This post isn’t about The Beatles, though it will feel like it at first. Nor is it about how I became a Beatles fan, though it will feel like that, too.
I actually didn’t heart The Beatles at first. You could say I literally grew up with The Beatles. They made their first appearance in the United States in 1964, the year I was born, and became instant icons in the American music scene. I missed all of the real Beatlemania, of course, as I was still pooping my pants, practically, when they were breaking up.
When I became aware of things in general, I noticed in nostalgic clips of The Ed Sullivan Show the girls in the audience, screaming and crying and swooning from the first note The Beatles played on his show, and I thought it just silly. Two of my sisters, being older than I am, were teenagers in the 1960s and, had they the means then, they would have been among those screaming, crying, swooning girls at Comiskey Park in Chicago on 20 August 1965.
Naturally, they had Beatles records at home. Due to my adverse reaction to the girls in the audiences on The Ed Sullivan Show and other film clips, I was, of course, just as repulsed by the music when my sisters played it in the house.
Over the course of the next ten years I was pretty much able to get by in life without much reliance on music. A few songs here and there caught my interest, but they were usually songs of a more novelty nature: “Kung Fu Fighting,” “ The Streak,” “King Tut” and the like.
Somewhere in there I had developed a liking for the song “Get Back,” yet, having successfully tuned out any of the music my sisters played, somehow I had never caught on the radio that it was a Beatles song. I blame the line in the song where Paul speaks the line, “Get back, Jo-Jo!” which is then followed by a George Harrison electric guitar solo. I knew back then the names of the individual members of The Beatles, so I figured at the time that Jo-Jo was the lead guitarist in whatever band that was.
In high school I made a new friend, Sam, who thought I was pretty cool, so on many weekends I was invited over to his house to hang out and play, make little animated and live-action movies on Super8 film, and learn new ways to try to be funny. Sam also happened to be a HUGE Beatles fan. I can’t all-caps, bold and italicize that enough. HUGE fan. It was one of those things I could tolerate because I liked the rest of him so much. Every once in a while he would pull out his Beatles records, hoping to share his love for their music with his new friend (I’d say “best friend,” but I’m not sure he considered me as such). He couldn’t seem to understand why someone who got him as much as I did and whom he got as much as he did could possibly not like the Beatles. I would groan about it and endure, hoping he would get it out of his system or get tired of me rolling my eyes, and then we would go back upstairs and stick silly, homemade dialogue balloons on his baseball cards.
Then one day he pulled out Let It Be. “Get Back” started up, and I gave him what must have been quite a perplexed look.
“Wait a minute!” I said. “This is The Beatles?!”
Then Sam gave me a perplexed look. “Yeah!” he said. “Who did you think it was?”
I was dumbstruck. The song played on, and I sort of felt my reality coming apart. I hated The Beatles. I liked “Get Back.” It was like one of those logic puzzles: The Beatles exist(ed); The Beatles created “Get Back;” I like “Get Back;” Therefore, I like The Beatles. It can’t be!
So thus began a serious reassessment of why I hated The Beatles. I went home and, in solitary moments when the sister who had not yet moved out of the house wasn’t home, I listened surreptitiously to her Beatles albums, this time without resisting them and tuning them out like I did at Sam’s house, but relaxing and letting their words and melodies get through. Within several weeks, with historical lessons from Sam about the band’s origins and their growth from minor celebrity to industry and social icons, I was a Beatles fan. Of course, right about this time was when John Lennon was murdered, so right when it felt good, it felt bad again.
But as I stated at the top of this post, this isn’t about The Beatles or why I’m a fan. The Beatles are used as a point of reference for the topic of my post.
What defines timelessness? How does a film or a novel or a song reach out across the decades from the era in which it was made and still manage to speak to us with its full power?
There have been many, many great films made since the dawn of the industry, but many of them have faded with their times, and their messages have lost their punch. But others stand strong forever. It’s A Wonderful Life, for instance — which is my all-time favorite film — is one I consider timeless. The story arc covers about thirty years in the life of one man. Clearly set in the earlier half of the 20th century, the film manages to transcend its era and drive home its message: the lives of everyone around you would be immeasurably different if you never existed. Whenever I watch that film, I never think, “What an old movie.” I think, “What a great story.” Regardless of your beliefs, and despite the film’s method, it’s a powerful concept: how different would be your neighborhood, your city, the world, if you were never born?
These days, whenever I hear an old Beatles song, it doesn’t seem old to me. The same goes for a Led Zeppelin song, or a Pink Floyd song (even though I’m not a huge fan of theirs), to name a few. Even if the Beatles song I hear is from one of their earliest albums, there seems to be an edge to it that transcends the things that make other ‘60s music “typical.” I can’t explain what that is. More sophisticated lyrics? More complicated music? I seriously doubt it. John Lennon and Paul McCartney started their band so they could meet girls. They certainly didn’t intend to shake the world and reshape the sound of music. Is it perhaps the knowledge of what they became — what they are even to this day — that colors the feel of their oldest music, not to mention songs from every phase of their existence as a band, that makes theirs feel like important music to me? I don’t think that’s it either. It seems to me a combination of everything involved in their music that made it superior — the words AND the music AND the arrangements. It seems as if they made great music that others tried to emulate and failed, rendering all the rest as typical, while The Beatles continued cutting the waters and leaving the wake that everyone else rode upon.
In an earlier post I waxed nostalgic about the old 1970s TV show, Starsky & Hutch. While it is considered seminal, the formula upon which all TV cop shows were founded for years to come, that show is clearly a product of its time and willingly reflects it. I don’t consider it — nor do I believe would anyone else consider it — timeless. It’s deeply rooted in its ‘70s-ness; kitschy, even.
How does it happen, then? Does someone write a song or a screenplay or a novel intent on making it timeless, or does it just come out that way? Is it instantly timeless, or does it take a decade or more of withstanding the years before we realize it’s just as valid today as it was when it first came out?
I’m having trouble wrapping this up. I don’t feel I’ve properly embraced the concept with words to the depth ofmy thoughts and feelings. What are some examples of timelessness for you? Any further thoughts on it?
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Hater | Heart
I’ve just returned from five days in Puerto Rico, and thoughts about the place… the island, the territory, the climate and terrain…brought me to another, broader train of thought.
By now we’re all familiar with the concept of the Valentine heart as a symbol of love. First it came to represent St. Valentine’s Day, Then it passed as the romantic equivalent of a page full of words of undying love by those with the vocabulary of an orangutan. And more recently, while it still did all those other things, it also stands in graphically for the word “love” in phrases on t-shirts, placards and bumper stickers.
Now, interestingly, the symbol itself is sometimes replaced by a word that describes it instead of the word it stands for: “I Heart New York.” “Honk if you heart bean burritos!”
(Though, honestly, whenever I see the heart graphic, my brain “reads” it as “love.” Why anyone would say “I heart” anything is beyond me.)
So, suffice it to say, the Valentine heart is effectively the international symbol of love, romantic or affectionate.
But is there an equal and opposite symbol for hate? What would one choose to graphically indicate hatred for something? Perhaps the most significant and ready representation of hatred in the United States is the Ku Klux Klan, so I thought perhaps the image of the pointed white hood with eye-holes could pass as the symbol for hate. But then I realized two things: 1) the pointy white hood couldn’t pass as an international symbol because other cultures use the pointy hood of various other colors in other ways, and to use that shape to represent “hate” might cause confusion and upset in those cultures; 2) in the United States, the symbol is so racially charged as to cause upset and outrage (and rightly so) among the African-American and Jewish communities, as well as among most civilly aware Americans in general.
Then I thought of a more internationally recognized symbol, which the world came to equate with hatred, the Nazi swastika. But that comes with as much negative baggage as the KKK hood would.
Of course, there’s the overly simplistic and effortless red-circle-with-diagonal-slash symbol placed over the heart symbol, but that’s overly simplistic and effortless. Did I have to say it twice?
