a cut on Monday. So when my assistant shows me the multi-cam display I am dazzled by the cruelty. It couldn't suck more. It's hard enough to fixate on a single object let alone six moving screens. I guess it could have been a nine camera shoot.
Sigh...
Bottom line, I'm fine. My vertigo is vertigone. I'm still a bit wobbly, and sometimes I just need to close my eyes, but I feel INCREDIBLY LUCKY. Even though this was not a wake up call per se, Pam and I are going to treat it as one. We are going to try to lead a healthier lifestyle. It was frightening and it happened just like that. And it has served its purpose.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Shell Sucks
At least the one at 350 W. Chicago Ave.
I've been trying to avoid BP since they added to the further ruin of Louisiana. So today I used a Shell at Chicago and Orleans. It's a busy intersection so it's not without effort to get in there.
I saw an open pump at the end and cruised around. I got out of my car, put in my credit card, and punched in my zip. Okay, it said, you're good to go - pick you grade and filler up.
Only there was no hose.
A simple hand written sign would have been nice. Ok, not the end of the world.
I hit cancel, get back in my car and go around to the other end. I check to make sure there's a hose. (There is.) I put in my credit card, and punch in my zip. Now it says to see the cashier.
I go inside and explain that the pump said I needed to come in and see her. She asks how much I want. I say I want to fill it up.
"Oh, you need to leave your credit card here, and then come back."
What? Seriously? I just want to conveniently fill up my gas tank with a minimum of physical effort and go.
"No thanks," I say. "Let's just put in $50." (Because sadly, while this is a big chunk of change, I know it won't actually top my tank. A few years ago, sure. But not at $4.65 a gallon.)
"Ok," she says. "But anything over $20 I need to see you driver's license."
"What?"
"Sorry, sir. It's not me. It's policy."
So I fish out my driver's license and hand it to her. She gives it back, rings me up, and hands me the paper to sign.
"Sign, please."
"Sure. Is there a pen?"
Now she has to find a pen.
OMG!
Trust me, I know I'm wasting everyone's time with this stupid blog rant about Shell. There are more important things. It's a gas station. Who cares? But it's the little things, isn't it? It's the little things that put a pall over everything else, or make the big things worse. And it's the little things like this post - that if there are enough of them - Shell puts an OUT OF ORDER sign on the pump that's out of order and puts the SERVICE back into their self service pumps.
C'mon, what the hell, Shell?!
I've been trying to avoid BP since they added to the further ruin of Louisiana. So today I used a Shell at Chicago and Orleans. It's a busy intersection so it's not without effort to get in there.
I saw an open pump at the end and cruised around. I got out of my car, put in my credit card, and punched in my zip. Okay, it said, you're good to go - pick you grade and filler up.
Only there was no hose.
A simple hand written sign would have been nice. Ok, not the end of the world.
I hit cancel, get back in my car and go around to the other end. I check to make sure there's a hose. (There is.) I put in my credit card, and punch in my zip. Now it says to see the cashier.
I go inside and explain that the pump said I needed to come in and see her. She asks how much I want. I say I want to fill it up.
"Oh, you need to leave your credit card here, and then come back."
What? Seriously? I just want to conveniently fill up my gas tank with a minimum of physical effort and go.
"No thanks," I say. "Let's just put in $50." (Because sadly, while this is a big chunk of change, I know it won't actually top my tank. A few years ago, sure. But not at $4.65 a gallon.)
"Ok," she says. "But anything over $20 I need to see you driver's license."
"What?"
"Sorry, sir. It's not me. It's policy."
So I fish out my driver's license and hand it to her. She gives it back, rings me up, and hands me the paper to sign.
"Sign, please."
"Sure. Is there a pen?"
Now she has to find a pen.
OMG!
Trust me, I know I'm wasting everyone's time with this stupid blog rant about Shell. There are more important things. It's a gas station. Who cares? But it's the little things, isn't it? It's the little things that put a pall over everything else, or make the big things worse. And it's the little things like this post - that if there are enough of them - Shell puts an OUT OF ORDER sign on the pump that's out of order and puts the SERVICE back into their self service pumps.
C'mon, what the hell, Shell?!
