With apologies to A.E. Housman
The time you won this town the game
We cheered your skills and praised your name;
Painted men stood cheering by,
And owner Ralph said you're his guy.
To-day, the road all true fans come,
Shoulder-high we send you home,
Once your family's settled down,
We'll pack a truck that's leaving town.
Smart lad, pink slip sends you away
From fields where All-Pros would not play,
And while resentment here did grow
Now you are free from shock jock shows.
Your sunglasses could never shield
Embarrassments upon the field,
Tho' angry shouts replaced the cheers,
Now media you need not fear:
No more must you withstand the rout
With lads whose contracts soon run out,
And DBs who were oft outran;
Coordinators lacking plans.
So go, the echoes long have faded,
Your effigy no more paraded,
Once your contract's been torn up
You may pursue the North's Grey Cup!
And past your New Era-capped head
We'll run to flog Perry instead,
And hope to hear within the hour
A long-term contract with Bill Cowher.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Never Gonna Give You Up
Marissa’s crying. Uh-oh. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t ever want to leave my purpilicious room, Daddy.”
“Oh, honey, you don’t have to leave your purpilicious room until you’re much, much older.”
The tears start to flow. “But I don’t ever want to leave my purpilicious room!” Shoulders are heaving, nose is running.
“You’re gonna have to leave your room to go to kindergarten next year. You can’t stay in your room all day.”
“I know that Daddy. But I always want to play with my ponies in my purpilicious room. I want to take my clothes out of my dresser. And I always want to go to bed in my purpilicious room.
I hear what sounds like a puma clambering up the stairs, something lithe and swift and ready to pounce. It’s Stephanie. “What’s wrong up here?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mommy. Marissa doesn’t want to leave her room.”
“She needs a bath. Marissa, you need a bath.”
“I know I need a bath.”
“What’s the matter with you, then?”
“I don’t want to leave my purpilicious room, Mommy!” Tears are gushing now.
“What is she talking about.”
“She doesn’t want to leave her room.”
Frown. “I got that part. What does it mean?”
“I think it means she doesn’t ever want to move out of the house.”
“Where did that come from? What did you say to her?”
“I didn’t say anything to her. I brought her upstairs, told her to put her clothes in the hamper, and she started on this.”
“Marissa, you don’t have to leave your room for a long, long, long time. You don’t have to leave until you’re in college.”
“But I don’t ever want to leave!”
“Daddy, she’s tired. She got up early, went to preschool, and then she was playing with Gianna all day.”
“I don’t ever want to leave!”
“Sweetie, you don’t ever have to leave, ever. You can stay in Daddy’s house forever. You can watch our TV, you can eat at our dining room table, and you can sleep in your purpilicious room. And when you have a baby, we’ll put the cradle in your room, and you and your baby can sleep together in here. All right?”
Sniff sniff. “Awright.”
“Go read her a book, Daddy.”
“How ‘bout Oh, the Places You’ll Go?”
“Funny, Daddy.”
“I don’t ever want to leave my purpilicious room, Daddy.”
“Oh, honey, you don’t have to leave your purpilicious room until you’re much, much older.”
The tears start to flow. “But I don’t ever want to leave my purpilicious room!” Shoulders are heaving, nose is running.
“You’re gonna have to leave your room to go to kindergarten next year. You can’t stay in your room all day.”
“I know that Daddy. But I always want to play with my ponies in my purpilicious room. I want to take my clothes out of my dresser. And I always want to go to bed in my purpilicious room.
I hear what sounds like a puma clambering up the stairs, something lithe and swift and ready to pounce. It’s Stephanie. “What’s wrong up here?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mommy. Marissa doesn’t want to leave her room.”
“She needs a bath. Marissa, you need a bath.”
“I know I need a bath.”
“What’s the matter with you, then?”
“I don’t want to leave my purpilicious room, Mommy!” Tears are gushing now.
“What is she talking about.”
“She doesn’t want to leave her room.”
Frown. “I got that part. What does it mean?”
“I think it means she doesn’t ever want to move out of the house.”
“Where did that come from? What did you say to her?”
“I didn’t say anything to her. I brought her upstairs, told her to put her clothes in the hamper, and she started on this.”
“Marissa, you don’t have to leave your room for a long, long, long time. You don’t have to leave until you’re in college.”
“But I don’t ever want to leave!”
“Daddy, she’s tired. She got up early, went to preschool, and then she was playing with Gianna all day.”
“I don’t ever want to leave!”
“Sweetie, you don’t ever have to leave, ever. You can stay in Daddy’s house forever. You can watch our TV, you can eat at our dining room table, and you can sleep in your purpilicious room. And when you have a baby, we’ll put the cradle in your room, and you and your baby can sleep together in here. All right?”
Sniff sniff. “Awright.”
“Go read her a book, Daddy.”
“How ‘bout Oh, the Places You’ll Go?”
“Funny, Daddy.”
Monday, August 24, 2009
Coffee's for Closers
“Hi, may I help you?”
“Yes, I need a new phone for my wife. We’re just looking for something simple, and when she was in here yesterday, she saw…”
“Well, we have this nice iPhone over here, it has email, video and MP3 playback, a high-resolution camera, a full keyboard, an appointment scheduler...”
“Yeah, well, that’s nice, but she just needs a phone for calls and texts.”
“Oh. I see. That’s too bad, because this phone over here is a next-generation unit, where she could send emails, check the weather, keep her appointments.”
“We just want a regular phone, nothing fancy. What about this one over here?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That phone’s really out of date, last generation. The quality isn’t that good, and…”
“But you’re still selling it, right? It works, right?”
“It’s OK.”
“Well, that’s what I want.”
“OK.” Sighs heavily. “How can we help your wife maximize the productivity of this phone? How about a phone charger or a Bluetooth?”
“No, we’re good.”
“Really? We’ve got a law in this state that you gotta be hands-free when you’re driving. It’s really convenient when you’re wife is late or in a hurry.”
“You know her well.”
“And you don’t always get a chance to recharge the phone before heading out the door for dance lessons or the baseball game.”
“Seriously, we’re good. So I can get this phone for $9.95? That’s what it says here.”
Squints at sign. “Well, that’s what it says, but let me check. Hmm, I’m sorry. You need to have a $20 text or data plan.”
“Sounds good to me. I have an unlimited texting plan.”
“No, you have to buy a new service or bundle that adds up to an additional $20 a month or more.”
“Really. How much without the discount?”
“$39.95.”
“That'll work. We'll go that way, then.”
“How about a telephone protection plan?”
“A what?”
“A telephone protection plan. If something happens to your phone, we’ll replace it for a nominal fee.”
“Is that like life insurance for my phone?”
Smiles. “Exactly.”
Smiles. “No thanks. I think Obama’s gonna cover that in his health plan.”
Smile turns to frown. “OK, then, but if this phone gets lost or damaged, it will cost $200 to replace it.”
“Two hundred dollars? For this phone? A last generation phone without a keyboard that won’t do email or let you check the Web for weather?”
“That's correct, sir.”
“Still don’t want it.”
“Here you go. Now, if you get a phone call asking about the assistance I provided to you today, I would like you to feel comfortable giving me a five, the highest rating. Is there anything else I can do for you today that would help me get that five?”
“Besides trying to tell me a phone I don’t want and accessories I won’t use, badmouthing the phone I actually have an interest in , telling me I can get a $30 discount only if I agree to spend an additional $500 over the next two years, and then tell me it will cost $200 – the retail price of a notebook computer – to replace my last-generation, no email, no weather, no appointments phone?