So what would it be? What symbol could innocuously, and without offense, symbolize harmless hatred for unimportant things like lima beans, or Fords, or the Chicago White Sox…or even Puerto Rico? Because I really hate that place. I don’t hate Puerto Ricans. On the contrary…I really like them…especially some of the women. WOW! I just can’t stand the place they come from, and where quite a lot of them still live. The climate is like taking the state of Florida on an August day and sticking it in a steam bath. The road signs are as though placed by a third-grader. The people — and I can’t sugar-coat this in any way — the people drive like idiots: 40 mph in the left lane on a highway with a speed limit of 55; merging into traffic without regard for anything hurtling down the highway at them; turning left from the right lane at a busy intersection. Out of their cars, they’re very nice, friendly people — who I can’t help but think are trying to figure out a way to get off the island. There were a couple of them — the girl at the hotel check-out desk who I couldn’t take my eyes off of, and the absolutely most gorgeous housekeeping maid I’ve ever seen in my life who instilled porn movie cliché scenarios in my brain — who I wanted to take home with me! Did I say “WOW!” yet?
But I digress.
No, actually, I don’t. I truly intended to write a post about how much I don’t “heart” Puerto Rico, but that other thing came up.
So, if you have any ideas, dear reader, for a harmless symbol to represent innocent hate, shoot it to me in my comments. I know it doesn’t have international appeal, but for now, I think I’ll go with “I ‘Chicago White Sox’ Puerto Rico.”
By now we’re all familiar with the concept of the Valentine heart as a symbol of love. First it came to represent St. Valentine’s Day, Then it passed as the romantic equivalent of a page full of words of undying love by those with the vocabulary of an orangutan. And more recently, while it still did all those other things, it also stands in graphically for the word “love” in phrases on t-shirts, placards and bumper stickers.
Now, interestingly, the symbol itself is sometimes replaced by a word that describes it instead of the word it stands for: “I Heart New York.” “Honk if you heart bean burritos!”
(Though, honestly, whenever I see the heart graphic, my brain “reads” it as “love.” Why anyone would say “I heart” anything is beyond me.)
So, suffice it to say, the Valentine heart is effectively the international symbol of love, romantic or affectionate.
But is there an equal and opposite symbol for hate? What would one choose to graphically indicate hatred for something? Perhaps the most significant and ready representation of hatred in the United States is the Ku Klux Klan, so I thought perhaps the image of the pointed white hood with eye-holes could pass as the symbol for hate. But then I realized two things: 1) the pointy white hood couldn’t pass as an international symbol because other cultures use the pointy hood of various other colors in other ways, and to use that shape to represent “hate” might cause confusion and upset in those cultures; 2) in the United States, the symbol is so racially charged as to cause upset and outrage (and rightly so) among the African-American and Jewish communities, as well as among most civilly aware Americans in general.
Then I thought of a more internationally recognized symbol, which the world came to equate with hatred, the Nazi swastika. But that comes with as much negative baggage as the KKK hood would.
Of course, there’s the overly simplistic and effortless red-circle-with-diagonal-slash symbol placed over the heart symbol, but that’s overly simplistic and effortless. Did I have to say it twice?
So what would it be? What symbol could innocuously, and without offense, symbolize harmless hatred for unimportant things like lima beans, or Fords, or the Chicago White Sox…or even Puerto Rico? Because I really hate that place. I don’t hate Puerto Ricans. On the contrary…I really like them…especially some of the women. WOW! I just can’t stand the place they come from, and where quite a lot of them still live. The climate is like taking the state of Florida on an August day and sticking it in a steam bath. The road signs are as though placed by a third-grader. The people — and I can’t sugar-coat this in any way — the people drive like idiots: 40 mph in the left lane on a highway with a speed limit of 55; merging into traffic without regard for anything hurtling down the highway at them; turning left from the right lane at a busy intersection. Out of their cars, they’re very nice, friendly people — who I can’t help but think are trying to figure out a way to get off the island. There were a couple of them — the girl at the hotel check-out desk who I couldn’t take my eyes off of, and the absolutely most gorgeous housekeeping maid I’ve ever seen in my life who instilled porn movie cliché scenarios in my brain — who I wanted to take home with me! Did I say “WOW!” yet?
But I digress.
No, actually, I don’t. I truly intended to write a post about how much I don’t “heart” Puerto Rico, but that other thing came up.
So, if you have any ideas, dear reader, for a harmless symbol to represent innocent hate, shoot it to me in my comments. I know it doesn’t have international appeal, but for now, I think I’ll go with “I ‘Chicago White Sox’ Puerto Rico.”
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Starsky & Hutch and Me
There’s a TV station in Chicago that seems to play nothing but old TV shows all day. One evening a couple years ago I happened to catch an episode of Starsky & Hutch and I watched it. Or, rather, I tried to watch it.
For anyone who doesn’t remember — or who doesn’t really care to remember — Starsky & Hutch was must-see television from 1975 to 1979. At least it was must-see for me. Weekly tales about two street-smart, street-tough, big-city cops who are closer than brothers, it was the perfect TV show for an adolescent boy. Rugged, good-looking cops who don’t take shit from anybody, zipping around town in a souped-up muscle car, kicking ass and taking names, and shooting it out with the bad guys: it was the ideal recipe for the newly minted testosterone factory that was an eleven year old boy…this eleven year old boy.
I was all about Starsky & Hutch during those four years. Throughout the fall and winter, each week's most important task was making it to Wednesday night (Tuesday in the latter years of the show’s run). In the spring and summer, while the show was in reruns, I, with my black hair, was Starsky. Along with Paul, a blond kid (who else would be Hutch?) who lived across the street from me, we tore up and down the block — on his side of the street, since he was five years younger than I, and he wasn’t allowed to cross to the other side at the time — he on his Big Wheel™, and I on his yellow racing wagon, and sometimes on our bikes, we acted out our own story lines and wrote our own scripts as we went along, shooting it out with invisible bad guys and making out with invisible babes. Well… I did; at age six, Paul still got the heebie-jeebies at the thought of kissing girls.
At first, our weapons were whatever we could cobble together. If I remember correctly, I provided them in the form of two plastic, spring-loaded suction-cup dart guns, one red and one blue, in the shape of miniature Colt .45s. Then one year, for Paul’s birthday, I got him a 1:1 scale Starsky & Hutch gun set for us: the Colt Model 1911 .45 for me, and the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum for Hutch… er, I mean Paul!
I was so Starsky that I dressed like him as much as I could. Well, only one outfit, as I already had a blue windbreaker jacket. It was really simple: the windbreaker, blue jeans and a dark blue or black t-shirt. All I needed was the blue nylon-and-suede-leather running shoes with the three white stripes, and I was him! 
Unfortunately — and this really bothered me — my parents couldn’t afford the Adidas shoes that completely fit the description. Instead, my mom got me a pair of knock-offs, K-Mart Trax shoes that fit the description closely, but had dorky four white stripes instead of the cool Starsky three.
Starsky defined cool for me through my adolescent years, and shaped my fashion sense for quite a long while afterward…which probably explains a lot of things. Even before the TV series was canceled I outgrew playing with Paul. I was still trying to sport the cool influenced by Starsky, but a five-year age difference, to an eighth-grader, might as well be a lifetime, and I left Paul to his friends of the same age, and I turned my attentions to more teenagerly endeavors.
I was delighted, those few years ago, when I caught the beginning of an old Starsky & Hutch episode. It was a blast from the past, and a wave of nostalgia washed over me as I remembered the clothes, the realistic toy guns, Paul and his racy yellow wagon with the hollow plastic rear “slicks,” in which I could execute perfect power-slide turns…until the rear wheels split down the center, and the wagon had to be tossed….
And then the show started. Within minutes I was gagging at the dense (and I don’t mean intricate) writing, the flat acting and the preposterous story lines. I had to turn it off. I really watched this crap? And worse, I really enjoyed it?! And then I recalled the problems I had with the show, even when I was a kid. Too often the plots revolved around someone out to kill Starsky, or Hutch, or any of the regular characters; even at that age I was hung up on realism. I remember that Hutch evolved into the show’s lone heartthrob, and he always had the romantic scenes. At least that’s how I remembered it. And “Don’t Give Up On Us, Baby?” Give me a break! And the extent of their “investigations” was getting all the answers from Huggy Bear and his underworld friends, and from wild hunches they followed with bulldog conviction. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I stuck with the show through its end, in the spring of 1979.
A couple of years ago I was on a flight where the airline played the Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson movie spoof of Starsky & Hutch. With much trepidation, I plugged in the headphones and took a shot. The movie hit the nail on the head of so many of the show’s flaws that I was laughing at things that only a true fan of the show would notice. I wound up laughing through most of the movie and came away nodding approval and feeling nostalgic once again for the TV show. It even has a cameo appearance by Paul Michael Glaser and David Soul, the original stars of Starsky & Hutch!