Monday, January 23, 2012
Cadence Pt. 2
(This is a follow up to my last socmed post - Cadence.)
Epiphany 5 - With Facebook, the internet now comes to you.
In theory.
Let's assume you have fifty friends. Yes, I understand that in real life you probably only have ten. But on Facebook it's easy to find yourself with some advanced popularity; as friendship maintenance only extends to some clicks here and there, and maybe a birthday wish.
It's not uncommon to see many of my friends and peers with more than a thousand friends - which seems crazy - but if you include real friends, high school friends, college friends, work friends, peer friends, client friends, family friends, spouse friends, girlfriend friends, boyfriend friends, parent's friends, kid's friends, church friends, synagogue friends, coven friends, book club friends, gym friends, volleyball friends, friend's friends, etc - it can add up.
(I personally have 500 or so friends on Facebook. Of course, only five might pick me up at the airport. Or call me on the phone.)
But I digress.
Ok, so how does the internet come to you? Well, firstly through your friends and family. Facebook is crowd-sourced; that is Facebook provides nothing but a software framework/architecture for you to post your thoughts and/or linked media.
So let's say you logged on the other day because you just wanted to see what's going on. In addition to seeing pictures of a friend's (or family member's) recent trip to NYC, a Washington Post article they just read, a video of Shit ____ Say they liked/shared, or an Instagrammed photo of what they ate for lunch; the other day was MLK Day. At least ONE of your friends posted a video of MLK's dream speech, a U2 video, or copied/pasted an MLK quote. Now you know it's MLK Day - the internet has walked up and slipped something under your door.
How else does the internet come to you?
In addition to your fifty friends, you've also subscribed to various personalities and brands. You've 'liked' NPR and the New York Times. You've also 'liked' various thought leaders, groups, and causes. So these, too, gently knock at your door, and show up in your news feed.
So, theoretically, that's how the internet comes to you.
Let's move on.
Epiphany 6 - There is no Emily Post of the internet age. So there are no rules/guidelines on what/when/how often to post.
But let's start with this: anything more than 5 posts a day is TOO much. Seriously. Do you really need to share and express EVERYTHING to EVERYONE? Must we know where you are at ALL times? And what you're eating? Do we NEED your thoughts on Paula Dean - although it is funny in a sad ironic way.
You're coming off as a little needy and/or seemingly desperate for attention. Just saying, but that's the takeaway. It looks like you're having a copy/paste rant fest at your computer.
Perhaps you're not getting enough attention/strokes in real life. Real life can be a drag. Totally understand.
Let's take a moment to get into some specifics:
Bible bangers: Here's the thing; I'm going to speak for the group here. We feel uncomfortable with the stuff about Jesus and how He has risen and so sayeth the LORD and blah blah blah. We don't go into your church and proselytize Facebook.
Politicos: You're preaching to the choir. Facebook is a closed set. None of my friends have anything nice to say about the GOP either. You ARE my friends. We're all on the same page/screen here. It's like shooting fish in a shot glass. That said, the petitions and Daily Show shares are pretty awesome.
Advertisers: You are creative, hip and cool. But think about your brand. Think about the message. Be careful not to water it down, or oversaturate the market. Sometimes it seems you're trying way... too... hard. Less is more. You know that.
Ranters: Get a blog.
Sycophanters: We see you. We know what you're doing. It's creepy.
Lurkers: Even creepier.
Supermoms: Your child is beautiful and smart. So is your dog. And so are your girlfriends from high school, college, and work. But not more than once a day. And probably not every single day. Let there be some mystery.
Superjocks: It's weird to see you cheering in a status update. It's like hearing a joke in real life and saying "LOL!" We get it - you're excited. It's just weird to see that you typed it out.
Superjock jocks: It's awesome you have a gym routine. But not EVERYONE needs to know it. Anything that has to do with electrolytes or body fluids should be your own business.
Ubernerds: The stuff about video game levels, needing magic coins, what Star Wars character you are, anything that has ville at the end, and waiting in a line overnight to buy the new Halo is all out loud. Girls can hear you.
Bottom line, I don't know.
I really don't.
It's a free country. You should be able to say/post whatever you want whenever you want however you want.
Of course, that's what Twitter is for.
