Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Eat It. It's Good For You.

I was on my way back from court this afternoon and saw the Wonder/Hostess outlet store. Now, normally, I wouldn't have given this a second thought; but just yesterday, I mentioned to Stacey that I had a hankerin' for a Hostess cupcake. Why? I have no clue. I haven't had a Hostess cupcake in decades. It just popped into my mind yesterday ... probably due to a slight stroke or something like that. And there it was, right there on the side of the road, a sign, as M. Shymalanolin Night would like us to believe.

And I saw another sign ... in the window ... boxed treats were three for five bucks. I got a box of Ho-Ho's and a box of Hostess cupcakes and a box of Twinkies. Oh, the power of advertising ... and M. Shymalyanabanana Night ... yes, I had taken the bait. I was like ... there ... absolutely ... there.

The lady at the cash register ... heehee ... charged me $4.78. I had the fiver out. She said it was a special today ... yeah, right ... a special ... 22 cents off. What kind of special is that? She insisted on giving me my 22 cents change. I took it. Like, wow, I'm thinking, that is another sign. This was feeling very right to me, if you know what I mean. Like this was ... a good thing, as Martha used to say.

I figured, though, that I'd wait till I got home to eat one of the Hostess cupcakes ... oh, I was looking forward to the ritual ... you know ... the ritualistic way in which you eat certain things. You know that squiggly white icing thing on the chocolate icing on top of the cupcake. I used to take that off and eat it first, then the chocolate icing. That's the ritual thing ... you can't do that while driving.

I did have the Twinkies, though, that were like just sitting in that box ... and the light was red ... and the box was pretty easy to open ... and the little cellophane wrappers are easy to pull apart with your teeth. And you know, Twinki9es, with that moist yellow cake-like stuff -- it didn't have the white cardboard piece like I remembered. Sometimes, I'd scrape the stickey stuff left on the white cardboardy thing with my finger and eat it first ... the ritual thing ... you just can't like lick that stuff, you have to scrape it off in a little rolled up thing or ball, whatever, with maybe a little of the filling my mother said was "pure lard, that's why I don't buy that crap! Let Kenny's mother fill him up with that crap!" Ah, yes, the memories ... washing over me ...

Fucking guy behind me beeped cuz the light turned green. Just jealous.

I bit into the golden sponge cake with creamy filling. Oh, yeah, you just know this is going to be like the best thing ... Oh ... my ... God!! What the fuck did they do to Twinkies to make them taste so ... so ... different? Oh, man, I am telling you that this was bad. I mean, I don't remember Twinkies tasting like this ... I can't even describe it ... They must have done something to them ... I wish I could check the recipe from back in the day. I had to spit it out ... I'm sorry, but right out the window .... yuck! They're probably bio-degradable now; so, it was okay to do that -- and maybe that's the problem.

Hostess is trying to make this into FOOD. The pesky food scientists have fucked with the recipe to try to make Twinkies healthy. What are they doing? This isn't right ... Twinkies aren't supposed to be food. Who decided that?

That's why they were so good. Because your mom wouldn't let you eat them. They were bad for you ... somehow, I think, Hostess started catering to those moms ... making the Twinkies healthy, to please mom. And along the way, they lost sight of what was important.

Hmmm ... what was important? A good-tasting product? I don't know. Somehow, somewhere, somebody got the idea that they could make more money by catering to the moms ... the moms don't care how the things taste ... and what do the kids know nowadays ... "Eat it, it's good for you," has come not to mean that the kid should eat that slice of liver that's cooked beyond all recognition, even by a shoe repair guy, and those peas, right from the can of the Jolly Green Giant, but should eat that fucking Twinkie ... that foul-tasting, spit-it-out-the-window, unidentifiable-tasting ... thing.

I'm passing on the Hostess cupcakes ... not even going to open the box ... if you want them, let me know where to ship them.

Open Letter to Jason Giambi

Dear Jason:

I do not like you. As far as I'm concerned, you are a fucking asshole.

I'm sick and tired of reading that fucking lame-ass quote about you being 33, not 50. How the fuck do you know what it feels like to be 50? I will bet you that I can still hit an 88 mile an hour fastball, by the way; so, please tell me what else I can't do.

You don't need a fucking Ph.D. to listen to your doctor and repeat what he said, unless, of course, you are really embarrassed about having parasites. What the hell have you been eating? Or maybe the question should be where have you been sleeping?

I guess you aren't one of the brightest bulbs, wondering why you were feeling weak and tired for a couple of weeks and not going to the doctor the team provides ... for free. Free -- that means you don't have to pay anything. You maybe thought that you were supposed to feel that way, since your supply of "supplements" dried up?

And I suppose you are claiming ignorance about something called tetrahydrogestrinone, you dumb fuck. Here's a question for you, Jason, that maybe you will understand: Have your testicles withered a little over the past few years, chief? Tell me how you feel when you're 50, if you make it that far.

Kindest personal regards,

Bill

Driving Diane Schuur's Drummer

Singer Diane Schuur was in town last night for a concert benefitting an organization that builds and maintains housing for the disabled. The piano-playing jazz singer was backed by a trio of musicians, a saxophonist, drummer, and bassist. If you don't know who she is, check her out. She was excellent, and the venue, Severance Hall, home of the Cleveland Orchestra, couldn't have been better.

Severance Hall is located on University Circle, home of the Cleveland Museum of Art, which has the pre-eminent collection of Greek and Roman bronze in the world, about six or seven miles from Interstate-71, which heads south towards Columbus out from its terminus in Cleveland.

I'll get to the point already. Stop whining.

This post is about me, not Diane Schuur. I'm going to make a disclosure here -- an acknowledgement, so to speak, of a significant problem that plagues me, a character flaw of monumental proportions, which may have an impact on anyone with whom I come into contact.

And it manifested itself, without grave tragedy, last night after the concert.

We spent time after Diane Schuur's awesome performance talking to friends, Betty and Mick, with whom we attended the concert and dinner beforehand at a small 10-table Italian restaurant, Valerio's, located on Mayfield in the Murray Hill neighborhood. I noticed no sign on the door prohibiting concealed weapons. At a table near us, two men wearing dark glasses wore suit jackets, one over a buttoned-to-the-neck black shirt, the other over a shirt open at the neck with a few gold chains showing.