So last year, when I subscribed to Netflix, and I found the entire series of original TV episodes, I put season one in my queue. I’ve worked my way down to it, and this weekend I watched the pilot and the first three weekly season 1 episodes.
And? I had forgotten how gritty the show was. These were not (supposed to be) high-class cops. They were down and dirty detectives who pushed — and sometimes overstepped — the limits of law to get to the bottom of their investigations. The early episodes seem to have been written by people who had barely skimmed through the best crime novels in existence at the time, and got a lot of details wrong. For instance, in the pilot, the boys are being stalked, and the word is out on the street that a couple of hit-men are gunning for them. They confront the likeliest suspect, a high-powered criminal against whom they are to testify in court in a few days. He tells them that if they testify, he will be found guilty and — he even admits — he is guilty. BUT? He’s old. He’ll be found guilty, and then he’ll be out on bail. (On BAIL??!! After a trial?!) And then his lawyers will appeal, and the fight will drag on in the courts while he ages further. They would finally find him guilty two years after he’s dead.
Oh, well. We bought that crap 33 years ago, and the proof is preserved in the 93 episodes that followed it.
But I had forgotten about the feel of the show, and of the high-powered action it packed into each episode. And now it’s funny to see Starsky’s huge, lumbering Ford Gran Torino heaving its way sluggishly through the streets of their non-descript city with no name (I always thought they were in San Francisco, but they were not), but back then it was heart-pounding, adrenaline-dripping drama!
This weekend, as I sat watching the first four Starsky & Hutch tales, I found myself alternately intrigued, then cackling in offended disbelief at the tales and their flimsy plots, the ham-fisted fight choreography, and the visibly hasty production values. It’s a true glimpse into a part of our nation’s history: the cars on the road, the clothes the characters wear, the plot lines and elements that are today cliché. And it’s also a fantastic example of how sophisticated today’s TV shows have become — or maybe of how sophisticated today’s TV audiences have become.
But, despite it all, there's still a soft-spot in my heart for Starsky & Hutch, for the show will forever live on in the child who still dwells inside me.
For anyone who doesn’t remember — or who doesn’t really care to remember — Starsky & Hutch was must-see television from 1975 to 1979. At least it was must-see for me. Weekly tales about two street-smart, street-tough, big-city cops who are closer than brothers, it was the perfect TV show for an adolescent boy. Rugged, good-looking cops who don’t take shit from anybody, zipping around town in a souped-up muscle car, kicking ass and taking names, and shooting it out with the bad guys: it was the ideal recipe for the newly minted testosterone factory that was an eleven year old boy…this eleven year old boy.
I was all about Starsky & Hutch during those four years. Throughout the fall and winter, each week's most important task was making it to Wednesday night (Tuesday in the latter years of the show’s run). In the spring and summer, while the show was in reruns, I, with my black hair, was Starsky. Along with Paul, a blond kid (who else would be Hutch?) who lived across the street from me, we tore up and down the block — on his side of the street, since he was five years younger than I, and he wasn’t allowed to cross to the other side at the time — he on his Big Wheel™, and I on his yellow racing wagon, and sometimes on our bikes, we acted out our own story lines and wrote our own scripts as we went along, shooting it out with invisible bad guys and making out with invisible babes. Well… I did; at age six, Paul still got the heebie-jeebies at the thought of kissing girls.
At first, our weapons were whatever we could cobble together. If I remember correctly, I provided them in the form of two plastic, spring-loaded suction-cup dart guns, one red and one blue, in the shape of miniature Colt .45s. Then one year, for Paul’s birthday, I got him a 1:1 scale Starsky & Hutch gun set for us: the Colt Model 1911 .45 for me, and the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum for Hutch… er, I mean Paul!
I was so Starsky that I dressed like him as much as I could. Well, only one outfit, as I already had a blue windbreaker jacket. It was really simple: the windbreaker, blue jeans and a dark blue or black t-shirt. All I needed was the blue nylon-and-suede-leather running shoes with the three white stripes, and I was him! 
Unfortunately — and this really bothered me — my parents couldn’t afford the Adidas shoes that completely fit the description. Instead, my mom got me a pair of knock-offs, K-Mart Trax shoes that fit the description closely, but had dorky four white stripes instead of the cool Starsky three. Starsky defined cool for me through my adolescent years, and shaped my fashion sense for quite a long while afterward…which probably explains a lot of things. Even before the TV series was canceled I outgrew playing with Paul. I was still trying to sport the cool influenced by Starsky, but a five-year age difference, to an eighth-grader, might as well be a lifetime, and I left Paul to his friends of the same age, and I turned my attentions to more teenagerly endeavors.
I was delighted, those few years ago, when I caught the beginning of an old Starsky & Hutch episode. It was a blast from the past, and a wave of nostalgia washed over me as I remembered the clothes, the realistic toy guns, Paul and his racy yellow wagon with the hollow plastic rear “slicks,” in which I could execute perfect power-slide turns…until the rear wheels split down the center, and the wagon had to be tossed….
And then the show started. Within minutes I was gagging at the dense (and I don’t mean intricate) writing, the flat acting and the preposterous story lines. I had to turn it off. I really watched this crap? And worse, I really enjoyed it?! And then I recalled the problems I had with the show, even when I was a kid. Too often the plots revolved around someone out to kill Starsky, or Hutch, or any of the regular characters; even at that age I was hung up on realism. I remember that Hutch evolved into the show’s lone heartthrob, and he always had the romantic scenes. At least that’s how I remembered it. And “Don’t Give Up On Us, Baby?” Give me a break! And the extent of their “investigations” was getting all the answers from Huggy Bear and his underworld friends, and from wild hunches they followed with bulldog conviction. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I stuck with the show through its end, in the spring of 1979.
A couple of years ago I was on a flight where the airline played the Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson movie spoof of Starsky & Hutch. With much trepidation, I plugged in the headphones and took a shot. The movie hit the nail on the head of so many of the show’s flaws that I was laughing at things that only a true fan of the show would notice. I wound up laughing through most of the movie and came away nodding approval and feeling nostalgic once again for the TV show. It even has a cameo appearance by Paul Michael Glaser and David Soul, the original stars of Starsky & Hutch!
So last year, when I subscribed to Netflix, and I found the entire series of original TV episodes, I put season one in my queue. I’ve worked my way down to it, and this weekend I watched the pilot and the first three weekly season 1 episodes.
And? I had forgotten how gritty the show was. These were not (supposed to be) high-class cops. They were down and dirty detectives who pushed — and sometimes overstepped — the limits of law to get to the bottom of their investigations. The early episodes seem to have been written by people who had barely skimmed through the best crime novels in existence at the time, and got a lot of details wrong. For instance, in the pilot, the boys are being stalked, and the word is out on the street that a couple of hit-men are gunning for them. They confront the likeliest suspect, a high-powered criminal against whom they are to testify in court in a few days. He tells them that if they testify, he will be found guilty and — he even admits — he is guilty. BUT? He’s old. He’ll be found guilty, and then he’ll be out on bail. (On BAIL??!! After a trial?!) And then his lawyers will appeal, and the fight will drag on in the courts while he ages further. They would finally find him guilty two years after he’s dead.
Oh, well. We bought that crap 33 years ago, and the proof is preserved in the 93 episodes that followed it.
But I had forgotten about the feel of the show, and of the high-powered action it packed into each episode. And now it’s funny to see Starsky’s huge, lumbering Ford Gran Torino heaving its way sluggishly through the streets of their non-descript city with no name (I always thought they were in San Francisco, but they were not), but back then it was heart-pounding, adrenaline-dripping drama!
This weekend, as I sat watching the first four Starsky & Hutch tales, I found myself alternately intrigued, then cackling in offended disbelief at the tales and their flimsy plots, the ham-fisted fight choreography, and the visibly hasty production values. It’s a true glimpse into a part of our nation’s history: the cars on the road, the clothes the characters wear, the plot lines and elements that are today cliché. And it’s also a fantastic example of how sophisticated today’s TV shows have become — or maybe of how sophisticated today’s TV audiences have become.
But, despite it all, there's still a soft-spot in my heart for Starsky & Hutch, for the show will forever live on in the child who still dwells inside me.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Butch: The Neighborhood Dog
Isn't it funny how you can see one thing — or even one minute detail on one thing — and your mind goes back to someone, some place or thing, that your mind hadn't been to in ages? I was driving home for lunch Friday and saw a woman walking a dog. It was a mongrel, probably about 40 pounds, nothing special about it. But its brown-peppered-with-black coloring was exactly the same as Butch, a dog that had the run of our neighborhood when I was an adolescent.