Epiphany 5 - With Facebook, the internet now comes to you.
In theory.
Let's assume you have fifty friends. Yes, I understand that in real life you probably only have ten. But on Facebook it's easy to find yourself with some advanced popularity; as friendship maintenance only extends to some clicks here and there, and maybe a birthday wish.
It's not uncommon to see many of my friends and peers with more than a thousand friends - which seems crazy - but if you include real friends, high school friends, college friends, work friends, peer friends, client friends, family friends, spouse friends, girlfriend friends, boyfriend friends, parent's friends, kid's friends, church friends, synagogue friends, coven friends, book club friends, gym friends, volleyball friends, friend's friends, etc - it can add up.
(I personally have 500 or so friends on Facebook. Of course, only five might pick me up at the airport. Or call me on the phone.)
But I digress.
Ok, so how does the internet come to you? Well, firstly through your friends and family. Facebook is crowd-sourced; that is Facebook provides nothing but a software framework/architecture for you to post your thoughts and/or linked media.
So let's say you logged on the other day because you just wanted to see what's going on. In addition to seeing pictures of a friend's (or family member's) recent trip to NYC, a Washington Post article they just read, a video of Shit ____ Say they liked/shared, or an Instagrammed photo of what they ate for lunch; the other day was MLK Day. At least ONE of your friends posted a video of MLK's dream speech, a U2 video, or copied/pasted an MLK quote. Now you know it's MLK Day - the internet has walked up and slipped something under your door.
How else does the internet come to you?
In addition to your fifty friends, you've also subscribed to various personalities and brands. You've 'liked' NPR and the New York Times. You've also 'liked' various thought leaders, groups, and causes. So these, too, gently knock at your door, and show up in your news feed.
So, theoretically, that's how the internet comes to you.
Let's move on.
Epiphany 6 - There is no Emily Post of the internet age. So there are no rules/guidelines on what/when/how often to post.
But let's start with this: anything more than 5 posts a day is TOO much. Seriously. Do you really need to share and express EVERYTHING to EVERYONE? Must we know where you are at ALL times? And what you're eating? Do we NEED your thoughts on Paula Dean - although it is funny in a sad ironic way.
You're coming off as a little needy and/or seemingly desperate for attention. Just saying, but that's the takeaway. It looks like you're having a copy/paste rant fest at your computer.
Perhaps you're not getting enough attention/strokes in real life. Real life can be a drag. Totally understand.
Let's take a moment to get into some specifics:
Bible bangers: Here's the thing; I'm going to speak for the group here. We feel uncomfortable with the stuff about Jesus and how He has risen and so sayeth the LORD and blah blah blah. We don't go into your church and proselytize Facebook.
Politicos: You're preaching to the choir. Facebook is a closed set. None of my friends have anything nice to say about the GOP either. You ARE my friends. We're all on the same page/screen here. It's like shooting fish in a shot glass. That said, the petitions and Daily Show shares are pretty awesome.
Advertisers: You are creative, hip and cool. But think about your brand. Think about the message. Be careful not to water it down, or oversaturate the market. Sometimes it seems you're trying way... too... hard. Less is more. You know that.
Ranters: Get a blog.
Sycophanters: We see you. We know what you're doing. It's creepy.
Lurkers: Even creepier.
Supermoms: Your child is beautiful and smart. So is your dog. And so are your girlfriends from high school, college, and work. But not more than once a day. And probably not every single day. Let there be some mystery.
Superjocks: It's weird to see you cheering in a status update. It's like hearing a joke in real life and saying "LOL!" We get it - you're excited. It's just weird to see that you typed it out.
Superjock jocks: It's awesome you have a gym routine. But not EVERYONE needs to know it. Anything that has to do with electrolytes or body fluids should be your own business.
Ubernerds: The stuff about video game levels, needing magic coins, what Star Wars character you are, anything that has ville at the end, and waiting in a line overnight to buy the new Halo is all out loud. Girls can hear you.
Bottom line, I don't know.
I really don't.
It's a free country. You should be able to say/post whatever you want whenever you want however you want.
Of course, that's what Twitter is for.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Mobruary
In November I did Movember. I shaved cheek to chin and grew a mustache over the course of the month. It was weird to see/feel my entire naked jawline, but then I went back to my normal goatee in December and everything was fine.