Narrows eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“How about a moist towelette? For some reason, I feel dirty.”
“Yes, I need a new phone for my wife. We’re just looking for something simple, and when she was in here yesterday, she saw…”
“Well, we have this nice iPhone over here, it has email, video and MP3 playback, a high-resolution camera, a full keyboard, an appointment scheduler...”
“Yeah, well, that’s nice, but she just needs a phone for calls and texts.”
“Oh. I see. That’s too bad, because this phone over here is a next-generation unit, where she could send emails, check the weather, keep her appointments.”
“We just want a regular phone, nothing fancy. What about this one over here?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That phone’s really out of date, last generation. The quality isn’t that good, and…”
“But you’re still selling it, right? It works, right?”
“It’s OK.”
“Well, that’s what I want.”
“OK.” Sighs heavily. “How can we help your wife maximize the productivity of this phone? How about a phone charger or a Bluetooth?”
“No, we’re good.”
“Really? We’ve got a law in this state that you gotta be hands-free when you’re driving. It’s really convenient when you’re wife is late or in a hurry.”
“You know her well.”
“And you don’t always get a chance to recharge the phone before heading out the door for dance lessons or the baseball game.”
“Seriously, we’re good. So I can get this phone for $9.95? That’s what it says here.”
Squints at sign. “Well, that’s what it says, but let me check. Hmm, I’m sorry. You need to have a $20 text or data plan.”
“Sounds good to me. I have an unlimited texting plan.”
“No, you have to buy a new service or bundle that adds up to an additional $20 a month or more.”
“Really. How much without the discount?”
“$39.95.”
“That'll work. We'll go that way, then.”
“How about a telephone protection plan?”
“A what?”
“A telephone protection plan. If something happens to your phone, we’ll replace it for a nominal fee.”
“Is that like life insurance for my phone?”
Smiles. “Exactly.”
Smiles. “No thanks. I think Obama’s gonna cover that in his health plan.”
Smile turns to frown. “OK, then, but if this phone gets lost or damaged, it will cost $200 to replace it.”
“Two hundred dollars? For this phone? A last generation phone without a keyboard that won’t do email or let you check the Web for weather?”
“That's correct, sir.”
“Still don’t want it.”
“Here you go. Now, if you get a phone call asking about the assistance I provided to you today, I would like you to feel comfortable giving me a five, the highest rating. Is there anything else I can do for you today that would help me get that five?”
“Besides trying to tell me a phone I don’t want and accessories I won’t use, badmouthing the phone I actually have an interest in , telling me I can get a $30 discount only if I agree to spend an additional $500 over the next two years, and then tell me it will cost $200 – the retail price of a notebook computer – to replace my last-generation, no email, no weather, no appointments phone?
Narrows eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“How about a moist towelette? For some reason, I feel dirty.”
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Just Like Me, They Long to Be, Close to You
Marissa and I almost hit a deer today.
She bounded out at us near Tonawanda Creek as we were traveling to Mucka's house.
Mucka is the name my mother-in-law assigned herself when her first grandchildren were born. I've always insisted she did so to avoid being called "Grandma," which would make it seem like she was old.
Anyway, we were cruising along minding our own business when I heard a rustling from the brush at the side of the road. All of a sudden, boom! There she was, a full grown female, clambering up onto the road.
I didn't have time to hit the brakes, but fortunately I didn't need to. The deer was in no mood to linger, and she skittered across the road and disappeared into the brush at the other side.
It's a good thing we didn't plow into this deer. It was the biggest damn deer I've ever seen up close.
Besides, Marissa and I were on a bicycle.
She bounded out at us near Tonawanda Creek as we were traveling to Mucka's house.
Mucka is the name my mother-in-law assigned herself when her first grandchildren were born. I've always insisted she did so to avoid being called "Grandma," which would make it seem like she was old.
Anyway, we were cruising along minding our own business when I heard a rustling from the brush at the side of the road. All of a sudden, boom! There she was, a full grown female, clambering up onto the road.
I didn't have time to hit the brakes, but fortunately I didn't need to. The deer was in no mood to linger, and she skittered across the road and disappeared into the brush at the other side.
It's a good thing we didn't plow into this deer. It was the biggest damn deer I've ever seen up close.
Besides, Marissa and I were on a bicycle.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Dance, Little Sister
"Where are you?"
"Uh, I'm in the truck. Where are you?"
"We're here at the school, and we can't find the Snow Princess."
"She should be there. What school are you at, anyway?"
"Sweet Home High School."
"Is that the one on Sweet Home Road?"
"Yeah."
"You're at the wrong school. The recital is at Sweet Home Middle School, on Maple."
"Dammit! Good-bye!"
* * * * * * * * *
Thus began Marissa's Dance Recital, a gathering of about a hundred girls ages four to 18, each performing for five minutes while forcing their fathers to fidget in their seats nervously for the other 2-1/2 hours they're not on stage.
I know what to do at a sporting event. When your kid's at bat or on the football field, you focus on your kid. When your kid is on the sideline or in the dugout, you watch the ball.
Tell me, where am I supposed to focus at a dance recital when my Little Princess is not on stage? Do I stare at the best dancer and risk being accused of leering unseemingly? Or do I stare at the worst dancer and risk being accused of insensitivity?
Heaven help me if I leaf through the program; that makes me look like I'm ready to leave.
Last year, I entertained myself by texting my sister during the performance:
"The male dance teacher is doing a solo. I think grandpa just swallowed his tongue."
"How can you call this thing a dance recital if there isn't a brass pole?"
"I think we call that one The Can't-Can't."
* * * * * * * * *
The curtain pulled back, the stage lights came up, and a squeal erupted from the audience. It was time for the Little Princess' dance crew, a collection of six little princesses all five years and under teetering out to their starting positions on the stage.
Shirley Temple started belting out "On the good ship, Lollipop...", and in unison, all the girls looked to the left side of the stage and tentatively started their routine. You could tell that they knew what to do, they just didn't know when they were supposed to do it. You could almost see the lightbulbs going off over the girls' perfectly coiffed heads as they realized "Oh, that's what I'm supposed to do."
"What are they looking at?" someone in our group asked.
"Their teacher. She's standing off to the side."
Four minutes later, the music wrapped up. The girls attempted to curtsy -- awkward as it is in their brand-new costumes -- and then scampered off the stage to the roars of the crowd.
* * * * * * * * *
"Excuse me, sir."
She can't be talking to me. Nobody calls me sir.
"Sir, excuse me."
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I looked up to see a middle-aged woman with a clipboard and a headset shaking her head at me. Geez, woman, how much trouble could I get into this sober? "Yes?"
"You can't be back here."
"I just came back here to see my Little Princess. She was in the second number, and she won't be going back out there until the..."
"That's OK. You still can't be back here. According to state law, this is technically a women's changing room, so it's illegal for you to be back here."
I stared at her for a minute and started walking for the door. "I didn't see a sign. Was there a sign?"
"Thank you, sir." Slam!
* * * * * * * * *
Everybody gets flowers at a dance recital. The Little Princess got a bouquet, of course, and you won't get any dispute from me. So did her teacher, the 17-year-old who got paid minimum wage to try to teach six five-year-olds how to dance in unison, more or less, and then had to listen to the six mothers of the five-year-olds complain about how she went about it.