Butch was a mix of just about every dog breed you can think of. I'm pretty sure he had some German Shepherd in him, some beagle, some Lab…maybe all Labs! His true owners were a family that lived two doors south of me, Steve and Renee, and their two kids, Jennifer and Stevie.
As dogs go, Butch wasn't anything special. He wasn't super bright, but he wasn't stupid, either. He never rescued a kid who fell in a well; never saved a family in their burning house. Butch was just a dog; Steve and Renee and Jennifer and Stevie's dog. But Butch was everyone's dog.
In the days when people just weren't so worked up about dogs wandering around off-leash, Butch was rarely tied up, and never kept inside. Ubiquitous defined, if kids were playing in someone's yard, Butch was there. If other neighborhood dogs were bunched together and sniffing each other's butts, Butch was right there, sniffing away. If your yard had a shady tree, Butch was there, snoozing when your yard was the coolest part of the day.
He came when just about anybody called him. He was always happy to let you pat him on the head or on his ribs. I'm pretty certain he knocked up several neighborhood bitches, much to the chagrin of their owners. Or maybe he didn't…one summer when our dog, Suzie — a cantankerous Chihuahua/Toy Collie mix — was in heat (this was also in the day when people rarely got their pets "fixed"), I happened upon a romantic moment in Mrs. Shane's front yard where Butch was inclined to get him some, Suzie was inclined to let him and I was inclined to watch. Did I mention I was an adolescent?
More than twice her size, Butch pawed at Suzie — which she didn't like too much — to get her into position. In his lust for thrust, and in his inability to actually see where she was beneath him, Butch managed to get Suzie turned around backwards and was humping her head. If I may be so presumptuous as to ascribe facial expressions to dogs, Butch's was utter bliss, as if the act of simply humping was the pleasure, and never mind the lack of penetration. Suzie literally looked over at me about 30 feet away, and I swear her expression read, Can you believe this?! I was aboard to see this comedy of errors through to the end, but I got busted by the busybody Mrs. Shane. She came out of the house and onto the porch and shamed me all kinds of ways for standing there watching two dogs do essentially nothing.
Butch's true affection — when no neighborhood bitches were on the wind — was Jennifer and Stevie. About three or four years apart in age, Jennifer and Stevie always seemed to play together, either the two of them alone, or with the rest of the neighborhood kids. And, of course, Butch was there. I never saw a situation where he felt the need to protect them, but I'm certain the thought was there, in whatever form it resides in a dog's mind. While they played with Butch, he endured and tolerated everything kids think of to do to dogs: ear- and tail-pulling, attempts to ride him, blowing in his face, wrestling with him… he just seemed to take it all in stride.
With several dogs running around the neighborhood of a warm summer day, I don't recall ever seeing any of them fight. I imagine they did, I just never saw it. All the dogs seemed to get along. Butch was "friends" with our other dog, Joshua, Suzie's only surviving offspring. Josh was, of course, part Chihuahua, and part Toy Collie, but he was also part Pekingese, thanks to Mr. Shane's purebred, which was always on a leash when it was outside, either walking with Mr. Shane or tied to the handrail post at the bottom of the stairs to Mr. Shane's apartment; Suzie brought it to him! It was fun to watch Butch and Josh play, a sort of amused look in Butch's eyes as Joshua acted tough. And, as mean as Joshua got in their play, Butch never snapped back or tried to hurt him.
I can't help but imagine that Butch sort of helped keep our neighborhood and the smaller kids safe. He was everywhere, almost everyone in the neighborhood knew him and liked him, and I think he had it figured in his mind that he belonged to everyone — or everyone belonged to him — but with a stronger affection for Steve and Renee and Jennifer and Stevie.
In case you're fearful of the sad turn in this story, I'm happy to say that there isn't one. Honestly, I can't remember what ever happened to Butch. I seem to recall that he disappeared one day, but it could just be how it seems to me in memory. I simply don't know. His existence in my memory just fades out at an unknown time under unknown circumstances. And I think that's a good thing for me. No sad memories about Butch.
Good dog!
Butch was a mix of just about every dog breed you can think of. I'm pretty sure he had some German Shepherd in him, some beagle, some Lab…maybe all Labs! His true owners were a family that lived two doors south of me, Steve and Renee, and their two kids, Jennifer and Stevie.
As dogs go, Butch wasn't anything special. He wasn't super bright, but he wasn't stupid, either. He never rescued a kid who fell in a well; never saved a family in their burning house. Butch was just a dog; Steve and Renee and Jennifer and Stevie's dog. But Butch was everyone's dog.
In the days when people just weren't so worked up about dogs wandering around off-leash, Butch was rarely tied up, and never kept inside. Ubiquitous defined, if kids were playing in someone's yard, Butch was there. If other neighborhood dogs were bunched together and sniffing each other's butts, Butch was right there, sniffing away. If your yard had a shady tree, Butch was there, snoozing when your yard was the coolest part of the day.
He came when just about anybody called him. He was always happy to let you pat him on the head or on his ribs. I'm pretty certain he knocked up several neighborhood bitches, much to the chagrin of their owners. Or maybe he didn't…one summer when our dog, Suzie — a cantankerous Chihuahua/Toy Collie mix — was in heat (this was also in the day when people rarely got their pets "fixed"), I happened upon a romantic moment in Mrs. Shane's front yard where Butch was inclined to get him some, Suzie was inclined to let him and I was inclined to watch. Did I mention I was an adolescent?
More than twice her size, Butch pawed at Suzie — which she didn't like too much — to get her into position. In his lust for thrust, and in his inability to actually see where she was beneath him, Butch managed to get Suzie turned around backwards and was humping her head. If I may be so presumptuous as to ascribe facial expressions to dogs, Butch's was utter bliss, as if the act of simply humping was the pleasure, and never mind the lack of penetration. Suzie literally looked over at me about 30 feet away, and I swear her expression read, Can you believe this?! I was aboard to see this comedy of errors through to the end, but I got busted by the busybody Mrs. Shane. She came out of the house and onto the porch and shamed me all kinds of ways for standing there watching two dogs do essentially nothing.
Butch's true affection — when no neighborhood bitches were on the wind — was Jennifer and Stevie. About three or four years apart in age, Jennifer and Stevie always seemed to play together, either the two of them alone, or with the rest of the neighborhood kids. And, of course, Butch was there. I never saw a situation where he felt the need to protect them, but I'm certain the thought was there, in whatever form it resides in a dog's mind. While they played with Butch, he endured and tolerated everything kids think of to do to dogs: ear- and tail-pulling, attempts to ride him, blowing in his face, wrestling with him… he just seemed to take it all in stride.
With several dogs running around the neighborhood of a warm summer day, I don't recall ever seeing any of them fight. I imagine they did, I just never saw it. All the dogs seemed to get along. Butch was "friends" with our other dog, Joshua, Suzie's only surviving offspring. Josh was, of course, part Chihuahua, and part Toy Collie, but he was also part Pekingese, thanks to Mr. Shane's purebred, which was always on a leash when it was outside, either walking with Mr. Shane or tied to the handrail post at the bottom of the stairs to Mr. Shane's apartment; Suzie brought it to him! It was fun to watch Butch and Josh play, a sort of amused look in Butch's eyes as Joshua acted tough. And, as mean as Joshua got in their play, Butch never snapped back or tried to hurt him.
I can't help but imagine that Butch sort of helped keep our neighborhood and the smaller kids safe. He was everywhere, almost everyone in the neighborhood knew him and liked him, and I think he had it figured in his mind that he belonged to everyone — or everyone belonged to him — but with a stronger affection for Steve and Renee and Jennifer and Stevie.
In case you're fearful of the sad turn in this story, I'm happy to say that there isn't one. Honestly, I can't remember what ever happened to Butch. I seem to recall that he disappeared one day, but it could just be how it seems to me in memory. I simply don't know. His existence in my memory just fades out at an unknown time under unknown circumstances. And I think that's a good thing for me. No sad memories about Butch.
Good dog!
It's A Funny Thing About Nature
A couple weekends ago I awoke on a peaceful Saturday morning to an intermittent buzzing sound. I imagined a bee or a moth outside, flapping against my bedroom window. Soft and non-threatening, I fell in and out of sleep despite the noise. Then, as I ascended to a more alert awareness…or aware alertness…I realized that the buzzing sounded like it was actually inside the window.