However, I let the mustache part keep going. So now (mid-January) I have some sort of Captain Morgan/Civil War Major General thing going on.
But back in December I had an epiphany; maybe for the last couple decades I've had a kid's mustache. That is, I've let the facial topiary go to a 10 o'clock shadow, trimmed it back to 8, let it go to 10, trimmed it to 8.
Sort of the way a teenage boy brushes his teeth - just enough to avoid the dentist.
No, shadows and teeth aren't right.
Ok, it's more like an actual lawn. There's always good ground cover, but I never let the grass grow long enough to lay down on its own.
Ah, THAT'S my normal beardscape; like a suburban lawn mid-July.
Now that it's the middle of January, my yard is overgrown. My chin is shrub-like, and I can handlebar my mustache. Yes, I can twist the sides up into a smile.
It's sort of 'punk rock'. I get looks from people on the street. They're slightly scared, slightly in awe, slightly upset or disturbed - as if I've pierced my eyebrow, tattooed my neck, or gauged my earlobes.
My friends all say, "Dude, you look cool."
These friends all happen to be guys. I think they appreciate the balls I have to have this on my face. OR they want to see how long I'll go before I realize I look like a total ass.
No woman has said, on her own, that she liked it. If I ask they will smile, nod their head, lose eye contact momentarily as they regroup, and then tell me they think it's working. It's polite for, "You look like an ass."
All cards revealed, my wife does not care for it. I'm paraphrasing to make it sound that kind.
"I don't have a lot to work with up here," I said pointing to my bald dome. "So I'm just bringing it downstairs."
"I hate it," she said. "What happened to Shavecember?"
Yes, so, I'm a little slow. I'm into my handlebar mustache. I even bought a wax so I could 'train' the hairs to go to the side.
And this is where I understood that I've been sporting a child's mustache since college.
A MAN'S mustache - taking most notes from Tom Selleck and some from Burt Reynolds - has a flow. It has some sort of destination. It's thick and luxurious. Well, if not luxurious, it's serious - like a lion's mane. You shouldn't get too close.
A MAN'S mustache eats its own meal. It says, "I'm hungry now. Go make me a sandwich with meat in it."
A MAN'S mustache says to anyone within earshot, "Excuse me, I'm sitting here. I'm not merely passing though."
A MAN'S mustache yells at the guy on the bus. "You, over there! With the chin! Go ahead, take a picture with your phone! I will outlast it!"
I'm not a kid anymore, or George Michael. I needn't mess around with lengthy stubble. I should don a MAN's mustache, and groom it accordingly.
Having said that, please understand I am quite comfortable with my metrosexuality. I'll get all up in there to trim back the nasal forest, I'll shave down my ears, and I'll pull out the hairs that connect my eyebrows. No problem.
But the waxing of the 'stache might be too much. It seems a bit too 'precious'. I don't know I'm that much of a MAN.
The PROBLEM is that it's getting in my mouth. I feel like I'm sucking on a hair brush.
But the REAL problem is food. Food to a mustache is like wind to a combover. It ain't pretty.
"Dude, it that chicken?"
I had a conversation about trimming the other day with a friend.
"Maybe you should just cut the hairs in front," he said.
"No, I think that's weird," I said. "Because then it's like a mullet; all business in front and party on the sides."
However, I'm rethinking that. I'm rethinking all of it. It seems I barely have time for things I'm active. Who has time for all this manscaping?
My wife has suggested/demanded this thing be gone by Feb 14. It might make its exit sooner.
Mad props to the champion beardsmiths and mustache men. Mad props indeed.
[Addendum: Jan 31 - I began to feel like a woman whose long nails prevent her from making a phone call. So I trimmed back my facial garden. I can soup again.]
However, I let the mustache part keep going. So now (mid-January) I have some sort of Captain Morgan/Civil War Major General thing going on.
But back in December I had an epiphany; maybe for the last couple decades I've had a kid's mustache. That is, I've let the facial topiary go to a 10 o'clock shadow, trimmed it back to 8, let it go to 10, trimmed it to 8.
Sort of the way a teenage boy brushes his teeth - just enough to avoid the dentist.