The gnocchi I ordered was not as melt-in-your-mouth tender as that served at Stino d'Napoli in Rocky River, so I was disappointed in the extreme; however, the gorgonzola cream sauce was very good, with an underlayment of gorgonzola flavor which did not overpower the sauce. The sauce would have played better had the gnocchi been tender. The dish, served with a salad of fresh greens with an unremarkable balsamic vinaigrette dressing, was overpriced; in fact, when the plate came, Betty asked where the rest of my dinner might be. She generously gave me a part of her filet with a sauce I could not identify. I thought then that it was quite possible that all of the sauces were weak in flavor, but I don't think that I'll go back to Valerio's to find out.

At the Severance Hall parking garage, as we were ready to finally get into the car, Diane Schuur's drummer, who was parked next to us (he was driving a Volvo station wagon, in case anyone wants to know what jazz drummers are driving these days), asked us for directions to I-71. He was headed to Columbus for a visit home, which Diane had mentioned during the concert; so, Stacey told him to follow us through the sometimes confusing network of roads to I-71. I was driving.

Here's my confession, my admission of a defect in my circuitry, probably caused by all of the electrical shocks over the years: I am a totally sucky leader when it comes to driving.

The drummer had to crash two red lights to keep up with me.

I promise from now on that if someone has been asked to follow me, I will be more careful; and instead of going through the intersection, I will stop for a yellow traffic light.

This foible has been pointed out to me several times in the past. In fact, last night, at 10:35 p.m., after the drummer had to crash the first red light, Stacey, sitting there in the passenger seat, after actually telling me to my face that I was a dumbass, called eldest son Matt to tell him the story.

When Stacey told him that the drummer was going to follow us, but had not revealed my gaffe, he said, "Why'd you do that? Dad's a sucky driving leader."

851 and Counting

Two American sloldiers were killed in Afghanistan yesterday. Remember Afghanistan? That's where that guy ... ummm, Osama bin Laden ... was hiding out. That's who we were after. He's still out there.

851 Americans have been killed in Iraq. 117 other "coalition" soldiers have died. Countless others have been buried.

Bush was interviewed by an Irish TV newscaster and made some comments that sounded like the following:

We fight because we must fight if we are to live in a world where every country can shape its own destiny, and only in such a world will our own freedom be finally secure.

We want nothing for ourselves-only that the people ... be allowed to guide their own country in their own way.

We will do everything necessary to reach that objective. And we will do only what is absolutely necessary.

We hope that peace will come swiftly. But that is in the hands of others besides ourselves. And we must be prepared for a long continued conflict. It will require patience as well as bravery, the will to endure as well as the will to resist.

I wish it were possible to convince others with words of what we now find it necessary to say with guns and planes: Armed hostility is futile. Our resources are equal to the challenge. Because we fight for values and we fight for principles, rather than territory or colonies, our patience and our determination are unending.

History is on the side of freedom and is on the side of societies shaped from the genius of each people. History does not favor a single system or belief--unless force is used to make it so.

And let me be absolutely clear: The days may become months, and the months may become years, but we will stay as long as aggression commands us to battle.

These words were those of President Lyndon Johnson from two speeches in 1965-66, attempting to justify the 400 American deaths in Viet Nam and the U.S. presence there.

Why do people study "History?"

Etiquette 101: Final Exam -- The Starbucks Phenomenon

Multiple Choice

Participants

Man No. 1
White, silk, long-sleeved shirt
Red with small gold paisley pattern silk necktie
Black dress pants of unknown brand, but most assuredly, very expensive natural materials
Black, polished leather shoes (unknown at Pic-Way or Shoe Bazaar)
Hair on his head, most certainly a hairpiece because the color in the bright morning sun does not quite match the hair just above his ears
Clean-shaven face

Man No. 2
Eastchester Dragons faded baseball cap
Faded, drab green, 3-button placket polo shirt (as seen in 360° mirror on "What Not To Wear")
Old Navy blue jeans (torn at right knee)
Beat-to-hell fisherman's sandals
Bald
Beard and moustache

Location: Starbucks
Time: 7:10 a.m.

Man No. 2, with one Venti Mocha in each hand, approaches the only door of the establishment to leave.

Man No. 1 closes the driver's side door of a black BMW 325i and strides quickly across the parking lot driveway, stopping a Lexus SUV in the process, and hops up onto the sidewalk in front of the clear plate glass door of Starbucks.

Man No. 2 pushes the door open with his right foot and catches it with the back of his left hand, which holds a venti 3-pump Mocha.

Man No. 1 steps in front of the doorway inside the radius cut by the open door, blocking Man No. 2's path out of Starbucks.

What happens next? (Choose one only -- explain your rationale.)

A. Man No. 2, showing due deference for the obvious societal status of Man No. 1, holds the door open for Man No. 1, who does not, because of his station in life, thank Man No. 2.

B. Man No. 1, realizing that he should be polite, holds the door open for Man No. 2, who thanks Man No. 1.

C. Man No. 1 stands in the doorway, apparently waiting for Man No. 2 to hold the door open and yield, whereupon Man No. 2 says to Man No. 1, "Excuse me, chief, you're in the way," and starts toward his white VW Beetle with a black "The Who" sticker on the back bumper, to which action Man No. 1 responds by backing out of the way. Man No. 2 then thanks Man No. 1.

The Grass Is Always Greener

I was driving Stacey to her office on this bright, sunny morning without a cloud in the sky. I was, however, forced to use the windshield wipers because a number of lawn sprinklers were misadjusted so that the roadway was getting watered. It rained night before last. The forecast calls for rain tomorrow and Friday. This spring, it has rained like a ...

I am philosophically opposed to watering lawns, but even more opposed to watering asphalt and concrete. This habit seems to be more and more common around these parts.

There are severe limits on water usage in many parts of the country. Water rates in many towns and communities are very high. Non-potable water is used for purposes where drinkable water is not necessary.

And here we are, watering the streets of my community because some lame-brain is too lazy or stupid to adjust a sprinkler head that is supposed to be watering a lush, green, chem-lawn. Why? Because he can. Because he looks out to the north and sees a limitless supply of fresh H₂O stretching to the horizon. Because his neighbors do it.

I'm opposed to sharing that natural resource and piping it out west so that inhospitable areas of the country can become gardens of Eden, but I'm also opposed to the unnecessary consumption of an otherwise scarce and life-giving resource by those who can afford it, just because it is fortuitously located in our backyards.