I rose and shuffled barefoot to the window, yanked on the venetian blinds cord and HELLO! Three yellowjackets climbed up and down the window pane, and one more lay curled and dying in the window well, against the screen.
These are the little buggers which hover around the hole in your
can and try to bogart your beer.
WTF? How did they get inside? I had the window up about four inches, but the screen was closed. Was there a gap between at the top of the screen frame where they got in?
They're the kind of window that can be removed from their track and laid flat for easy cleaning, so I laid them out and shooed the yellowjackets away. I closed everything up and chalked it up to a fluke of nature. The sun is lower in the sky and hitting the side of the building more directly, so I figured maybe the heat radiating off of the building attracted them.
The following Monday I came home for lunch. I stepped into the bedroom and noticed two yellowjackets on the floor, one dead, one almost dead. Summa-beech! HTF are they getting in here? I vowed to go buy some Raid and spray the screen and window frames to try to keep the bugs out. I did so that evening, and I sprayed the areas I thought would keep them out.
A couple days later I came home and there were more wasps on the window up high, on the inside-the-apartment side. I opened the window again and shooed them away using a hanger, expecting any moment to piss them off and get stung. I went outside and looked for any sign of a nest somewhere around my bedroom window. I'm on the second floor and, craning my neck up at the window, I noticed nothing other than that, apparently during the remodeling of my apartment building, the workers had knocked the front grille off of my wall-unit air-conditioner, and left it bent and leaning against the building.
Sunday I left for a few days in Atlanta, but not before noticing six yellowjackets walking around on the window. Fed up, I grabbed a dishtowel from the kitchen (I don't currently own a flyswatter) and took aim at one on the glass. In old boys'-locker-room form, I wound that towel into a thin weapon, cocked and snapped. POW! Direct hit! The wasp was dead before it hit the carpet! the others were on the outside of the glass, but inside the screen, so I shooed them away. I made sure to close the window before I left.
Thursday when I returned home from Atlanta and Palm Beach, Florida, I was greeted by seven wasps, most of them lying on the carpet beneath my window, most of them dead, a couple others looking like they wished they were. I surmised that the only way they could have gotten in was through the air conditioner. I sprayed a couple of the healthier ones walking on the glass, and they, joined their fallen comrades on the carpet.
Friday I came home for lunch and there were three or four more wasps inside the apartment and clinging to the glass, and another one or two dying on the carpet. I stepped back outside and looked up at the air-conditioning unit. Finally what I had not noticed earlier: a nest clinging to the side of the cooling unit inside the shell of the unit! I called the apartment management office and told the woman who answered about the nest. She seemed preoccupied and said she would send someone.
When I returned from work there were a couple more yellowjackets in my room. I figured I would wait until Saturday to see if anyone showed up before I called again.
Saturday morning I awoke to loud rustling sounds in my air-conditioner. It was around 8:30. Normally I would be perturbed about maintenance guys starting so early at my inconvenience, but if it meant I would be rid of the wasps, then so be it! Maybe he would appreciate some coffee! After a few minutes the rustling sound continued, and I thought, How long does it take to remove a freakin' wasps' nest? Then I heard a frantic chirping noise. Dat ain' right. I got up and looked out the window and saw not an apartment complex handyman braving the ravages of wasps' nest busting, but a gaggle of wild birds — sparrows, or perhaps finches — feasting on the little morsels in the wasps' nest! They were raiding the nest and eating the wasps! How cool! How serendipitously fortunate for me! Or maybe the apartment complex handyman has a gaggle of trained common birds and he sends them in to handle the dangerous part of the job so he can accomplish it and be an unstung hero!
After a while the birds left the nest alone, and I left the apartment for a few hours. When I returned around two o'clock I found two more yellowjackets on the carpet. It had been more than 24 hours since my call and the nest had still not been eradicated. I called the apartment manager's office and explained that I had called the day before about it, but nothing had been done. I told her that I would call this an emergency. I was ready to tell her that if I got stung by a wasp in my own apartment, I would not be paying next month's rent. Fortunately I didn't have to go that far. She said she would send someone right away.
About 30 minutes later, as I browsed the internet, I heard a noise that sounded like it was coming from the air-conditioner in the next room. I looked out the window in my office, but saw no handyman. Now what could it be? I went into my bedroom, and there he was…IN my bedroom! I had never heard him knock, so, with my permission to enter, he did! By the time I found him, he was already cleaning up and getting ready to leave. He had already removed the nest, put a new grille on the front outside, pulled the unit inside through the wall and cleaned it out! And then he fixed the drain plug in my "master" bedroom wash basin!
So now I'm wasp-free, I've slept three nights on my week-old bed and I got a glimpse of Mother Nature proving to me that even she hates wasps!
I rose and shuffled barefoot to the window, yanked on the venetian blinds cord and HELLO! Three yellowjackets climbed up and down the window pane, and one more lay curled and dying in the window well, against the screen.
These are the little buggers which hover around the hole in your
can and try to bogart your beer.
WTF? How did they get inside? I had the window up about four inches, but the screen was closed. Was there a gap between at the top of the screen frame where they got in?
They're the kind of window that can be removed from their track and laid flat for easy cleaning, so I laid them out and shooed the yellowjackets away. I closed everything up and chalked it up to a fluke of nature. The sun is lower in the sky and hitting the side of the building more directly, so I figured maybe the heat radiating off of the building attracted them.
The following Monday I came home for lunch. I stepped into the bedroom and noticed two yellowjackets on the floor, one dead, one almost dead. Summa-beech! HTF are they getting in here? I vowed to go buy some Raid and spray the screen and window frames to try to keep the bugs out. I did so that evening, and I sprayed the areas I thought would keep them out.
A couple days later I came home and there were more wasps on the window up high, on the inside-the-apartment side. I opened the window again and shooed them away using a hanger, expecting any moment to piss them off and get stung. I went outside and looked for any sign of a nest somewhere around my bedroom window. I'm on the second floor and, craning my neck up at the window, I noticed nothing other than that, apparently during the remodeling of my apartment building, the workers had knocked the front grille off of my wall-unit air-conditioner, and left it bent and leaning against the building.
Sunday I left for a few days in Atlanta, but not before noticing six yellowjackets walking around on the window. Fed up, I grabbed a dishtowel from the kitchen (I don't currently own a flyswatter) and took aim at one on the glass. In old boys'-locker-room form, I wound that towel into a thin weapon, cocked and snapped. POW! Direct hit! The wasp was dead before it hit the carpet! the others were on the outside of the glass, but inside the screen, so I shooed them away. I made sure to close the window before I left.
Thursday when I returned home from Atlanta and Palm Beach, Florida, I was greeted by seven wasps, most of them lying on the carpet beneath my window, most of them dead, a couple others looking like they wished they were. I surmised that the only way they could have gotten in was through the air conditioner. I sprayed a couple of the healthier ones walking on the glass, and they, joined their fallen comrades on the carpet.
Friday I came home for lunch and there were three or four more wasps inside the apartment and clinging to the glass, and another one or two dying on the carpet. I stepped back outside and looked up at the air-conditioning unit. Finally what I had not noticed earlier: a nest clinging to the side of the cooling unit inside the shell of the unit! I called the apartment management office and told the woman who answered about the nest. She seemed preoccupied and said she would send someone.
When I returned from work there were a couple more yellowjackets in my room. I figured I would wait until Saturday to see if anyone showed up before I called again.
Saturday morning I awoke to loud rustling sounds in my air-conditioner. It was around 8:30. Normally I would be perturbed about maintenance guys starting so early at my inconvenience, but if it meant I would be rid of the wasps, then so be it! Maybe he would appreciate some coffee! After a few minutes the rustling sound continued, and I thought, How long does it take to remove a freakin' wasps' nest? Then I heard a frantic chirping noise. Dat ain' right. I got up and looked out the window and saw not an apartment complex handyman braving the ravages of wasps' nest busting, but a gaggle of wild birds — sparrows, or perhaps finches — feasting on the little morsels in the wasps' nest! They were raiding the nest and eating the wasps! How cool! How serendipitously fortunate for me! Or maybe the apartment complex handyman has a gaggle of trained common birds and he sends them in to handle the dangerous part of the job so he can accomplish it and be an unstung hero!