No, shadows and teeth aren't right.
Ok, it's more like an actual lawn. There's always good ground cover, but I never let the grass grow long enough to lay down on its own.
Ah, THAT'S my normal beardscape; like a suburban lawn mid-July.
Now that it's the middle of January, my yard is overgrown. My chin is shrub-like, and I can handlebar my mustache. Yes, I can twist the sides up into a smile.
It's sort of 'punk rock'. I get looks from people on the street. They're slightly scared, slightly in awe, slightly upset or disturbed - as if I've pierced my eyebrow, tattooed my neck, or gauged my earlobes.
My friends all say, "Dude, you look cool."
These friends all happen to be guys. I think they appreciate the balls I have to have this on my face. OR they want to see how long I'll go before I realize I look like a total ass.
No woman has said, on her own, that she liked it. If I ask they will smile, nod their head, lose eye contact momentarily as they regroup, and then tell me they think it's working. It's polite for, "You look like an ass."
All cards revealed, my wife does not care for it. I'm paraphrasing to make it sound that kind.
"I don't have a lot to work with up here," I said pointing to my bald dome. "So I'm just bringing it downstairs."
"I hate it," she said. "What happened to Shavecember?"
Yes, so, I'm a little slow. I'm into my handlebar mustache. I even bought a wax so I could 'train' the hairs to go to the side.
And this is where I understood that I've been sporting a child's mustache since college.
A MAN'S mustache - taking most notes from Tom Selleck and some from Burt Reynolds - has a flow. It has some sort of destination. It's thick and luxurious. Well, if not luxurious, it's serious - like a lion's mane. You shouldn't get too close.
A MAN'S mustache eats its own meal. It says, "I'm hungry now. Go make me a sandwich with meat in it."
A MAN'S mustache says to anyone within earshot, "Excuse me, I'm sitting here. I'm not merely passing though."
A MAN'S mustache yells at the guy on the bus. "You, over there! With the chin! Go ahead, take a picture with your phone! I will outlast it!"
I'm not a kid anymore, or George Michael. I needn't mess around with lengthy stubble. I should don a MAN's mustache, and groom it accordingly.
Having said that, please understand I am quite comfortable with my metrosexuality. I'll get all up in there to trim back the nasal forest, I'll shave down my ears, and I'll pull out the hairs that connect my eyebrows. No problem.
But the waxing of the 'stache might be too much. It seems a bit too 'precious'. I don't know I'm that much of a MAN.
The PROBLEM is that it's getting in my mouth. I feel like I'm sucking on a hair brush.
But the REAL problem is food. Food to a mustache is like wind to a combover. It ain't pretty.
"Dude, it that chicken?"
I had a conversation about trimming the other day with a friend.
"Maybe you should just cut the hairs in front," he said.
"No, I think that's weird," I said. "Because then it's like a mullet; all business in front and party on the sides."
However, I'm rethinking that. I'm rethinking all of it. It seems I barely have time for things I'm active. Who has time for all this manscaping?
My wife has suggested/demanded this thing be gone by Feb 14. It might make its exit sooner.
Mad props to the champion beardsmiths and mustache men. Mad props indeed.
[Addendum: Jan 31 - I began to feel like a woman whose long nails prevent her from making a phone call. So I trimmed back my facial garden. I can soup again.]
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Dear @80degrees and @skeletonkey, or How I Stopped Clogging up the Stream and Learned to Love Instagram
Hi, how are you.
I'm fine, thanks.
I just wanted to take a moment to tell you how much I enjoy your photos. They are all beautiful.
BEAUTIFUL.
@80degrees - I know you. I am not surprised by your use of composition and color. I am not surprised at the poetry and rhythm of your subjects. I am not surprised how many 'likes' you get. @skeletonkey - holy crap! I had NO idea.
Before I fell down the Instagram rabbit hole, I thought it was all about a square format and filters. I mean, to a certain extent, it still is. But I was basically taking tons of pictures of my daughter and making it look like she was from the 70s. I was clogging up the stream.
And then @80degrees pointed out the warren for the field...
'Ah, I see. I get it now.'
Well, I'm still getting it, but what I think I got was that photography is the thing here.