Of course, the way the economic upturn, about which our President is tooting his horn, has veered away from this part of the country, maybe it's time to open a water bottling business. I'll hook up the hose. Somebody bring bottles. Who has a label maker program?

****************
There's a new summer recipe over at The Kitchen Blog.

Butterscotch Corn on the Cob

Summer is just around the corner. Cook-outs are coming. I'm jumping the gun and giving you a recipe in anticipation of the summer fun.

Stacey picked up this recipe from "Chow Time," a segment on the Trapper Jack and Robin show on Cleveland's WDOK, by Robin Benzle, whose daughter went to a local co-operative pre-school with our son long before the turn of the century. Robin wrote a couple of humorous cookbooks and is now on one of the local morning drive-time radio shows. We modified Robin's recipe somewhat. I can't remember how -- Stacey said to tell you what we changed in recipes, but that means trying to find the original recipe somewhere. I'm just too lazy for that.

And I know that the hue and cry will go up about the butter in this recipe. I think you'll get over that reaction once you crunch into an ear of corn. And I think that is part of the recipe -- don't over-cook the corn into a soggy mess like they do at restaurants everywhere. I never eat corn on the cob at a restaurant.

And buy the corn on the cob at a roadside stand where you can see the corn out there in the field. The chances are very good that the corn in the local grocery store isn't from the farmer down the road. Why won't the grocery store tap such a source of fresh produce? Because the local farmer hasn't paid the grocery store chain for shelf space. What, you thought that grocery stores made money only from selling food and lawn chairs? No. Grocery chains charge "slotting fees" for shelf space. The Federal Trade Commission came out with a report in November of 2003, after conducting hearings on the practice. These payments effectively eliminate small local farms from selling their stuff in the local grocery store.

Cook your corn on the cob any way you like, and then brush the following fabulous mixture on generously and add more from a squeeze bottle:

2 cups butter
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup butterscotch schnapps
1/2 teaspoon each salt and pepper

Melt butter in a pot. Add brown sugar, schnapps, salt & pepper and stir well. Bring to a boil. Watch carefully as it tends to bubble up and boil over. Reduce heat to low simmer. Simmer for a half an hour. It will be the consistency of caramel sauce. Pour into squeeze bottle when it cools a little.

Beam Me Up

I, for one, am sorely disappointed by the deception laid on us by some scientists in an obvious ploy to get more funding. The headline says Teleportation Breakthrough Made, and I became excited for the prospects of being beamed to Rome for Thanksgiving.

Then I start reading the article and it's nothing like I thought it was going to be. They're not even talking about teleportation -- they're talking about transmission of energy states between entangled atoms instantaneously, something that bugged Einstein.

Speaking of bugs, there wasn't even a 100% transfer of an identical state -- the technical term is fidelity. There was not full fidelity, but only 75% fidelity. And it comes as no surprise that this was the same result predicted by the infamous experiments conducted in 1958 and recorded by Andre and Francois Delambre.

Costco & Seeing-Eye Dogs

Costco instituted a new policy. Not many people know about it. You know, you've been confronted by the employee at the door who checks for your Costco membership card and makes a mark on the clipboard. Well, that employee has been granted a lot more power these days.

Say, you have an animal that helps you out because you have a disability ... a guide dog, a signal dog, or other animal trained to provide some assistance to you. Everyone is familiar with seeing-eye dogs for the blind, but there are other types of service animals, e.g., those that alert persons with hearing impairments, those that are trained to pull wheelchairs for those with mobility impairments, those that are trained to pick up or carry things, those that may help a person with balance, or those that give an alert when a person has a seizure.

So, you have your service animal, your dog, cat, monkey ... whatever, as you go into Costco to check out the wine selection, and the employee asks you what tasks or functions your animal performs that you cannot perform. You are insulted ... you refuse to tell the Costco employee since, "It's really none of your business."

The employee says, "Sorry, you can't come in."

Or you tell the employee that you need your dog for balance. The employee looks you over, atually walks around you like you are a Holstein at the county fair, and tells you, "Just walk over there and back without your dog, please." Do you really want to get into Costco that bad? Do you really want some Costco employee deciding on a whim whether you can go into the store? Do you really want to be ... graded ... in front of the others going into and coming out of Costco?

You see, Costco has a written policy that directs its employees to "inquire of the animal's owner what tasks or functions the animal performs that its owner cannot otherwise perform."

And the U.S. District Court in Seattle said that Costco could do that.

You may know that my lovely wife has a problem with balance due to a lesion in her brain stem. What's to say that the treking pole she uses to maintain her balance is not subjectively deemed by some dumbass at Costco or Morton's Steak House or Paul & Evelyn's Gift Shop or maybe the high school kid working the counter at McDonald's that her ambulatory aid, as it is known in the parlance of the Americans with Disabilities Act, is a hazard to other customers and tells her she can't come through the door? What's the difference between the nice doggy and the stylish Leki Wanderfreund treking pole?

You tell me that won't happen ... and I can't wait until it does.

Observed Recently ...

I went to get my mail from my post office box Friday, and I found a yellow slip for an oversized package. I was expecting a copy of an 800-page joint appendix filed for a case; but nevertheless, a tinge of excitement rose inside me. Like maybe it was something else.

So, I took my mail with me over to the counter and gave Barbara (not that her name was, in fact, Barbara, she looks like one) the yellow slip. She went in back and appeared a few seconds later with a box ... the joint appendix, which was okay with me. The tinge of excitement died down. I started the drive from the post office to my appointment. I got about half way there and wanted to make a call, but I couldn’t find my Samsung Pocket PC. I had it when I left for the post office. So, I turned around and headed back there at a little higher speed than I left. Whe I got there, Barbara was gone, but Chip (he doesn't look like a "Ken," so I'll call him Chip) was manning the counter and the phone. "I finally figured out that this was the thing that was ringing," he said. Thank you, Chip!! Saved me a lot of money and aggravation.