After a while the birds left the nest alone, and I left the apartment for a few hours. When I returned around two o'clock I found two more yellowjackets on the carpet. It had been more than 24 hours since my call and the nest had still not been eradicated. I called the apartment manager's office and explained that I had called the day before about it, but nothing had been done. I told her that I would call this an emergency. I was ready to tell her that if I got stung by a wasp in my own apartment, I would not be paying next month's rent. Fortunately I didn't have to go that far. She said she would send someone right away.
About 30 minutes later, as I browsed the internet, I heard a noise that sounded like it was coming from the air-conditioner in the next room. I looked out the window in my office, but saw no handyman. Now what could it be? I went into my bedroom, and there he was…IN my bedroom! I had never heard him knock, so, with my permission to enter, he did! By the time I found him, he was already cleaning up and getting ready to leave. He had already removed the nest, put a new grille on the front outside, pulled the unit inside through the wall and cleaned it out! And then he fixed the drain plug in my "master" bedroom wash basin!
So now I'm wasp-free, I've slept three nights on my week-old bed and I got a glimpse of Mother Nature proving to me that even she hates wasps!
Monday, October 13, 2008
Instant Relief
Television advertisers hawking remedies for what ails us always seem to imply that use of their products will result in instantaneous relief from those ailments, but it’s usually not the case. Often the headache dissipates and we forget about it until we realize it’s “suddenly” gone, but it was far from instantaneous. And the common cold? Well, we all know that cold remedies aren’t really remedies at all, they’re just symptom masks that help us feel manageable until the ick finally runs its course.
Instant relief does happen though. Or, at least, it has happened to me. It truly has been rare, but there are very notable instances.
A Clear and Omnipresent Pain
It was probably 1988 or ’89. My second-oldest niece was in the high school choir and desperately wanted me to come see the Christmas concert. I had driven up from school in southern Illinois and arrived home for the holidays with a splitting headache that just. would. not. go. AWAY! I had taken some aspirin or acetaminophen before leaving school, but it just got worse and worse over the 300 mile drive. As the time to go to the concert drew near, the pain in my head was so acute I felt that I might get sick. Finally, my oldest sister asked me where in my head the pain was. I pointed to just above my right eyeball, and she said, “It’s sinus pressure.”
I was 25 years old. I didn’t know sinus pressure from a bump on the head. And besides, I hadn’t had any sinus problems before then that I could recall. She offered me a Co-Advil tablet (later reformulated as Advil Cold & Sinus). I was skeptical, as the pain reliever I had taken earlier was totally ineffective. But I popped the tablet, drank a glass of water, and lay down on the couch.
About twenty or thirty minutes later my sister came into the living room and asked me if I was going to be able to go to the concert. As I lay there, my head was still pounding. I sat up to tell her that, no, I probably wasn’t going to make it to the show.
And —POP!— A sharp pain stabbed right above my eyeball, the vibration felt behind my right nostril, and then all the pain was gone.
Just. Like. THAT.
Of course, at that very moment I thought I had just experienced a burst brain aneurysm, and I expected the lights to go out — forever — at any second. But they didn’t! Oh, if only it could be that way again! I had a headache Sunday, which I believe was caused by sleeping Saturday night on the new bed and breathing in all that new-bed factory smell that wafted around me all night, and which lasted through most of Monday. I think I have a brain tumor now. Regardless, nothing on the market since that one time with Co-Advil has ever resulted in that sudden a relief of my agony.
The headache which resulted from my niece’s choir concert, on the other hand, no medication — nor even a burst brain aneurysm — could ever soothe!
A Lot of Crack
When I was a freshman in high school I developed a lower back problem, which caused me so much pain that it often took me several seconds to get up out of a school desk, and I walked several steps doubled over before I could get fully upright. The chiropractor I was sent to said it was due to the fact that my pelvis was “out of place.” For several months I went to him every two weeks, and at each visit he had me lie face down on the table under a heat lamp, cooking my ass until he smelled bacon, at which time he would come in and perform the adjustment. The first time I went to him, I didn’t know what to expect. He had me roll over onto my back, and he pulled my one leg over the other and pinned my shoulders to the table, and then he dropped his weight onto the pulled-over leg. CRAAAACK! I could not believe how many vertebrae “popped!” Then I couldn’t figure out why he was positioning me to do the same with the other leg, because surely no more vertebrae coul -- CRAAAACK! And from that day I was hooked; every day found me stretching and twisting, and popping my back and my neck as often as I could. The pain I had then took quite a while to ease, but it finally went away. He gave me an exercise to do whenever I felt any pain or discomfort back down there, and every time I have ever felt it, a few days of doing that same exercise usually nips it in the bud.
A few years ago, however, Producer and I had a shoot somewhere in Indiana, between Chicago and Indianapolis, and we chose to rent a car — which turned out to be a Lincoln Town Car — and drive down instead of spending the same amount of time, but putting up with the hassle of flying. We drove down, the shoot went well, and we drove back. I pulled into the alley behind my house, where I was to bid Producer adieu, and he was to then take the car back to the rental place. As I turned my body to get out, I felt something pop in my lower back and I was doubled over in pain again, just like I had been in high school. After several days of doing the back stretching exercise, there was no relief.
Then, one morning as I was leaving for work, I pulled out of the garage like I always did, cranking the wheel all the way to the left, but not quite clearing the garbage cans in the alley across from the garage. Looking behind me to back up, I turned in my seat and grabbed the back of the passenger seat with my right hand. The stretch felt good, so I tried to turn my head and shoulders a little farther and — CLUNK! — Deep in my lower back something big popped, like a vertebra that hadn’t popped in many, many years! MAN! It felt incredible! And, as I sat there in the car, it seemed that the pain, which had not ceased for several days, was gone. Skeptical about that, I waited until I got to work to see. I stepped out of the car and was incredulous and pain-free! I was practically giddy the whole day.
Unfortunately, the next morning while I was brushing my teeth, I stumbled slightly over the bathroom threshold and re-wrenched my back. The grabbing-the-rear-of-the-passenger-seat method never worked again. The pain did go away, though, but it took going to a chiropractor to do so.
The Monster Within
About two years ago or so I was at work and dealing with a hyperactive draining sinus cavity. I didn’t have a cold, but the sinuses were full of crap and the post-nasal drip was driving me crazy. I went into the break room and grabbed a paper towel (as it was the closest thing at that moment) into which to blow my nose. It was the typical result, a little bit of mucus, a little bit of “stuff.” Then I took a deep, deep breath and BLEW!
KASPLORCH!
THE HUGEST glop of snot I have ever seen — EVER — exploded from my nose and into the paper towel, for which I am ever grateful to the fates for making me grab, for had it been a mere facial tissue, I would have pasted the break room cabinets with tissue-laced nose poo! My sinuses so completely cleared so rapidly that I thought I was going to pass my right eyeball through my nose! I swear I felt stuff move out from behind it! I even checked the paper towel for any specks of grey matter, just in case I had broken something in there. It must have weighed half a pound! My nose — as well as my eyesight — was for days the clearest it’s ever been!
Gross? Disgusting to retell? You betcha! But man, was it ever satisfying!
Care to share any tales of your instant relief? No worries here if it’s gross, or even more disgusting than mine. You and I are the only ones who read this blog!
Instant relief does happen though. Or, at least, it has happened to me. It truly has been rare, but there are very notable instances.
A Clear and Omnipresent Pain
It was probably 1988 or ’89. My second-oldest niece was in the high school choir and desperately wanted me to come see the Christmas concert. I had driven up from school in southern Illinois and arrived home for the holidays with a splitting headache that just. would. not. go. AWAY! I had taken some aspirin or acetaminophen before leaving school, but it just got worse and worse over the 300 mile drive. As the time to go to the concert drew near, the pain in my head was so acute I felt that I might get sick. Finally, my oldest sister asked me where in my head the pain was. I pointed to just above my right eyeball, and she said, “It’s sinus pressure.”
I was 25 years old. I didn’t know sinus pressure from a bump on the head. And besides, I hadn’t had any sinus problems before then that I could recall. She offered me a Co-Advil tablet (later reformulated as Advil Cold & Sinus). I was skeptical, as the pain reliever I had taken earlier was totally ineffective. But I popped the tablet, drank a glass of water, and lay down on the couch.
About twenty or thirty minutes later my sister came into the living room and asked me if I was going to be able to go to the concert. As I lay there, my head was still pounding. I sat up to tell her that, no, I probably wasn’t going to make it to the show.