The owner of the dance joint? Even though we paid her a hundred bucks a month -- maybe more, I don't know, the Snow Princess hides the actual costs from me -- and even though she was struggling under the weight of enough flowers to pay for the florist's condo at Myrtle Beach for the Fourth of July holiday weekend, we had to give her flowers too.
"Here you go!" Marissa said excitedly as she shoved the flowers at the owner.
"Mmph. Thanks, Jordan."
"It's Marissa."
"Of course it is. Thanks, Marissa! See you in the fall!"
Grrrr.
"Uh, I'm in the truck. Where are you?"
"We're here at the school, and we can't find the Snow Princess."
"She should be there. What school are you at, anyway?"
"Sweet Home High School."
"Is that the one on Sweet Home Road?"
"Yeah."
"You're at the wrong school. The recital is at Sweet Home Middle School, on Maple."
"Dammit! Good-bye!"
* * * * * * * * *
Thus began Marissa's Dance Recital, a gathering of about a hundred girls ages four to 18, each performing for five minutes while forcing their fathers to fidget in their seats nervously for the other 2-1/2 hours they're not on stage.
I know what to do at a sporting event. When your kid's at bat or on the football field, you focus on your kid. When your kid is on the sideline or in the dugout, you watch the ball.
Tell me, where am I supposed to focus at a dance recital when my Little Princess is not on stage? Do I stare at the best dancer and risk being accused of leering unseemingly? Or do I stare at the worst dancer and risk being accused of insensitivity?
Heaven help me if I leaf through the program; that makes me look like I'm ready to leave.
Last year, I entertained myself by texting my sister during the performance:
"The male dance teacher is doing a solo. I think grandpa just swallowed his tongue."
"How can you call this thing a dance recital if there isn't a brass pole?"
"I think we call that one The Can't-Can't."
* * * * * * * * *
The curtain pulled back, the stage lights came up, and a squeal erupted from the audience. It was time for the Little Princess' dance crew, a collection of six little princesses all five years and under teetering out to their starting positions on the stage.
Shirley Temple started belting out "On the good ship, Lollipop...", and in unison, all the girls looked to the left side of the stage and tentatively started their routine. You could tell that they knew what to do, they just didn't know when they were supposed to do it. You could almost see the lightbulbs going off over the girls' perfectly coiffed heads as they realized "Oh, that's what I'm supposed to do."
"What are they looking at?" someone in our group asked.
"Their teacher. She's standing off to the side."
Four minutes later, the music wrapped up. The girls attempted to curtsy -- awkward as it is in their brand-new costumes -- and then scampered off the stage to the roars of the crowd.
* * * * * * * * *
"Excuse me, sir."
She can't be talking to me. Nobody calls me sir.
"Sir, excuse me."
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I looked up to see a middle-aged woman with a clipboard and a headset shaking her head at me. Geez, woman, how much trouble could I get into this sober? "Yes?"
"You can't be back here."
"I just came back here to see my Little Princess. She was in the second number, and she won't be going back out there until the..."
"That's OK. You still can't be back here. According to state law, this is technically a women's changing room, so it's illegal for you to be back here."
I stared at her for a minute and started walking for the door. "I didn't see a sign. Was there a sign?"
"Thank you, sir." Slam!
* * * * * * * * *
Everybody gets flowers at a dance recital. The Little Princess got a bouquet, of course, and you won't get any dispute from me. So did her teacher, the 17-year-old who got paid minimum wage to try to teach six five-year-olds how to dance in unison, more or less, and then had to listen to the six mothers of the five-year-olds complain about how she went about it.
The owner of the dance joint? Even though we paid her a hundred bucks a month -- maybe more, I don't know, the Snow Princess hides the actual costs from me -- and even though she was struggling under the weight of enough flowers to pay for the florist's condo at Myrtle Beach for the Fourth of July holiday weekend, we had to give her flowers too.
"Here you go!" Marissa said excitedly as she shoved the flowers at the owner.
"Mmph. Thanks, Jordan."
"It's Marissa."
"Of course it is. Thanks, Marissa! See you in the fall!"
Grrrr.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Whatever
What does it mean when I say whatever? Whatever means stop, I heard you.
Whatever means I want you to cease with the pitch, your salesmanship is not working.
Whatever means I've heard what you had to say, I've processed it, and I've decided that anything else you have to say is just going to be endless variations on a theme.
Whatever means while you have gone to great length to state your position, it is, after all, your position, and one where you're just trying to get me to do something that benefits you.
Whatever means I fail to see what's in it for me, and while that may be selfish or narcissistic, the only person in the conversation we just had who is going to look out for my interests is, after all, me.
Whatever means I respect you enough to say "whatever," when I could just as easily smile, nod my head, and then walk away, as I would do if I trusted you less.
Whatever means it's time to go back to work and I'll probably do it anyway; just stop trying to convince me that I stand to benefit too.
Whatever is not about you. Whatever is how I protect myself, keep myself sane.
Whatever means "yes, but."
Now go away before I say no.
Whatever means I want you to cease with the pitch, your salesmanship is not working.
Whatever means I've heard what you had to say, I've processed it, and I've decided that anything else you have to say is just going to be endless variations on a theme.
Whatever means while you have gone to great length to state your position, it is, after all, your position, and one where you're just trying to get me to do something that benefits you.
Whatever means I fail to see what's in it for me, and while that may be selfish or narcissistic, the only person in the conversation we just had who is going to look out for my interests is, after all, me.
Whatever means I respect you enough to say "whatever," when I could just as easily smile, nod my head, and then walk away, as I would do if I trusted you less.
Whatever means it's time to go back to work and I'll probably do it anyway; just stop trying to convince me that I stand to benefit too.
Whatever is not about you. Whatever is how I protect myself, keep myself sane.
Whatever means "yes, but."
Now go away before I say no.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Things That Make You Go "Hmmmm"
Fact 1:
"In 2008, total national health expenditures were expected to rise 6.9 percent -- two times the rate of inflation. Total spending was $2.4 TRILLION in 2007, or $7900 per person. Total health care spending represented 17 percent of the gross domestic product (GDP). U.S. health care spending is expected to increase at similar levels for the next decade reaching $4.3 TRILLION in 2017, or 20 percent of GDP." -- National Coalition on Health Care
Fact 2:
"Find out if you qualify for a Power Chair or Mobility Scooter at Little or No Cost to You!"
The SCOOTER Store is America's number one provider of power chairs and scooters for one simple reason - we make it easier for you to use your Medicare benefit to help you get the mobility you need. Medicare could cover 80% of the cost of your new power chair or scooter. And if you have supplemental insurance, it may cover the remaining 20%. That means the mobility you need could cost you little to nothing!-- The Scooter Store
Retail cost for a Power Chair or Mobility Scooter: $1,395 to $6,700.
These two facts are not even remotely related, I'm sure.
"In 2008, total national health expenditures were expected to rise 6.9 percent -- two times the rate of inflation. Total spending was $2.4 TRILLION in 2007, or $7900 per person. Total health care spending represented 17 percent of the gross domestic product (GDP). U.S. health care spending is expected to increase at similar levels for the next decade reaching $4.3 TRILLION in 2017, or 20 percent of GDP." -- National Coalition on Health Care
Fact 2:
"Find out if you qualify for a Power Chair or Mobility Scooter at Little or No Cost to You!"
The SCOOTER Store is America's number one provider of power chairs and scooters for one simple reason - we make it easier for you to use your Medicare benefit to help you get the mobility you need. Medicare could cover 80% of the cost of your new power chair or scooter. And if you have supplemental insurance, it may cover the remaining 20%. That means the mobility you need could cost you little to nothing!-- The Scooter Store
Retail cost for a Power Chair or Mobility Scooter: $1,395 to $6,700.