I stopped by Stacey's office to drop off a mocha for her inasmuch as Frank was not making her day very ... I better shut the fuck up about that. Incidental to my visit, I thought I'd stop by the men's restroom because my impression on a couple of previous occasuions was that it was pretty clean. I try to avoid public restrooms because, admittedly (and let's not beat around the bush), men are filthy pigs. I need only point to my adventure at Tinley Park Amphitheatre, outside Chi-town, where men and boys were lined up seven or eight deep just itching for the chance to pee in the sinks. Need I say why I try to avoid public restrooms at all cost? This comes from a guy who gained a great appreciation for bathroom sanitation only after being married because my mom and dad's housekeeping skills were less than satisfactory and sanitary. I shudder now at the thought. And I shuddered when I went into the men's restroom at Stacey's building. I decided to drive home ... fast.

And on the way home, there's a new housing "development" going in -- Eastgate, it's called, I think. It sits on a sliver of land -- if some enterprising lawyer looked into it, he or she might find that it was protected wetlands and that nobody bothered to inform the Army Corps of Engineers about all the trees and plants and other stuff being removed and plowed under and that a creek that empties into Lake Erie will carry water run-off from these homes to the lake, another thing the Corps of Engineers wants to know about -- which has been for sale for a very long time because Stacey and I decided not to buy it way back in the day.

Anyway, one of the houses is about 20 feet from Interstate-90 right-of-way. I remember some big brouhaha about hazardous waste and fissionable material being driven down I-90 on big fucking trucks that crash ... the feds said "Fuck you, we're doing it." I wonder if the builder will tell the buyers about that .... And sodium vapor lights, the kind that hum when they are on at night, are in the median on poles 40 feet high. Anyway, here's the diagram I drew for you:

And I found this annoying today. Someone tried to call me on my cell phone today ... twice. The caller I.D. read "RESTRICTED." Now, how am I suppposed to know who called? No message. Nothing. I got two clients who do that, but they leave messages. To all of you who make calls and dial whatever number you dial to come up on caller I.D. as RESTRICTED, could you please explain why you do that.

I was at the local supermarket grocery store -- there's something stuck between the "F" and "C" on my keyboard ... oops, slipped down there, oh well (Tip: Do not use a #2 pencil to try to extract something stuck between keys on your keyboard, especially one with which you've drawn a picture after having sharpened it with a linoleum knife.) -- so, I went to the grocery store to pick up a quart of milk for someone's office and, because a customer asked for a "soy latte" at Starbucks when I was there earlier this evening, I thought I'd find out about soy milk, you know, check out the label; since, they keep that stuff with the real milk and I was getting real milk.

For those of you who don't know, "soy milk" is not the proper name for the stuff. It is called "soymilk," all one word, probably invented by some vegetarian, the same one who made all the names of prepared vegetarian foods sound like meat. Here are the ingredients (verbatim from the 8th Continent soymilk container):

Soymilk (water, soy protein, soybean oil, calcium phosphate), sugar, potassium nitrate, soy lecithin, dipotassium phosphate, sodium polyphosphate, salt, carageenan, xanthum gum, natural and artificial flavor, vitamin B₂ (riboflavin), vitamin A (palmitate), vitamin D₁, vitamin B₁₂. CONTAINS SOY INGREDIENTS

At the 8th Continent website, the company, which is based in Minnetonka, Minnesota, claims that:

Like cow's milk, 8th Continent soymilk is a good source of protein and an excellent source of calcium, vitamin D and riboflavin.

It's also a good source of nitrates and phosphates and artificial color. Mmmmm ... why kid yourself, just throw some tofu in a blender ... better yet, go right to the source and buy some soybeans.

I, for one, have had a cool and happy Father's Day ... and I hope it's been that way for all of the fathers out there.

FATHER OF MY CHILDREN

today is father's day. it's not MY day, but in a way it is. today i can't help but think about how lucky i am -- we all are -- that i chose this man -- that guy over there--->>> to be my life's partner and the father of my children. those children lost, found, and born of us. i am so grateful for all (well, most) of the ways he has grown into a man. i see the limitless love he has for these boys every day. i see his compassion and desire to fight for those less fortunate in our children. i see his eyes in their eyes. i see his nose when i look at jackson. i see so many things he's given them: music, love of knowledge, that crazy sense of humor, stubbornness. oh, he's given them some pretty damned irritating things, too. but i will not complain today -- at least not here, not to you -- about any of it.

i love you, will.

they'll be furious if i don't mention that there's probably 100 pounds less of them (cumulatively) since that picture was taken).

Last Full Measure of Devotion

On Saturday, it has been my habit to write about serious stuff, but this week, the serious stuff has been so laughable, I can hardly believe that this is reality. I hate to tell all of the fans of Descartes out there, but his conclusion "I think; therefore, I am" has been proven to be a bunch of bullshit this week. Because if that philosophical stance were true, the president would not exist -- because he cannot be a thinking, sentient being.

Bush hasn't been thinking very much at all because he made up stuff about Iraq and Al-Qaeda that just wasn't true ... weapons expertise, weapons of mass destruction, and a base in Iraq, he has said in the past are links between Saddam and Al-Qaeda.

But he still holds fast to the notion that there was "a relationship between Saddam and Iraq and Al-Qaeda." Why? "Because there was a relationship," that's why. Aaaah ... I get it ...

And Descartes held to the reasonable idea never to accept anything as true if there is no evident knowledge of it being true. Our vice-president, Dick Cheney, who not only gets a salary from U.S. taxpayers, but from Halliburton, too (two-timing the American people, so to speak), doesn't like Descartes, either. He has stated categorically and unequivocally that the major player in the WTC attack, Mohammed Atta, met with Iraqis in Prague to get aid from Iraq, maybe even for the WTC attack. Despite probably knowing much more than the 9/11 Commission and having all the "evidence," instead of producing the "evidence," Cheney goes with this argument to support his claim: Maybe I can't prove it, but you can't prove it didn't happen. So there. You got me, Dick.

I think it's time to ring the bell on these two -- recess is over. This is not the playground, George and Dickie. Those aren't toy soldiers you're playing with in the sandbox and burying.

Act like responsible adults ... go to just one funeral. There's one in Bristow, VA, close to your office, Mr. Bush, for Capt. Humayun S. M. Khan, who was killed June 8th.