And —POP!— A sharp pain stabbed right above my eyeball, the vibration felt behind my right nostril, and then all the pain was gone.
Just. Like. THAT.
Of course, at that very moment I thought I had just experienced a burst brain aneurysm, and I expected the lights to go out — forever — at any second. But they didn’t! Oh, if only it could be that way again! I had a headache Sunday, which I believe was caused by sleeping Saturday night on the new bed and breathing in all that new-bed factory smell that wafted around me all night, and which lasted through most of Monday. I think I have a brain tumor now. Regardless, nothing on the market since that one time with Co-Advil has ever resulted in that sudden a relief of my agony.
The headache which resulted from my niece’s choir concert, on the other hand, no medication — nor even a burst brain aneurysm — could ever soothe!
A Lot of Crack
When I was a freshman in high school I developed a lower back problem, which caused me so much pain that it often took me several seconds to get up out of a school desk, and I walked several steps doubled over before I could get fully upright. The chiropractor I was sent to said it was due to the fact that my pelvis was “out of place.” For several months I went to him every two weeks, and at each visit he had me lie face down on the table under a heat lamp, cooking my ass until he smelled bacon, at which time he would come in and perform the adjustment. The first time I went to him, I didn’t know what to expect. He had me roll over onto my back, and he pulled my one leg over the other and pinned my shoulders to the table, and then he dropped his weight onto the pulled-over leg. CRAAAACK! I could not believe how many vertebrae “popped!” Then I couldn’t figure out why he was positioning me to do the same with the other leg, because surely no more vertebrae coul -- CRAAAACK! And from that day I was hooked; every day found me stretching and twisting, and popping my back and my neck as often as I could. The pain I had then took quite a while to ease, but it finally went away. He gave me an exercise to do whenever I felt any pain or discomfort back down there, and every time I have ever felt it, a few days of doing that same exercise usually nips it in the bud.
A few years ago, however, Producer and I had a shoot somewhere in Indiana, between Chicago and Indianapolis, and we chose to rent a car — which turned out to be a Lincoln Town Car — and drive down instead of spending the same amount of time, but putting up with the hassle of flying. We drove down, the shoot went well, and we drove back. I pulled into the alley behind my house, where I was to bid Producer adieu, and he was to then take the car back to the rental place. As I turned my body to get out, I felt something pop in my lower back and I was doubled over in pain again, just like I had been in high school. After several days of doing the back stretching exercise, there was no relief.
Then, one morning as I was leaving for work, I pulled out of the garage like I always did, cranking the wheel all the way to the left, but not quite clearing the garbage cans in the alley across from the garage. Looking behind me to back up, I turned in my seat and grabbed the back of the passenger seat with my right hand. The stretch felt good, so I tried to turn my head and shoulders a little farther and — CLUNK! — Deep in my lower back something big popped, like a vertebra that hadn’t popped in many, many years! MAN! It felt incredible! And, as I sat there in the car, it seemed that the pain, which had not ceased for several days, was gone. Skeptical about that, I waited until I got to work to see. I stepped out of the car and was incredulous and pain-free! I was practically giddy the whole day.
Unfortunately, the next morning while I was brushing my teeth, I stumbled slightly over the bathroom threshold and re-wrenched my back. The grabbing-the-rear-of-the-passenger-seat method never worked again. The pain did go away, though, but it took going to a chiropractor to do so.
The Monster Within
About two years ago or so I was at work and dealing with a hyperactive draining sinus cavity. I didn’t have a cold, but the sinuses were full of crap and the post-nasal drip was driving me crazy. I went into the break room and grabbed a paper towel (as it was the closest thing at that moment) into which to blow my nose. It was the typical result, a little bit of mucus, a little bit of “stuff.” Then I took a deep, deep breath and BLEW!
KASPLORCH!
THE HUGEST glop of snot I have ever seen — EVER — exploded from my nose and into the paper towel, for which I am ever grateful to the fates for making me grab, for had it been a mere facial tissue, I would have pasted the break room cabinets with tissue-laced nose poo! My sinuses so completely cleared so rapidly that I thought I was going to pass my right eyeball through my nose! I swear I felt stuff move out from behind it! I even checked the paper towel for any specks of grey matter, just in case I had broken something in there. It must have weighed half a pound! My nose — as well as my eyesight — was for days the clearest it’s ever been!
Gross? Disgusting to retell? You betcha! But man, was it ever satisfying!
Care to share any tales of your instant relief? No worries here if it’s gross, or even more disgusting than mine. You and I are the only ones who read this blog!
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Money Out, Stuff In
I learned a lesson Friday night, its importance subjective: if you're planning to write after a long day at work, and having to force it because you've found no inspiration to write in the past two weeks (well, PLENTY of inspiration, but who wants to hear about correcting your vehicle title?), DON'T have a beer with dinner.
Secondary lesson: going to bed at 9:00 pm — which is about three hours earlier than your usual — when you're really tired from a long day at work and from racking your brain over a beer to come up with SOMETHING to write can be tremendously refreshing.
Pardon My Dust
Improvements are underway. There has long been a list of things I've wanted, — material things, if you will; toys — that I am certainly aware will not make me whole, but they will help to fill the alone times with distraction. There was a small distribution from my father's estate, and a small settlement from xMrs. Farrago in the wake of the divorce, and these will make it possible to get the things I've wanted.
They're not all frivolous things, mind you. I've long wanted a tow package installed on the Xterra so that I can get a hitch-mounted bike rack and take my bike to faraway places to ride it. See? Health-conscious. Tow package installed. Bike rack purchased.
Last week for work I had to watch several Suze Orman DVDs to find a quote where she says how much and why she hates variable annuity life insurance policies. I used to watch the weekly Suze Orman show with xMrs. Farrago. It wasn't my choice, as xMrs. Farrago handled the money, and I often fell asleep before the show was over. Despite filtering for only one phrase — "variable annuity" — and trying to filter out Ms. Orman's annoying voice, a few messages got through. Prominent among them was, "Get rid of credit card debt." It wasn't a lot, but in the lean early months of the separation I leaned on the plastic for a few things. Suze's message is simple: if you have the cash, pay off the credit cards. Transfer those monthly payments to a savings or retirement account. Get rich.
Well, she didn't say that last one, but that's the idea. So, another good thing: future-conscious. Credit card debt eliminated.
And she never once mentioned variable annuity life insurance.
Back in the summer, while working to divide our finances, we sat with Margo the Bank Girl. A couple years ago, when I first met Margo, she was a plump girl, with splotchy skin, and who seemed very uncomfortable. This summer it had been about a year since I had seen her, and she was a totally different person. She had slimmed down drastically, she seemed more alert and alive…but she still has splotchy skin. She told me she had lost about 45 pounds since she had started working with a personal trainer.
Hmmm. If I know anything about myself, it's that I'm horribly unmotivated when it comes to moving muscles with any more weight on them than themselves. However, I also know that with friendly encouragement — and occasional threats of violence — I'm comfortable with supervision. I've already spoken with one personal trainer, and I'm looking into another. So, when the current spate of travel abates (I leave for Atlanta Sunday afternoon — 5 days) I will place myself at the mercy of a sadistic, muscle-bound beast — or maybe I'll work with a guy — and, hopefully, I'll come out the other side looking and feeling awesome. Naked pics here if that happens.
(Not of ME!! What are you, SICK or something?!)
I've written it and published it, so now I have to do it.
I've put myself on a cleaning schedule. HOUSE cleaning, you sick people! (still working on coming up with a shower schedule…) Rather than kill myself — and most of a day — trying to clean the whole apartment, I do one room a week. There are five rooms in the apartment: bedroom/half bath; full bath/main hallway; kitchen; living room; office. I've completed one cycle and the tidy (generally) place feels great. I've tried to police myself where clutter and piles are concerned. There are a few here and there, and in the living room there's still a gaggle of boxes of stuff I just don't have places for. But the dust is gone! I'm two weeks behind, however. Honestly, though, there's little to clean at the moment.
The new Tempur-Pedic memory foam queen bed was delivered this morning.
The coming weeks and months see possible new furniture, stereo- and computer equipment.
No, unfortunately, no upgrades are planned for the ol' Farrago blog web place space site. The only improvement possible here would be if I were to stop writing all together.
Secondary lesson: going to bed at 9:00 pm — which is about three hours earlier than your usual — when you're really tired from a long day at work and from racking your brain over a beer to come up with SOMETHING to write can be tremendously refreshing.