These two facts are not even remotely related, I'm sure.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tramps Like Us, Baby We Were Born to Run
Why I like running:
1. It's a break in the middle of the workday.
2. I love the smell of sunscreen in the morning.
3. My lungs feel amazingly clear lately, and I can see the inches melting off my mid-section
4. I can catch up on podcasts.
5. It's a thrill to run under planes as they land at the Buffalo-Niagara Airport a few hundred yards away.
6. Human beings were meant to be outside in the sun, not hiding in a cave staring at screen turning on and off 70 times a second.
7. It's an excuse for me to forego the non-fat salad dressing, diet soda, and the like. "I ran today, I can eat what I want."
8. A little sweat never hurt anyone. Neither did a lot of sweat.
9. I crave a little alone time in my day to order my thoughts.
10. Clif bars taste awesome, especially the carrot cake flavor.
Why I hate running:
1. I loathe the actual running part of running.
1. It's a break in the middle of the workday.
2. I love the smell of sunscreen in the morning.
3. My lungs feel amazingly clear lately, and I can see the inches melting off my mid-section
4. I can catch up on podcasts.
5. It's a thrill to run under planes as they land at the Buffalo-Niagara Airport a few hundred yards away.
6. Human beings were meant to be outside in the sun, not hiding in a cave staring at screen turning on and off 70 times a second.
7. It's an excuse for me to forego the non-fat salad dressing, diet soda, and the like. "I ran today, I can eat what I want."
8. A little sweat never hurt anyone. Neither did a lot of sweat.
9. I crave a little alone time in my day to order my thoughts.
10. Clif bars taste awesome, especially the carrot cake flavor.
Why I hate running:
1. I loathe the actual running part of running.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
See Me
On the way home tonight, the sun is blazing on the Main Street campus of Erie Community College, a maze of one-story buildings on an oversized city block surrounded by a sea of asphalt and athletic fields.
I cut past the campus on an access road next to the parking lots to avoid traffic lights and the corresponding logjam at quitting time, especially with all the road construction in the immediate vicinity.
As I zip along, I glance to my left to see a weight bench on the grass near the baseball field. Hmm, that's odd.
Not quite odd enough. The leg lift is loaded with free weights, a barbell is positioned next to it, and there's a dude, shirt off, stretching next to a pickup truck.
Got it. The basement is a vast disappointment, and the gym does not present the appropriate platform. No, for this guy, the only way to make a proper spectacle of himself is to load up his bench and weights in the back of the pickup, haul them down to the community college, and unload them behind the outfield fence so everyone can get an eyeful.
Well played, my good sir. Well played, indeed.
I cut past the campus on an access road next to the parking lots to avoid traffic lights and the corresponding logjam at quitting time, especially with all the road construction in the immediate vicinity.
As I zip along, I glance to my left to see a weight bench on the grass near the baseball field. Hmm, that's odd.
Not quite odd enough. The leg lift is loaded with free weights, a barbell is positioned next to it, and there's a dude, shirt off, stretching next to a pickup truck.
Got it. The basement is a vast disappointment, and the gym does not present the appropriate platform. No, for this guy, the only way to make a proper spectacle of himself is to load up his bench and weights in the back of the pickup, haul them down to the community college, and unload them behind the outfield fence so everyone can get an eyeful.
Well played, my good sir. Well played, indeed.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Too Much Time on My Hands
Given the whole of human history, exercise is such an extremely odd phenomenon.
For many of us, the task of living our everyday lives is not physically demanding enough, so we have to spend thousands on proper equipment and admission to special social clubs in order to voluntarily torture our bodies into shape.
How could you possibly explain this to someone from the time Jesus walked the earth, or the Civil War, or even World World II?
"You see, Mr. Caveman, and, ha-ha, this is the funny part, we really don't have to work anymore throughout the vast majority of our lives. We don't have to track, hunt, kill or butcher animals for food; we just lift it out of the freezer case.
"We don't even have to chop and haul wood, nor do we have to labor to start fires; we just push a button in our house, er, cave."
Isn't it patently ridiculous what many of us spend to have someone else show us how to work? Pilates? Spinning class? Step aerobics? The sweaty dividends fueled by a desire to look and feel healthy all went by other names previously: laundry, cooking, cleaning, hunting, farming, splitting wood.
I have an awful lot of respect for anyone who performs physical labor to earn a living these days., and it's why shows like "Dirty Jobs" and "Ax Men" are doing well on cable. It's been so long since many of us have seen work that brings sweat to one's brow, it's impossible to take our eyes off it when we come across it.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go pop a couple Advil. My calves are sore after my jog today because my orthotics didn't provide adequate support for my elongated stride.
Sigh.
For many of us, the task of living our everyday lives is not physically demanding enough, so we have to spend thousands on proper equipment and admission to special social clubs in order to voluntarily torture our bodies into shape.
How could you possibly explain this to someone from the time Jesus walked the earth, or the Civil War, or even World World II?
"You see, Mr. Caveman, and, ha-ha, this is the funny part, we really don't have to work anymore throughout the vast majority of our lives. We don't have to track, hunt, kill or butcher animals for food; we just lift it out of the freezer case.
"We don't even have to chop and haul wood, nor do we have to labor to start fires; we just push a button in our house, er, cave."
Isn't it patently ridiculous what many of us spend to have someone else show us how to work? Pilates? Spinning class? Step aerobics? The sweaty dividends fueled by a desire to look and feel healthy all went by other names previously: laundry, cooking, cleaning, hunting, farming, splitting wood.
I have an awful lot of respect for anyone who performs physical labor to earn a living these days., and it's why shows like "Dirty Jobs" and "Ax Men" are doing well on cable. It's been so long since many of us have seen work that brings sweat to one's brow, it's impossible to take our eyes off it when we come across it.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go pop a couple Advil. My calves are sore after my jog today because my orthotics didn't provide adequate support for my elongated stride.
Sigh.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Reach Out and Touch Someone
C'mon, c'mon.
"You have reached..."
Zero. Zero gets the operator, right? C'mon, be there.
"One moment please."
Sigh.
"Hello?"
"Hi. Can you connect me to the intern station, please?"
"Uh, sure. Hang on."
I can't believe I did this. This is what happens when you get out of your routine.
"He's not there. Is there someone else who can help you?"
"I need a male."
"Excuse me?"
Sigh. "This is Bob, I'm in the..."
"Oh, hi Bob. I thought it was you. Why are you calling from this number?"
"I'm on my cell phone, and I'm in the locker room."
Pause. "OK."
"I'm in the locker room, but I forgot my gym bag. So I need a male, a guy, to go into my office, grab my gym bag and bring it to me here in the locker room."
"I can see if anyone is around. It is lunchtime, after all."
"I'm sorry. I'm already...no, I've just...I'm so sorry. Let's put it this way: If I have to go back to my office myself to get it, I'll need a towel."
Sound of muffled snickering. "I see. Hang tight. The cavalry is coming."
"You have reached..."
Zero. Zero gets the operator, right? C'mon, be there.
"One moment please."
Sigh.
"Hello?"
"Hi. Can you connect me to the intern station, please?"
"Uh, sure. Hang on."
I can't believe I did this. This is what happens when you get out of your routine.
"He's not there. Is there someone else who can help you?"
"I need a male."
"Excuse me?"
Sigh. "This is Bob, I'm in the..."