Sure, you can take tons of snaps of your loved ones, and things you like to eat and drink and pet, but you're going to clog the stream. Instagrammers follow family, the famous, and photographers. They don't want to see ALL those shots of your kid on the slide. They want your best ONE. Or maybe TWO if they're really good.
So now I take pictures with my other apps - although mostly the one that came with the phone. But then I put these pictures through my arsenal of photo/art apps. And THEN I bring them to Instagram.
I'm into it.
Of course, if I were REALLY into it, I would know the right #iphoneograpy hashtags, and I would know my emoji keyboard as well as my qwerty keyboard. Also, I would make time to give the proper props to everyone who has labored over their digital and mobile works of art, and I would thank everyone who has propped mine.
But sometimes I take time and pay attention.
I've noticed you, @skeletonkey. Different, but perhaps from the same school as @80degrees; clean lines, great use of color and/or contrast, strong compositions. And as it happened, the other day I put 5 and 6 together and got something near a dozen, specifically when I clicked on your profile.
Holy crap, that's Marielle! No way! She's just a kid. Oh, wait a second, she's actually a teenager. Whoa... How did that happen?
Ahem...
So, @skeletonkey, you are your own artist. You have a confident and surprisingly mature eye. That said, it's easy to see the apple doesn't fall from the tree that happens along the way. Good work, both of you!
----
@skeletonkey
----
@80degrees
----
Lynx:
Tumblr VX4
decim8
PictureShow
SnapSeed
DynamicLight
PhotoForge2
Tiny Planet
@r_von_sugarfoot - me
@tselliot
@tresawesome
@daniellarosario
@jvdt
@snoopdogg
@anton_in_nyc
@violasoprano
@tonydetroit
@awnoom
@happy5lucky
@ria
@5i
I'm fine, thanks.
I just wanted to take a moment to tell you how much I enjoy your photos. They are all beautiful.
BEAUTIFUL.
@80degrees - I know you. I am not surprised by your use of composition and color. I am not surprised at the poetry and rhythm of your subjects. I am not surprised how many 'likes' you get. @skeletonkey - holy crap! I had NO idea.
Before I fell down the Instagram rabbit hole, I thought it was all about a square format and filters. I mean, to a certain extent, it still is. But I was basically taking tons of pictures of my daughter and making it look like she was from the 70s. I was clogging up the stream.
And then @80degrees pointed out the warren for the field...
'Ah, I see. I get it now.'
Well, I'm still getting it, but what I think I got was that photography is the thing here.
Sure, you can take tons of snaps of your loved ones, and things you like to eat and drink and pet, but you're going to clog the stream. Instagrammers follow family, the famous, and photographers. They don't want to see ALL those shots of your kid on the slide. They want your best ONE. Or maybe TWO if they're really good.
So now I take pictures with my other apps - although mostly the one that came with the phone. But then I put these pictures through my arsenal of photo/art apps. And THEN I bring them to Instagram.
I'm into it.
Of course, if I were REALLY into it, I would know the right #iphoneograpy hashtags, and I would know my emoji keyboard as well as my qwerty keyboard. Also, I would make time to give the proper props to everyone who has labored over their digital and mobile works of art, and I would thank everyone who has propped mine.
But sometimes I take time and pay attention.
I've noticed you, @skeletonkey. Different, but perhaps from the same school as @80degrees; clean lines, great use of color and/or contrast, strong compositions. And as it happened, the other day I put 5 and 6 together and got something near a dozen, specifically when I clicked on your profile.
Holy crap, that's Marielle! No way! She's just a kid. Oh, wait a second, she's actually a teenager. Whoa... How did that happen?
Ahem...
So, @skeletonkey, you are your own artist. You have a confident and surprisingly mature eye. That said, it's easy to see the apple doesn't fall from the tree that happens along the way. Good work, both of you!
----
@skeletonkey
----
@80degrees
----
Lynx:
Tumblr VX4
decim8
PictureShow
SnapSeed
DynamicLight
PhotoForge2
Tiny Planet
@r_von_sugarfoot - me
@tselliot
@tresawesome
@daniellarosario
@jvdt
@snoopdogg
@anton_in_nyc
@violasoprano
@tonydetroit
@awnoom
@happy5lucky
@ria
@5i
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