Better yet, Mr. President, go on the campaign trail at taxpayer expense, and give a speech at the burial of Pfc. Thomas D. Caughman, one of your 20-year-old, weekend-warrior Reservists, from Lexington, SC, who was killed June 9th. Then you can head out west to Corvallis, OR, for an appearance at the funeral service for another Reservist, Spc. Eric S. McKinley, who was killed June 13th. And on your way home to Texas, you can stop in and say "Happy Father's Day" to Pfc. Shawn Atkins' dad when he lays his 20-year-old son to rest in Parker, CO.

Same as it ever was.

Anyone else had enough of this?

Gee, You Mean I Gotta Get Dressed Up?

This story will give you some insight ... into what, I don't really know, but there are several lessons somewhere in here -- somewhere in this long soliliquy.

I've been waiting for a hearing before the Sixth Circuit U.S. Court of Appeals for over a year on a case. It was set for June 11th, last Friday, the day of the Ronnie Reagan state funeral brought to you by 20-mule team Borax and the folks at Halliburton. All federal buildings were closed. I called to see if the hearing would be going forward in federal court; and, sure enough, we were going forward, state funeral and executive orders by the President be damned.

Thursday afternoon, I packed according to the packing list e-mailed to me by my betrothed, since I invited her to go to Cincinnati with me (not that she would attend the hearing ... she has been sufficiently traumatized by her one appearance in the gallery to prevent her from being a spectator at a hearing in which I am involved ever again). I packed everything on the list. Jackson made sure that I remembered to bring my shoes ... like I forgot to wear shoes to court before (give me a fucking break for being a lot smarter than that).

I snagged Stacey from her office at quarter to five, a little late, I admit, and headed down I-71 to the Queen City, arriving at 8 or so ... the "or so" because I asked for directions ... yes, that's right, all you skeptics, I, the man, asked for directions to Starbucks to get my lovely wife a venti 3-pump mocha. We did get a nice hotel ... we didn't stay at a Days Inn (formerly the 8 Days Inn because back in 1974, the rooms were $8 a day), like we were forced to do in Terre Haute a couple weeks ago (ugh!).

When we got to our hotel room, I hung up my nice, clean-and-pressed-directly-from-DryClean-USA, white, button-down collar shirt from Old Navy and my charcoal gray suit that I bought well before the turn of the century. I have this nice paisley tie, very conservative power tie, red with blue and gray little bitty paisleys on it, for a court appearance just like this. Of course, the lawyer on the other side wouldn't be intimidated -- he's blind -- but I wanted to be respectful of the esteemed judges on the court. You know how it is, I'm sure.

So, where the fuck is he going with this story, you ask? Well, here's where. I got the wake-up call at like 6:30 on Friday morning. I needed to be at the court to check in at 8:30 ... this is the court that tells you what kind and size of typeface to put on court papers or sends them back to you with nasty notes about reading the court rules; so, there's no being late ... or disrespectful ... and heaven forbid, you should take notes in Braille.

[punch, punch, punch, punch ... "Counselor, stop that! It's very disturbing! What are you doing there?" "I'm taking notes, your Honor" (See, capital "H" ... respectful, he was.). "Well, stop that right now. It's disruptive, that noise you're making." "But you're Honor, I'm taking notes in Braille. I'm quite blind." The three judges put their heads together, conferring in this case in which, ironically, the issue is whether the blind guy's clients can bring suit under the Americans with Disabilities Act. "I'm sorry, counselor. Go right ahead. Carry on." I'll leave out the jokes and stuff after that so you think that being in federal court is like all serious and subdued.]

So, I do the things I do after waking up in the morning and take a shower, waking Stacey up and seeing if she really wants to drive to downtown Cincinnati and get a mocha at Starbucks and breakfast, maybe. And she did, I think mainly because I woke her up.

So, I'm getting dressed. I decided on my Joe Boxer red boxer shorts with the small paisley pattern which do, in fact, fashionably match the power tie I planned to wear. Strange city ... car accident ... emergency room ... Nurse, after cutting off the pants, says to the E.R. guy starting to stick a breathing tube down my throat, "Doctor Horrorwits, look, his panties match his tie," and the E.R. doctor starts laughing and jams the tube right through my esophagus. Hahaha ... just another fucking lawyer!

Where was I? Oh yeah, the getting dressed thing.

Without getting into specifics, I put my medium-starched shirt on, buttoned it, and then my pants ... Stacey was in the shower, so I didn't have to fake it and put them on just one leg at a time. Then I went to get my tie, which should have been on the fancy-ass hangar with the suit.

But the tie wasn't there. So, I went over to the bag we brought along. It's amazing how you keep looking in the different places in the bag, outside pocket, inside pocket, left side, right side, but every place you look in starts looking the same ... and the tie isn't in the bag. I checked in my stylish, yellow, Patagonia Critical Mass courier bag that I use as a brief case and computer bag and tie bag, but didn't find my tie. I found no ties. Someone stole my tie ... or ... I ... forgot ... my ... tie.

There was a time when I would have screamed, "Goddammit, I forgot my fucking tie!!!!" and thrown something that was in easy reach; but I'm older and wiser and do not swear like a sailor anymore or scream and carry on, so I calmly yelled to Stacey, who was getting out of the shower, "Goddammit, I forgot my fucking tie!!"

How could I forget my fucking tie? That was the question Stacey asked, since it was on the e-mailed list of stuff I should pack and bring ... to which I had no good answer. Just one of those things, I guess. I did bring shoes to wear, however, I pointed out to her. Wise-ass, she called me.

I called the front desk. No, they did not have any ties ... or any of those t-shirts with the tuxedos on them, either. It was about 7:15 in the morning. I needed an open-24-hours Wal-Mart or something ... or a dry cleaner. And the kid ... I saw he was a kid on the way out ... said he could give me directions to a dry cleaner north on I-71 ... I didn't want to go backwards. So, I packed up the stuff for the hearing, and Stacey got dressed, and we headed towards downtown Cincy, looking for something that might stock ties that was open.

The BP station at the end of the hotel driveway didn't stock ties ... and the lone guy pumping gas started laughing when I asked him if he had a tie I could borrow.

So, it was south on I-71 with ten miles to the last exit before Kentucky. There was a Starbucks at the next exit ... and a mall. Maybe ... just maybe, there was a store open. We drove around the mall and down a main road a ways, but nothing was open ... where the hell was Wal-Mart when you needed one? Wal-Marts are multiplying like bacteria in a 37-degree centigrade petri dish ... but no, not in Cincinnati ...