"Oh, hi Bob. I thought it was you. Why are you calling from this number?"
"I'm on my cell phone, and I'm in the locker room."
Pause. "OK."
"I'm in the locker room, but I forgot my gym bag. So I need a male, a guy, to go into my office, grab my gym bag and bring it to me here in the locker room."
"I can see if anyone is around. It is lunchtime, after all."
"I'm sorry. I'm already...no, I've just...I'm so sorry. Let's put it this way: If I have to go back to my office myself to get it, I'll need a towel."
Sound of muffled snickering. "I see. Hang tight. The cavalry is coming."
Monday, June 15, 2009
Sugar-Free Symphony
We came for a birthday
We came for some cake!
A big slab of chocolate --
I'll always partake
I sat with my fork
And my plate at the ready.
"Come on! Pass the cake
Please! I'm hungry already!"
But Karen said something
That left me uneasy
"It's made without sugar."
My stomach got queasy.
"A sugar-less cake? Why
I think that I'll pass.
A flavor-less cake is
More likely," I sassed.
"Why don't you just try it,
You big, whiny wuss.
And if you don't like it
That leaves more for us!"
I took a small sliver
While everyone stared.
I winced as I bit it.
"Not bad!" I declared.
My eyes were wide open!
And for the first time
I'd tasted a sugar-free
Food quite divine!
A sugar-free cake can be
Tasty and yummy!
"I need more delicious cake
Here, in my tummy!"
My mouth was in heaven
I couldn't believe it!
I ate fourteen pieces.
It's hard to conceive it!
My belly was bursting
My chewer was sore
I took half a sick day
And dragged out the door.
Suddenly queasy.
I couldn't deny
That eating so much cake
Would simply not fly.
A gurgling, a churning
Was burning my guts
Perhaps fourteen pieces
Of cake was plain nuts?
I jumped in my Saturn
And sped off for home.
My belly protested
For driving too slow.
I weaved through stopped traffic,
Careened at high speed
If I didn't hurry
New boxers, I'd need.
I pulled in my driveway
My bowels I implored:
"Please hold back the torrent
'Til I'm in the door!"
I raced to the throne room
To pay for my greed
Without a good book
Or newspaper to read.
That cake got its payback.
That cake beat me silly.
I made better music
Than Milli Vanilli.
Trumpets and clarinets!
Flutes and trombones!
A little off key, yes,
But masterful tone.
A half hour later
My song was complete.
It wasn't a tune
That I'd care to repeat.
I pulled up my britches
But just for a minute;
My belly insisted
It had more horns in it!
My trumpet was aching
My trombone was sore.
But it didn't matter --
Here came the encore!
The concert continued
New instruments born!
Piccolos! Glockenspiels!
Oboes! French horns!
Two hours roared by
With nary a break.
No one expects this
From mere chocolate cake.
At last, it was over.
The concert was done.
I thought my first symphony
Should be more fun.
I lay on a pillow,
My tush off the floor;
I couldn't sit down 'cause
My tuba was sore.
The next day I wondered:
Who would volunteer
That they too had written
Étude for the Rear?
I soon learned three others
Complained of the blast
That they detonated
When through them, cake passed.
We wanted some answers!
We called the cake vendor.
"What made us so boisterous?"
"Perhaps, it was Splenda?"
"The Splenda!" we cried, "Why
That sugar-free powder
Is what made my evening
Stupendously louder!"
Eat sugar-free cake, friends
But know just the same
That when you are done
Please -- avoid open flames
We came for some cake!
A big slab of chocolate --
I'll always partake
I sat with my fork
And my plate at the ready.
"Come on! Pass the cake
Please! I'm hungry already!"
But Karen said something
That left me uneasy
"It's made without sugar."
My stomach got queasy.
"A sugar-less cake? Why
I think that I'll pass.
A flavor-less cake is
More likely," I sassed.
"Why don't you just try it,
You big, whiny wuss.
And if you don't like it
That leaves more for us!"
I took a small sliver
While everyone stared.
I winced as I bit it.
"Not bad!" I declared.
My eyes were wide open!
And for the first time
I'd tasted a sugar-free
Food quite divine!
A sugar-free cake can be
Tasty and yummy!
"I need more delicious cake
Here, in my tummy!"
My mouth was in heaven
I couldn't believe it!
I ate fourteen pieces.
It's hard to conceive it!
My belly was bursting
My chewer was sore
I took half a sick day
And dragged out the door.
Suddenly queasy.
I couldn't deny
That eating so much cake
Would simply not fly.
A gurgling, a churning
Was burning my guts
Perhaps fourteen pieces
Of cake was plain nuts?
I jumped in my Saturn
And sped off for home.
My belly protested
For driving too slow.
I weaved through stopped traffic,
Careened at high speed
If I didn't hurry
New boxers, I'd need.
I pulled in my driveway
My bowels I implored:
"Please hold back the torrent
'Til I'm in the door!"
I raced to the throne room
To pay for my greed
Without a good book
Or newspaper to read.
That cake got its payback.
That cake beat me silly.
I made better music
Than Milli Vanilli.
Trumpets and clarinets!
Flutes and trombones!
A little off key, yes,
But masterful tone.
A half hour later
My song was complete.
It wasn't a tune
That I'd care to repeat.
I pulled up my britches
But just for a minute;
My belly insisted
It had more horns in it!
My trumpet was aching
My trombone was sore.
But it didn't matter --
Here came the encore!
The concert continued
New instruments born!
Piccolos! Glockenspiels!
Oboes! French horns!
Two hours roared by
With nary a break.
No one expects this
From mere chocolate cake.
At last, it was over.
The concert was done.
I thought my first symphony
Should be more fun.
I lay on a pillow,
My tush off the floor;
I couldn't sit down 'cause
My tuba was sore.
The next day I wondered:
Who would volunteer
That they too had written
Étude for the Rear?
I soon learned three others
Complained of the blast
That they detonated
When through them, cake passed.
We wanted some answers!
We called the cake vendor.
"What made us so boisterous?"
"Perhaps, it was Splenda?"
"The Splenda!" we cried, "Why
That sugar-free powder
Is what made my evening
Stupendously louder!"
Eat sugar-free cake, friends
But know just the same
That when you are done
Please -- avoid open flames
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Funeral for a Friend, 1994-2009
I found him lifeless in the living room when I got home from baseball last night.
He hadn't acted like himself all day. I pushed his buttons just to see if I could get a reaction, and though I could hear his synapses firing, he just sat there with a cold, vacant look across his face.
And I died a little inside.
We've seen much together, Mr. Star and I. I met him at the Stereo Advantage in Williamsville in 1994, and hardly a day has gone by when we haven't spent an hour or two together sharing the news of the day or catching a ball game.
One of my earliest memories together was the OJ Simpson Bronco chase. The Snow Princess and I were watching a movie with Mr. Star when the phone rang. My sister was calling from New Jersey to tell us to turn on the news.
Lo and behold, there was the football hero from my youth leading a pack of patrol cars on a low-speed journey on the freeways of Los Angeles while throngs of onlookers cheered from the overpasses.
"Damn. Get a look at that, Mr. Star."
I was happy he was there to share the moment; it wouldn't have been the same without him.
Since then, we have experienced many cultural milestones together. Brett Hull's "No Goal" in the Stanley Cup Finals against the Sabres. 9/11. "Shock and Awe." And just this spring, the crash of Flight 3407 a few miles from our home.