Pardon My Dust
Improvements are underway. There has long been a list of things I've wanted, — material things, if you will; toys — that I am certainly aware will not make me whole, but they will help to fill the alone times with distraction. There was a small distribution from my father's estate, and a small settlement from xMrs. Farrago in the wake of the divorce, and these will make it possible to get the things I've wanted.
They're not all frivolous things, mind you. I've long wanted a tow package installed on the Xterra so that I can get a hitch-mounted bike rack and take my bike to faraway places to ride it. See? Health-conscious. Tow package installed. Bike rack purchased.
Last week for work I had to watch several Suze Orman DVDs to find a quote where she says how much and why she hates variable annuity life insurance policies. I used to watch the weekly Suze Orman show with xMrs. Farrago. It wasn't my choice, as xMrs. Farrago handled the money, and I often fell asleep before the show was over. Despite filtering for only one phrase — "variable annuity" — and trying to filter out Ms. Orman's annoying voice, a few messages got through. Prominent among them was, "Get rid of credit card debt." It wasn't a lot, but in the lean early months of the separation I leaned on the plastic for a few things. Suze's message is simple: if you have the cash, pay off the credit cards. Transfer those monthly payments to a savings or retirement account. Get rich.
Well, she didn't say that last one, but that's the idea. So, another good thing: future-conscious. Credit card debt eliminated.
And she never once mentioned variable annuity life insurance.
Back in the summer, while working to divide our finances, we sat with Margo the Bank Girl. A couple years ago, when I first met Margo, she was a plump girl, with splotchy skin, and who seemed very uncomfortable. This summer it had been about a year since I had seen her, and she was a totally different person. She had slimmed down drastically, she seemed more alert and alive…but she still has splotchy skin. She told me she had lost about 45 pounds since she had started working with a personal trainer.
Hmmm. If I know anything about myself, it's that I'm horribly unmotivated when it comes to moving muscles with any more weight on them than themselves. However, I also know that with friendly encouragement — and occasional threats of violence — I'm comfortable with supervision. I've already spoken with one personal trainer, and I'm looking into another. So, when the current spate of travel abates (I leave for Atlanta Sunday afternoon — 5 days) I will place myself at the mercy of a sadistic, muscle-bound beast — or maybe I'll work with a guy — and, hopefully, I'll come out the other side looking and feeling awesome. Naked pics here if that happens.
(Not of ME!! What are you, SICK or something?!)
I've written it and published it, so now I have to do it.
I've put myself on a cleaning schedule. HOUSE cleaning, you sick people! (still working on coming up with a shower schedule…) Rather than kill myself — and most of a day — trying to clean the whole apartment, I do one room a week. There are five rooms in the apartment: bedroom/half bath; full bath/main hallway; kitchen; living room; office. I've completed one cycle and the tidy (generally) place feels great. I've tried to police myself where clutter and piles are concerned. There are a few here and there, and in the living room there's still a gaggle of boxes of stuff I just don't have places for. But the dust is gone! I'm two weeks behind, however. Honestly, though, there's little to clean at the moment.
The new Tempur-Pedic memory foam queen bed was delivered this morning.
The coming weeks and months see possible new furniture, stereo- and computer equipment.
No, unfortunately, no upgrades are planned for the ol' Farrago blog web place space site. The only improvement possible here would be if I were to stop writing all together.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
My FIRST Meme. I Mean, NOT My First Meme, But... Oh, Just Read It!
Professor, author of Babble From Babbler posted a meme that sent me off on quite a tangent (see previous post below). But now I'm doin' it!
1. Who was your FIRST prom date?
Linda
2. Do you still talk to your FIRST love?
No
3. What was your FIRST alcoholic drink?
Tastes allowed from my parents? Wine or beer. First real whole drink? Harvey Wallbanger.
4. What was your FIRST job?
United States Air Force
5. What was your FIRST car?
Red 1979 Jeep CJ-5
6. Who was the FIRST person to text you today?
N/A
7. Who is the FIRST person you thought of this morning?
Me (Hey! My mind was a blank until I looked in the mirror!)
8. Who was your FIRST grade teacher?
Mrs. Erickson
9. Where did you go on your FIRST ride on an airplane?
Back to where we started OR San Antonio, Texas
10. Who was your FIRST best friend, and are you still friends with him / her?
Patrick Powers. Technically, yes. We parted as friends when he moved away, but we've never spoken since.
11. Who was your FIRST kiss?
Just two little kids goofing around? Terri. In a relationship? Beth. With tongue and in a relationship? Linda.
12. Where was your FIRST sleep over?
Tim O.'s house down the street from me.
13. Who was the FIRST person you talked to today?
Editor
14. Whose wedding were you in the FIRST time?
My second cousin, Susan's, March 17, 1973 (I still have the gift Playboy beer mug — with the date painted on it — given to the wedding party). I was 8.5 years old. I had to wear a black tux and a lavender shirt with chest and cuff ruffles. I cringe to this day at the memory.
15. What was the FIRST thing you did this morning?
breathed
16. What was the FIRST concert you ever went to?
Van Halen. Or maybe it was ZZ Top. They were one week apart and I can't remember which one I went to first.
17. FIRST tattoo or piercing?
N/A
18. FIRST foreign country you went to?
Germany
19. First movie you remember seeing in the theater?
One of my sisters dragged me along to see Goodbye, Mr. Chips. I was all of 5 years old. She must have been babysitting. I remember I was bored out of my skull and ticked because no one in the movie looked like a potato chip.
20. When was your FIRST detention?
Some time in high school. Once, maybe twice. I was a good egg.
21. What was the FIRST state you lived in?
Illinois
22. Who was the FIRST person to really break your heart?
Linda
23. Who was your first roommate?
In basic training, 21 other guys...can't remember their names. After that, a guy named Vibyral (or Vybiral?), nicknamed "Vibrator," my first real, lone roommate, in tech school in the Air Force.
24. With whom was your FIRST date?
Beth
1. Who was your FIRST prom date?
Linda
2. Do you still talk to your FIRST love?
No
3. What was your FIRST alcoholic drink?
Tastes allowed from my parents? Wine or beer. First real whole drink? Harvey Wallbanger.
4. What was your FIRST job?
United States Air Force
5. What was your FIRST car?
Red 1979 Jeep CJ-5
6. Who was the FIRST person to text you today?
N/A
7. Who is the FIRST person you thought of this morning?
Me (Hey! My mind was a blank until I looked in the mirror!)
8. Who was your FIRST grade teacher?
Mrs. Erickson
9. Where did you go on your FIRST ride on an airplane?
Back to where we started OR San Antonio, Texas
10. Who was your FIRST best friend, and are you still friends with him / her?
Patrick Powers. Technically, yes. We parted as friends when he moved away, but we've never spoken since.
11. Who was your FIRST kiss?
Just two little kids goofing around? Terri. In a relationship? Beth. With tongue and in a relationship? Linda.
12. Where was your FIRST sleep over?
Tim O.'s house down the street from me.
13. Who was the FIRST person you talked to today?
Editor
14. Whose wedding were you in the FIRST time?
My second cousin, Susan's, March 17, 1973 (I still have the gift Playboy beer mug — with the date painted on it — given to the wedding party). I was 8.5 years old. I had to wear a black tux and a lavender shirt with chest and cuff ruffles. I cringe to this day at the memory.
15. What was the FIRST thing you did this morning?
breathed
16. What was the FIRST concert you ever went to?
Van Halen. Or maybe it was ZZ Top. They were one week apart and I can't remember which one I went to first.
17. FIRST tattoo or piercing?
N/A
18. FIRST foreign country you went to?
Germany
19. First movie you remember seeing in the theater?
One of my sisters dragged me along to see Goodbye, Mr. Chips. I was all of 5 years old. She must have been babysitting. I remember I was bored out of my skull and ticked because no one in the movie looked like a potato chip.
20. When was your FIRST detention?
Some time in high school. Once, maybe twice. I was a good egg.
21. What was the FIRST state you lived in?
Illinois
22. Who was the FIRST person to really break your heart?
Linda
23. Who was your first roommate?
In basic training, 21 other guys...can't remember their names. After that, a guy named Vibyral (or Vybiral?), nicknamed "Vibrator," my first real, lone roommate, in tech school in the Air Force.
24. With whom was your FIRST date?
Beth
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