Stacey needed a mocha; so, I went into Starbucks and asked for our mochas ... and a necktie ... What? A necktie. I forgot my tie ... do you have one? The manager went into the back and came out several minutes later empty-handed, dejected that she could not have a great story to tell at the Starbucks convention ... and win some kind of award for that one. She quizzed the partners ... they are not mere employees at Starbucks ... and nobody had a tie. Damn! But I had the mochas ... and I didn't have to worry about spilling any on my tie.

I spied Staples ... office supplies ... people wear ties in offices ... maybe they had ties ... maybe if they didn't have ties, the associates ... they are not mere employees at Staples ... maybe they wear ties, and I could offer like five bucks for it. So, I walked in, not uncomfortable in the least, knowing how stupid I seemed ... or am ... whatever ... so, there's this blond kid, no ties on the associates, I guess, and I say I need a necktie right now and ask if Staples carries neckties ... and he looks at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. I mean, I am still in Ohio and although I don't have that hick hillbilly distinctive country accent he has, he's got to understand me. You know, I said, a necktie, pulling the open button at my neck together with my right thumb and index finger. Oh, a necktie, he said. Like what the hell did he think I meant, garbage bag ties. ... And then he told me that he didn't have any in the store. Damn!

Another customer stood across the counter from me ... at another register. He wore a tie, which was ... how do I put it politely ... Medusan; but I said to him, "Sir, sir ..." Apparently, nobody ever addressed him in that manner before because he didn't look up ... he was the engineer type, I'd say, short sleeve shirt, probably 70/30-rayon/cotton blend, blue, but not a color on Martha Stewart's paint chart, if you know what I mean, and the tie was some ki9nd of blue not found in nature ... diagonal stripes with like silvery and other unnamed blue stripes ... I winced. "Sir, hey you, over there at the register, sir, can I ..." What if he said "Yes?" I couldn't do it ... I couldn't ... "you don't happen to have an extra tie in your car I could ... ummm, buy." No reply. He just looked at me ... yes, like I was insane. I have seen the look before. I looked over at the kid ... he had a dumb look on his puss, then he confirmed the level of his intelligence, "The mall opens at 9. Maybe you could find one over there." I left.

Two exits closer to downtown Cincy, some kind of shopping center loomed across the highway ... and there was a Meijer's (how this is pronounced is your guess as good as mine) that advertised it was open 24 hours. We had to get off I-71 and get over to that place. There was a Sam's Club, too, which could have been open ... for business members, like me. But there was no exit. We passed right by the place -- my salvation, receding from view. Stacey said to get off and turn around to go north on I-71 back toward nirvana, then get off at the next exit. It was just before 8. Plenty of time. And it wasn't hard to find, either. Just keep the big shopping center sign in sight. And we made it there, due in large part in toto to the navigator, not the driver.

I need to explain something about ties. I have some distinctive ties from a place called Dancing Silk Tie Co., then I have a couple conservative ties, like paisley, that I wear when I don't know how the judge or jury will feel about pink flamingos, tropical fish, or other designs. So, I don't like shopping for standard-issue lawyer ties.

I ran into the open-24-hours Meijer's and located the men's department, where I was confronted by a bunch of, what I call, Dr. Phil ties. Dr. Phil wears matching shirts and ties -- the monochromatic look, and the ties are kind of shiny, unless that's just our TV. And every time he's wearing one of those outfits, I want to tell him, and I risk serious bodily harm for disclosing this, "Dude, I hate those ties." Among the ties on the two small racks were also the ties engineers in short sleeves wear -- this must be where my silent, blue friend at Staples shops for clothes.

The selection of hook-on ties was impressively huge. I wondered if that was a fashion trend in Cincinnati, which I guessed was the case. After all, this is the place where the director of the art museum was prosecuted for pandering obscenity. Hook-on ties seem like just the thing -- all the same, no variation, uniform, conforming, kind of like paint-by-number.

I found a black tie with some kind of small scattered diamond shapes. It was a tie similar to what I had seen on other lawyers. I headed for the check-out, paid, and got directions back to I-71 south to the city. So, while walking to the car, I started to tie the thing ... and one of the damn collar buttons popped off.

So, there I am in the federal court of appeals with three judges listening to me and asking me a few questions, all the time scrutinizing me. Not really looking at me, but looking at my tie ... and the one over there on my left, Judge Cole, he was fingering his collar ... and smiling ...

Gas Stations and Cell Phonology

So, those damn e-mails I've been getting from all those Nigerian finance ministers and wives of dead presidents and foreign ministers were scams! But look who fell for the one about the big construction project.

Isn't it nice to know that the people occupying our highest offices are so gullible. I mean Cheney gets that e-mail and ... I can see it now ... salivating at the thought of billions ... immediately wires 180 million bucks to some Nigerian guys -- what a moron!

Geez ... I didn't like Reagan ... I think we are all rosy-glowing like Field of Dreams, but Reagan started the right wing politics of exclusion, which we have in full bloom today. He invented deficit spending, into which Bush has thrown himself with an insatiable lustfulness never seen before in human history. George the Lesser is thanking his Lucky Charms that he could like stretch this Reagan funeral thing out for more than a week in the hope that we would all like ... ummm ... forget about the bad shit that has been happening ... like the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the war against Al Qaeda, the turmoil in the most democratic country of Saudi Arabia, our oily ally, the Israelis blowing up the Palestinians and the Palestinians blowing up the Israelis daily, AIDS, prescription drug costs, etc., etc., etc.

Okay, enough of this whining about the state of the country and Bush and Cheney and their game of sleight of hand -- ON TO THE IMPORTANT SHIT OF LIFE!!!!

The two totally cool dudes on Mythbusters, which is a TV show on one of the Discovery Channels, challenged the claim by BP Oil that cell phones (Episode 2) will cause a life-ending-as-we-know-it conflagration if the person using the cell phone is pumping gas and gets a call or talks on a cell phone. The theory is that the small electro-magnetic discharge by the antenna or battery will cause gasoline fumes to explode. And don't be jackin' with me -- if you read the fine print on the warning signs by the pumps, it's there in plain English ... whatever.

I have recounted my experience of getting yelled at by the teen-aged, blond attendant chick for taking a call while pumping gas elsewhere in this blog and don't feel like going back to find the story. If you know the link, post it in a comment or something. Needless to say, cell phone use is a sore spot for the workers, particularly the blond chick, at the BP station I frequent.