The Snow Princess wasn't keen on Mr. Star at the beginning, but she grew to appreciate him as much as I. Many nights, Mr. Star stood guard while she drifted off to sleep watching "Everybody Loves Raymond" or "Seinfeld."
We've been through much together. It's too soon to say goodbye.
So here we are, at the end of a long road together. We've travelled far, laughed much, even cried a little. But the time has come.
Farewell, old friend. May the road rise up to meet you, and all that crap.
Goldstar
May 1994 - June 2009
Model No. GCT2554S
Serial No.: XC4050779
Now, can someone tell me what the f*** the difference is between 1080i and 1080p?
He hadn't acted like himself all day. I pushed his buttons just to see if I could get a reaction, and though I could hear his synapses firing, he just sat there with a cold, vacant look across his face.
And I died a little inside.
We've seen much together, Mr. Star and I. I met him at the Stereo Advantage in Williamsville in 1994, and hardly a day has gone by when we haven't spent an hour or two together sharing the news of the day or catching a ball game.
One of my earliest memories together was the OJ Simpson Bronco chase. The Snow Princess and I were watching a movie with Mr. Star when the phone rang. My sister was calling from New Jersey to tell us to turn on the news.
Lo and behold, there was the football hero from my youth leading a pack of patrol cars on a low-speed journey on the freeways of Los Angeles while throngs of onlookers cheered from the overpasses.
"Damn. Get a look at that, Mr. Star."
I was happy he was there to share the moment; it wouldn't have been the same without him.
Since then, we have experienced many cultural milestones together. Brett Hull's "No Goal" in the Stanley Cup Finals against the Sabres. 9/11. "Shock and Awe." And just this spring, the crash of Flight 3407 a few miles from our home.
The Snow Princess wasn't keen on Mr. Star at the beginning, but she grew to appreciate him as much as I. Many nights, Mr. Star stood guard while she drifted off to sleep watching "Everybody Loves Raymond" or "Seinfeld."
We've been through much together. It's too soon to say goodbye.
So here we are, at the end of a long road together. We've travelled far, laughed much, even cried a little. But the time has come.
Farewell, old friend. May the road rise up to meet you, and all that crap.
Goldstar
May 1994 - June 2009
Model No. GCT2554S
Serial No.: XC4050779
Now, can someone tell me what the f*** the difference is between 1080i and 1080p?
Friday, June 12, 2009
Too Much Information
Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't want to know the color of my aura.
I don't want to know which "Gilligan's Island," "Brady Bunch," "Lost," "X-Files," "I Dream of Jeannie" or "My Mother the Car" character I am.
I don't want to know how compatible I am with others' movie, music, TV, video game, fashion or paint chip selections.
I most certainly don't want to hunt for Easter eggs.
I don't want to be poked, super-poked, ultra-poked, mega-poked, nano-poked or Pokemoned.
I don't want to know how evil, happy, stressed, ditzy, marginalized, uninhibited or non-plussed I am.
I don't want to know to what percentage I am conservative, liberal, green, socialist, communist, populist or Whig.
I will not join the million people opposed to changes in Facebook's terms of service, Facebook's privacy settings, Facebook's home page layout or Facebook's font size.
I do not want a drink, highball, cocktail, beer, Shirley Temple, waste oil, chicken blood or toxic Love Canal sludge.
I do not want to join your Mafia clan, pirate brigade, scavenger team, tagger crew, street gang, boy band or barbershop quartet.
I do not want to rank the five essential items I need on a desert island, in my purse, between the cushions on my sofa, stuffed in a glove box, zipped into a body bag, pureed and mixed into a smoothie, or cooked on an engine block on a long journey by automobile.
I don't want a scientifically accurate assessment of my IQ by answering five multiple-choice questions.
However.
I want to be your friend.
I want to see pictures of your kids, your wives, your husbands, your parents, your friends.
I want to see how you look without your glasses, your braces, that mullet, that chronic acne (oh wait, that would be me), the ten pounds of hairspray and Clearasil you applied every morning -- that applies to both the guys and girls, people -- and that a**hole boyfriend whose hand was surgically removed from the back pocket of your jeans two months after graduation.
I want to see if you graduated high school, college, grad school, obedience school, anger management class.
I want to see if you're happier, sadder, more grounded, more religious, more human.
I want to see if you're aging well, so I can assess whether I'm aging well.
To be honest, I want to see if you're more like me, because I want you to see that I'm more like you.
I will, however, take your Flair and kick your rear end at Scrabble.
Game on.
I don't want to know which "Gilligan's Island," "Brady Bunch," "Lost," "X-Files," "I Dream of Jeannie" or "My Mother the Car" character I am.
I don't want to know how compatible I am with others' movie, music, TV, video game, fashion or paint chip selections.
I most certainly don't want to hunt for Easter eggs.
I don't want to be poked, super-poked, ultra-poked, mega-poked, nano-poked or Pokemoned.
I don't want to know how evil, happy, stressed, ditzy, marginalized, uninhibited or non-plussed I am.
I don't want to know to what percentage I am conservative, liberal, green, socialist, communist, populist or Whig.
I will not join the million people opposed to changes in Facebook's terms of service, Facebook's privacy settings, Facebook's home page layout or Facebook's font size.
I do not want a drink, highball, cocktail, beer, Shirley Temple, waste oil, chicken blood or toxic Love Canal sludge.
I do not want to join your Mafia clan, pirate brigade, scavenger team, tagger crew, street gang, boy band or barbershop quartet.
I do not want to rank the five essential items I need on a desert island, in my purse, between the cushions on my sofa, stuffed in a glove box, zipped into a body bag, pureed and mixed into a smoothie, or cooked on an engine block on a long journey by automobile.
I don't want a scientifically accurate assessment of my IQ by answering five multiple-choice questions.
However.
I want to be your friend.
I want to see pictures of your kids, your wives, your husbands, your parents, your friends.
I want to see how you look without your glasses, your braces, that mullet, that chronic acne (oh wait, that would be me), the ten pounds of hairspray and Clearasil you applied every morning -- that applies to both the guys and girls, people -- and that a**hole boyfriend whose hand was surgically removed from the back pocket of your jeans two months after graduation.
I want to see if you graduated high school, college, grad school, obedience school, anger management class.
I want to see if you're happier, sadder, more grounded, more religious, more human.
I want to see if you're aging well, so I can assess whether I'm aging well.
To be honest, I want to see if you're more like me, because I want you to see that I'm more like you.
I will, however, take your Flair and kick your rear end at Scrabble.
Game on.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The End of the Innocence
Wow, that was...anti-climactic.
I've been home for four hours, and the only thing I can say right now about the whole experience is that it feels like I took a really long, refreshing nap.
Everyone who's been through this was correct -- the worst part is the prep, and even that wasn't all that taxing. Actually, the very worst part was the gown; I know they're trying with the printed pattern, but fashionably speaking, it was a disaster. What not to wear, indeed.
After putting on the muumuu, the nurses took a full history while hooking up my IV. Let me tell you, that nurse with the needle was the consummate pro. I didn't feel a pinch or anything. I knew I was in good hands from that moment on.
I got wheeled into the procedure room and noticed the two large flat screens looming over my head. I was having what I thought was a pleasant, engaging conversation with Dr. Adams and the nurse, and then POOF! The next thing I knew, they were telling me I was done and there's nothing to worry about, everything's clear and healthy.
I only have a vague recollection of being in recovery. Your colon isn't PVC pipe, so they have to inflate it with a tiny stream of air to get a look around. Since the air doesn't blow back out of you like a deflating balloon, it all has to work its way out naturally. Publicly. With the lovely Snow Princess sitting next to me as I made a spectacle of myself.
I dressed wobbily, got wheeled out to the van, and hopped in. My stomach was turning, so Stephanie had to take it easy around the turns. After a short while, I decided I was better off riding the rest of the way with my eyes closed. Stomped upstairs, lay on the bed and napped for three hours.
And now I'm up. I'm not particularly hungry, but I'm getting there fast. I feel completely refreshed and not sore in the least. No, not even in the hindquarters.
People, a colonoscopy is not a big deal AT ALL. If you're due but you're nervous about the whole ordeal, just stop. Getting a tooth filled was worse. Having my dislocated finger reset was worse. Biting my lip accidentally while eating spaghetti last week was far, far worse.
Today was like a Will Ferrell movie. An awful lot of noise and anticipation leading up to the big event, but ultimately nothing to write home about and quickly forgotten.
A huge thanks to my colorectal surgeon, Dr. Timothy Adams of Delaware Surgical. He is awesome, professional, communicative, patient and personable. And as always, the nursing staff at Millard Fillmore Suburban were top-notch, answering all my questions and politely laughing at my jokes.
So, get out there and scope those fannies!
I've been home for four hours, and the only thing I can say right now about the whole experience is that it feels like I took a really long, refreshing nap.
Everyone who's been through this was correct -- the worst part is the prep, and even that wasn't all that taxing. Actually, the very worst part was the gown; I know they're trying with the printed pattern, but fashionably speaking, it was a disaster. What not to wear, indeed.
After putting on the muumuu, the nurses took a full history while hooking up my IV. Let me tell you, that nurse with the needle was the consummate pro. I didn't feel a pinch or anything. I knew I was in good hands from that moment on.
I got wheeled into the procedure room and noticed the two large flat screens looming over my head. I was having what I thought was a pleasant, engaging conversation with Dr. Adams and the nurse, and then POOF! The next thing I knew, they were telling me I was done and there's nothing to worry about, everything's clear and healthy.
I only have a vague recollection of being in recovery. Your colon isn't PVC pipe, so they have to inflate it with a tiny stream of air to get a look around. Since the air doesn't blow back out of you like a deflating balloon, it all has to work its way out naturally. Publicly. With the lovely Snow Princess sitting next to me as I made a spectacle of myself.
I dressed wobbily, got wheeled out to the van, and hopped in. My stomach was turning, so Stephanie had to take it easy around the turns. After a short while, I decided I was better off riding the rest of the way with my eyes closed. Stomped upstairs, lay on the bed and napped for three hours.
And now I'm up. I'm not particularly hungry, but I'm getting there fast. I feel completely refreshed and not sore in the least. No, not even in the hindquarters.
People, a colonoscopy is not a big deal AT ALL. If you're due but you're nervous about the whole ordeal, just stop. Getting a tooth filled was worse. Having my dislocated finger reset was worse. Biting my lip accidentally while eating spaghetti last week was far, far worse.
Today was like a Will Ferrell movie. An awful lot of noise and anticipation leading up to the big event, but ultimately nothing to write home about and quickly forgotten.
A huge thanks to my colorectal surgeon, Dr. Timothy Adams of Delaware Surgical. He is awesome, professional, communicative, patient and personable. And as always, the nursing staff at Millard Fillmore Suburban were top-notch, answering all my questions and politely laughing at my jokes.
So, get out there and scope those fannies!
Morning Has Broken
After all the prep and the consequences of the prep, I don't even feel hungry. It's not that I wouldn't welcome a plate of pancakes; I'm just not dying to have food like I thought I would be.
The food thing was getting into my head all morning yesterday. I had a big plate of eggs and toast, but even an hour after eating, I started obsessing about the fact that I wouldn't be able to consume solid food for 24 hours. "When am I gonna get hungry?" "Am I getting hungry now, even a little bit?" "Is that a hunger pang?" "Geez, I know I'm gonna get hungry, and it's gonna suck."
Yes, people go through much worse every day. It's a hard life being pampered and comfortable, and then being asked to be marginally uncomfortable for a short period of time.
The prep was unpleasant, but not particularly painful. Believe me, I've had worse episodes after wolfing down a Baja Burrito.
I was up only a couple times during the night. Long-lasting effects of the medication, indeed. Without diving into too much detail -- "Why stop now, Bob?" -- let's just say I'm not worried anymore about not being properly prepped.
We leave for the hospital in one hour, the procedure is scheduled in two. I'm hesitant to take my laptop there for continued updates because I'm afraid I'll leave the darn thing there when I come stumbling out of the joint once this is done. I know they have wi-fi because I liveblogged from David's birth six months ago, so the option is open. I think this is gonna be a gametime decision.
Stay tuned.
The food thing was getting into my head all morning yesterday. I had a big plate of eggs and toast, but even an hour after eating, I started obsessing about the fact that I wouldn't be able to consume solid food for 24 hours. "When am I gonna get hungry?" "Am I getting hungry now, even a little bit?" "Is that a hunger pang?" "Geez, I know I'm gonna get hungry, and it's gonna suck."
Yes, people go through much worse every day. It's a hard life being pampered and comfortable, and then being asked to be marginally uncomfortable for a short period of time.
The prep was unpleasant, but not particularly painful. Believe me, I've had worse episodes after wolfing down a Baja Burrito.
I was up only a couple times during the night. Long-lasting effects of the medication, indeed. Without diving into too much detail -- "Why stop now, Bob?" -- let's just say I'm not worried anymore about not being properly prepped.
We leave for the hospital in one hour, the procedure is scheduled in two. I'm hesitant to take my laptop there for continued updates because I'm afraid I'll leave the darn thing there when I come stumbling out of the joint once this is done. I know they have wi-fi because I liveblogged from David's birth six months ago, so the option is open. I think this is gonna be a gametime decision.
Stay tuned.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Corrections and Other Errata
Dear Miralax,
Thank you for reading my blog. Your attention is quite flattering.
Upon further reflection, it would appear that my appraisal of the effectiveness of your product was grossly premature. I would like it noted for the public record that your product works well. Exceedingly, explosively and pyrotechnically well.
Your offer of a free sample is generous, yet unnecessary. Seems I've had all I need.
Sincerely,
Thunder Bob
Thank you for reading my blog. Your attention is quite flattering.
Upon further reflection, it would appear that my appraisal of the effectiveness of your product was grossly premature. I would like it noted for the public record that your product works well. Exceedingly, explosively and pyrotechnically well.
Your offer of a free sample is generous, yet unnecessary. Seems I've had all I need.
Sincerely,
Thunder Bob
A River Runs Through It
Well, now, I suppose the Miralax works after all.
You know, just in case you were wondering.
The Snow Princess and her family are downstairs at the kitchen table scarfing down chicken finger subs, fresh strawberries and watermelon. As for my dinner, the chicken broth ain't cuttin' it.
You know, just in case you were wondering.
The Snow Princess and her family are downstairs at the kitchen table scarfing down chicken finger subs, fresh strawberries and watermelon. As for my dinner, the chicken broth ain't cuttin' it.
"I Want to Cut Off Yoo-wuh Head"
Tee ball, Saturday morning. We had to arrive 45 minutes early for pictures, so the kids' attention spans were already waning by the time the game started.
We were in the field in the third inning, and I was doing my part to try to keep the five-and six-year-olds interested with our practiced call and response.
"Who's gonna get the ball?" I yelled.