The bald Mythbustersdudes built a combustion chamber to test whether cell phones create a spark and explode gasoline vapors. They called the cell phone in the chamber -- there was no explosion! They stripped the insulation off the cell phone antenna and called the phone -- there was no explosion! They fucked up an old battery and created a short circuit -- there was no explosion! They fucked up a new battery and disabled safety features to prevent short circuits and then created a short circuit -- there was no explosion!

I might just have to buy the DVD and carry it with me along with my little DVD player. Then when that little blond chick barks at me over the fucking intercom about using my cell phone, I can get out my DVD player and show her the facts.

BUSTED!!!!

But ... hey, wait a second, I heard something about this Star Wars laser shit creating like a shield and blowing up newk-you-ler missiles being shot at us by Iraq ... do you think that maybe the laser beam in the DVD player will cause the gasoline vapors to blow up?

LIFE OF A JACKET

before i get started, let’s get this out of the way first. i always start with the title when i post. in coming up with the brilliant (oh yes it IS brilliant) title above, i typed the word “jacket” about 8 times. made me notice what a funny word that is. jacket. hehe. and you may not even call it a jacket in your part of the world – you may call it a sport coat or just a coat or whatever. WE call it a jacket. hehehehe. i said jacket again. ohmygod, i crack me up.

if you look over to the right ------> and down a little, you’ll see the pictures bill posted of our wedding. the pictures are crummy quality. i’ll try to add pictures to this post later. but they won’t be wedding pictures.

the jacket (hehehe) bill’s wearing is pure 1974. it is awesome in 2004 parlance, groovy in 1974 parlance. you might not be able to catch it, but it’s crushed velvet. not really crushed velvet, but a kind of stiff (hehe, i said stiff. omg, i’m in quite the mood here), soft, velour. the absolute BEST $35 (1974 dollars) ever spent! the lapels don’t end in straight-edged points, they end in curves. and the back is cinched in at the waist. i LOVE this jacket!

bill took his mom with him when he bought this jacket (along with the oatmeal-colored, cuffed linen pants, and the bow tie). this is the thing that weirds me MOST out about this -- how relaxed i was about the whole thing. i told everybody – bill, the groom, and my sisters, my “attendants” what i was wearing, and told them to wear whatever they wanted, providing they thought it’d look ok with my dress. i’m cool with what they all picked out. what the hell? this is/was not normal bride behavior. may have been my only and last moment of not having to be involved in all the details and decisions. my name is stacey, and i’m a control freak.

back to the jacket (heh). bill loves this jacket, i love this jacket, and the boys love this jacket. most people only get to see their wedding jacket worn once. but this is way too cool for that. i’m sure bill wore it again back then for a special occasion – i just can’t tell you what it was. the first time i can tell you for sure it was worn was by matt. when he was in 5th grade. he played sam adams in a school play. we found a pony tail and a black felt hat in a novelty store. shaped the hat into a tri-cornered hat, attached the pony tail with a “manly” (revolutionary-war manly) ribbon, white baseball socks up over his knees, a pair of rolled up, cuffed pants, and a pair of my shoes (i think). and the jacket. it was perfect as a fancy, revolutionary-war era, waist coat. for an 11 year old. came down almost to his knees. i have video (i’ll work on the picture thing, i promise).

then in high school, matt pulled the jacket out over and over again. for homecoming dances. for any kind of formal dance he attended. for the real formal dances, we picked up a jerry garcia cummerbund and matching bow tie. very 70’s (duh). again, i think i can hunt up a picture.

last month, jax pulled out the jacket. he went to an area senior prom (stag) with a group of people. i’m haggling with jax to get a picture from one of his friends to post. but i can tell you he looked awesome when he tried on the whole outfit he chose. jeans, white dress shirt, no tie, his black, scary boots.

the value of this jacket just keeps increasing. each time it’s worn, i’m both worried AND thrilled. worried that it will be damaged in some way that will render it unsuitable for future wearings. thrilled that it’s being worn again. my husband’s wedding jacket. by our boys. maybe someday by grandchildren.

i’d like to write something here pulling this all together. about how this jacket is kind of the story of our life. but i’m not that good. i can’t take those feelings out of my heart and translate them to english. i’m beaming the feelings to you though. can you feel it?

The English Language

Where have I been?

I thought that I was up on all the latest stuff going on in the world, but I guess not. I get the New York Times by e-mail every morning; so, I kind of like try to stay on top of current events and stuff, e.g., the Yankees winning 2-to-1 and using TiVo to download video and audio off the Internet.

So, I'm looking at this article about John Ashcroft explaining why what the government is doing is different than what the Nazis were doing in the early 1930's, and not doing a very good job of it, by the way; and I'm noticing the word "memorandums" jumping off the computer screen at me.

And I think to myself what a wonderful world what the fuck? "Memoran ... DUMS?" What the hell happened to "memoran ... da?" I mean, what was I doing when the announcement was made that the plural of memorandum is now "memorandums?"

How could they do this? Next thing you know, the plural of "subpoena" will be "subpoenas" and not "subpoenae."

Oh, fiendish world! The plural is "subpoenas!" Spring these changes in the language with some fanfare, with some panache, especially , changes in the language of my profession! Do not crush the life out of me by making a fool of me in front of my peers.

Embarrassed and disconcerted, I beg that I may take my leave.

[Exeunt]

30 Years Ago in History 2

The wedding -- it was in the morning ... outside ... overlooking Lake Erie ... acoustic guitar playing ... circle of flowers ... champagne breakfast ... long hair ... love ... happiness ... sounds like we were hippies.

You thought maybe I was kidding. The minister -- never did catch his name. Couldn't really understand him -- He seemed to be speaking English, but his accent ... By the cadence, this was the "With this ring, I thee wed" part:

And then we got to the part of the ceremony when he stopped talking and looked at us like we were supposed to do something ... I mean the ring part we kind of ad-libbed because we didn't understand what he wanted us to do ... so, we figured at this point that we were husband and wife.

We didn't have a photographer. We have pictures from different people who had different perspectives.

And so it goes. Every day hasn't been easy, in life or in love ...