"Me!" one or two hollered back.
"WHO'S GONNA GET THE BALL??!!!"
"ME-E-E-E-E-E-E-E!!!"
Wap! Something hit the back of my arm. I turned around, and there was Hannibal*, grinning wildly at me with his hat clutched in his hand.
"Get ready, Hannibal. Ball's coming your way."
"I'm gonna cut off you-wuh arms," Hannibal said with his baby-talk speech impediment.
"That's great, Hannibal. Get your glove ready, or I'm gonna get the ball."
"My dad has a saw, so I'm gonna take you behind the shed and cut off you-wuh arms and legs, and the blood's gonna spoo-wit all over." He whacked me with his hat to punctuate his point.
"Dude, you wouldn't do that to me, would you?"
"Yes I will. And I'm gonna cut off you-wuh head, and then hot glue it back on." Two whacks with the hat this time, for added emphasis.
I lunged at the hat and missed, and then looked around to see where this precious angel's parents might be sitting. No one was looking at us, no one was rising to scold Hannibal for hitting the coach. Apparently when you're busy raising a budding serial killer, anything that happens between the foul lines is the coach's problem.
"Hannibal, hot glue?"
"My dad has a glue gun."
"That would hurt."
Big grin. "I know."
Later, I was coaching first base while our team was at bat. Every kid hits every inning, and the kids run station to station, one base at a time. So Hannibal dribbled his hit into the infield and trotted down to first base, grinning at me. I was hoping he and his deranged imagination had moved on, but he wasn't done with me just yet.
"I can make my arm bleed." He started picking at a scab on his forearm and walking toward me.
"Dude, don't do that. And you gotta stay on the base."
"I can make it bleed all oh-vewr." Hannibal narrowed his eyes and pulled his arm closer to his face to get a better look.
"C'mon Charlie," I yelled at the batter. I glanced back at Hannibal, and he was still working at that forearm. "You can do it, Charlie, you can do it!"
Thud! Charlie dribbled a grounder to the infield. Relief! I turned to tell Hannibal to run to second and was surprised to see him walking toward me with his arm raised, grinning triumphantly. He must have succeeded in making one of the scabs bleed, but I didn't want to find out.
I jumped back. "Dude, run! Run! Run!" Hannibal spun around and started loping to second.
A few pitches later, I glanced down toward second, and there was Hannibal, seated on the base, still squeezing his arm. Usually, I holler at the kids to stand up and get ready to run, but I let it slide. I like the way my head is currently attached to my neck.
* Name has been changed, but believe me, you'll be reading about this one soon enough.
We were in the field in the third inning, and I was doing my part to try to keep the five-and six-year-olds interested with our practiced call and response.
"Who's gonna get the ball?" I yelled.
"Me!" one or two hollered back.
"WHO'S GONNA GET THE BALL??!!!"
"ME-E-E-E-E-E-E-E!!!"
Wap! Something hit the back of my arm. I turned around, and there was Hannibal*, grinning wildly at me with his hat clutched in his hand.
"Get ready, Hannibal. Ball's coming your way."
"I'm gonna cut off you-wuh arms," Hannibal said with his baby-talk speech impediment.
"That's great, Hannibal. Get your glove ready, or I'm gonna get the ball."
"My dad has a saw, so I'm gonna take you behind the shed and cut off you-wuh arms and legs, and the blood's gonna spoo-wit all over." He whacked me with his hat to punctuate his point.
"Dude, you wouldn't do that to me, would you?"
"Yes I will. And I'm gonna cut off you-wuh head, and then hot glue it back on." Two whacks with the hat this time, for added emphasis.
I lunged at the hat and missed, and then looked around to see where this precious angel's parents might be sitting. No one was looking at us, no one was rising to scold Hannibal for hitting the coach. Apparently when you're busy raising a budding serial killer, anything that happens between the foul lines is the coach's problem.
"Hannibal, hot glue?"
"My dad has a glue gun."
"That would hurt."
Big grin. "I know."
Later, I was coaching first base while our team was at bat. Every kid hits every inning, and the kids run station to station, one base at a time. So Hannibal dribbled his hit into the infield and trotted down to first base, grinning at me. I was hoping he and his deranged imagination had moved on, but he wasn't done with me just yet.
"I can make my arm bleed." He started picking at a scab on his forearm and walking toward me.
"Dude, don't do that. And you gotta stay on the base."
"I can make it bleed all oh-vewr." Hannibal narrowed his eyes and pulled his arm closer to his face to get a better look.
"C'mon Charlie," I yelled at the batter. I glanced back at Hannibal, and he was still working at that forearm. "You can do it, Charlie, you can do it!"
Thud! Charlie dribbled a grounder to the infield. Relief! I turned to tell Hannibal to run to second and was surprised to see him walking toward me with his arm raised, grinning triumphantly. He must have succeeded in making one of the scabs bleed, but I didn't want to find out.
I jumped back. "Dude, run! Run! Run!" Hannibal spun around and started loping to second.
A few pitches later, I glanced down toward second, and there was Hannibal, seated on the base, still squeezing his arm. Usually, I holler at the kids to stand up and get ready to run, but I let it slide. I like the way my head is currently attached to my neck.
* Name has been changed, but believe me, you'll be reading about this one soon enough.
One Hour into the Abyss
Nothing. Zero. Here's what was promised on the fine print of the Miralax:
Side effects that may occur while taking this medicine include nausea, cramping, stomach fullness, diarrhea, or gas.
I don't want to say anything but it ain't happening yet. I was promised Mount Vesuvius.
And as I conceive these words, the worm begins to turn.
Be careful what you wish for.
Side effects that may occur while taking this medicine include nausea, cramping, stomach fullness, diarrhea, or gas.
I don't want to say anything but it ain't happening yet. I was promised Mount Vesuvius.
And as I conceive these words, the worm begins to turn.
Be careful what you wish for.
The Miralax Effect
Just mixed 255 grams of Miralax with two bottles of gauva-flavored Vitamin Water. Nothing in the directions says we can't mix tequila into this conconction.
So, who wants to party with me?
So, who wants to party with me?
And So It Begins
Tomorrow is the big day, perhaps the strongest indication that I'm not a young pup anymore. You would think the gray hairs, the four children, or the mortgage would have caused it to sink in, but no.
I feel young. I still feel like I'm 14. I have the same interests as I did when I was 14: video games, music, sports and girls. Nowadays one girl exclusively, of course. Hello, Snow Princess!
But no, my venture into adulthood begins tomorrow with My First Colonscopy. I wonder if Hallmark has a card?
They don't, I just checked.
So, here I lie, 20 minutes after the first of a series of medications that will make me clean as a whistle. Everyone says the procedure is cake compared to the prep. We shall see.
Two Dulcolax and things are percolating, but not yet explosively urgent. I'm in my jammies to facilitate egress. The bath is loaded with wet wipes.
Let's get it on.
I feel young. I still feel like I'm 14. I have the same interests as I did when I was 14: video games, music, sports and girls. Nowadays one girl exclusively, of course. Hello, Snow Princess!
But no, my venture into adulthood begins tomorrow with My First Colonscopy. I wonder if Hallmark has a card?
They don't, I just checked.
So, here I lie, 20 minutes after the first of a series of medications that will make me clean as a whistle. Everyone says the procedure is cake compared to the prep. We shall see.
Two Dulcolax and things are percolating, but not yet explosively urgent. I'm in my jammies to facilitate egress. The bath is loaded with wet wipes.
Let's get it on.
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