"It makes no difference how deeply seated may be the trouble, how hopeless the outlook, how muddled the tangle, how great the mistake. A sufficient realization of love will dissolve it all." -- Emmet Fox (some dead guy claiming to know everything)

That's true.

The Gravity of the Situation

The gate to the pool area had deteriorated over the last couple years. I did a half-assed fix on it last spring that lasted about as long as last summer's black-out. You know how that is -- since I fixed it, I knew what had to be done to maintain the integrity of the repair, but someone else comes around and tries to open the gate and -- Whammo! -- fuckin' draggin' on the ground so you have to like pick it up and swing it closed. And then you have people saying to you, "Hey, I thought you fixed that gate," or "Hey, when you going to fix the fucking gate?" or "Hey, you did a nice job fixing that gate." The goddamned kids in the neighborhood are just so fucking cruel -- no pool privileges for them this summer.

I broke down and decided to put some of my carpentry skills to work. I had not used my table saw or my miter saw in a while. Unlike my electrical repair skills, my carpentry skills are something in which I take some pride. I made a new gate ... much better construction than the old one. I'm not happy with the old hinges. I'm going to head up to Home Depot for a spring loaded hinge so the gate closes by itself. And I'll need a spring-loaded latch, too. And a big fucking lock.

I am not as adept at trimming trees as I am at building fence gates. I think a physics degree would have been helpful, seeing that gravity plays such a major role in determining which way a limb will fall when the person cutting is standing beneath the limb. Not to say that I was dumb enough to stand under the big-ass tree limb while standing on the pink step stool cutting the limb. No, not me. That's one thing, though. Another thing is that sawdust, although heavier than air, can be blown by a small breeze right into the eyes of the person cutting the branch. Not to say that I was stupid enough to not wear safety goggles, even though I wear contact lenses, and it is a bitch when I get sawdust in my eyes. No, not me.

And the third thing is that the person cutting the branch should not lay on the ground for too long because neighbors tend to get alarmed and run over and see if that person is dead or something. Not to say that I got knocked off a pink step stool right on my ass by a big fucking branch that fell after I cut it and lay there laughing for about five minutes, realizing what a dumbass I was. No, not me.

30 Years Ago in History

Stacey had originally planned our wedding for May 25th and had ordered the invitations. I was playing baseball in college; and upon returning with 11 other players from our spring trip to Florida, I told her that we had a pretty good team and that we should probably move the wedding date back to after the Small College World Series, which ended on June 5. So, the date was set for June 8th, 30 years ago next week.

I count that as one of the few times that I have been right about anything -- our successful season ended June 2 in Springfield, Illinois, on a sour note. I got back home 30 years ago today, excited to see Stacey and for the wedding.

I took Stacey out the night of June 4, 1974, on a date to see ... what else ... a baseball game between the Cleveland Indians and the Texas Rangers. Bleacher seats were 50 cents because nobody ever went to see the Tribe, which sucked big time. For "Strike Out Cancer Night," which was heavily promoted, only 8,000 fans showed up.

So, going to Indians' games was for fans of the game only. And that's what Stacey and I were.

Except on the night of June 4, 1974, there were a lot more people at Cleveland Municipal Stadium than just baseball fans. A huge crowd showed up to fill one-third of the 78,000-seat stadium built in the early 1930's with the hope that the 1936 Olympic Games might be lured to the city, the city that counted Olympian Jesse Owens as its favorite son. As it turned out, the 1936 Olympic Games were held in Berlin under the watchful eyes of Adolf Hitler -- Jesse Owens kicked ass there, about which you can read elsewhere.

It was disappointing to arrive at Municipal Stadium to find out that 25,000 people were pouring in to take advantage of 10-cent Beer Night. The big Budweiser trucks were stationed behind the outfield fence to supply the thirsty patrons with a maximum of six beers ... each visit. The bleachers, which were the closest seats to the cheap suds, were pretty well filled that night, filled with drunken high school and college kids, steel mill and blue-collar workers, all intent on one purpose, to get hammered for less than the price of a $3.50 box seat and have some fun at the old ball game. The baseball game was only a backdrop for the beer fest and the debauchery.

Streaking, you know, taking your clothes off and running naked in public, was very popular on college campuses that spring and at Municipal Stadium on June 4, 1974. It started in the 3rd or 4th inning when a couple of drunken naked revelers raced from behind home plate out over pitcher's mound toward the green outfield before a couple of Cleveland's finest, probably two of only about 10 cops on easy duty at the Stadium that night, dragged the two guys down. From then on, between innings and sometimes between pitches, it was off to the races for many of the besotted patrons, some of which found it tough to scale the eight-foot high outfield fence with aplomb while bare and plastered.

In the meantime, in the bleachers, beer and bodies were flying. The endless supply of beer kept flowing. Tempers flared on the field as streakers interrupted the game time and time again. And the beer kept flowing, six cups at a time. In the seventh or eighth inning, a drunken lunatic approached Rangers' outfielder Jeff Burroughs, who decked the overmatched sot with one punch.

Burroughs became the object of abject derision for thousands of crocked, corybantic lushes. In the bottom of the ninth, with the bases full of Indians and the score tied at 5, some addle-brained idiot, to the delight of the the inebriated party-goers, raced across the field with a few friends and grabbed the cap right off Jeff Burroughs' head.

It was only after Billy Martin, God bless his immortal soul, who was manager of the Rangers, charged out of the dugout, baseball bat in hand and several posse in tow, to save Burroughs, did all hell broke loose, and scores of drunks in various stages of undress poured onto the field to join in the fun. Mike Hargrove, playing first base, accosted from behind by a partially-clad lad, threw the guy down to the infield dirt and commenced to beat the shit out of him, other players, Indians and Rangers, coming to his aid with Louisville Sluggers and other weapons of mass destruction.

And what did Stacey and I, the only two non-drinkers in the place, do at that point? We left. We missed the brawl between 500 drunks on one side and 50 players and Billy Martin and some Cleveland cops on the other side. We missed the announcement that the game was forfeited to the Rangers because of "crowd interference."

The wedding -- it was in the morning ... outside ... overlooking Lake Erie ... acoustic guitar playing ... circle of flowers ... champagne breakfast ... long hair ... love ... happiness ... sounds like we were hippies. Oh, no beer.

PAY IT FORWARD

when matt and mel came to visit (i think in april), matt told jax that he should do motivational speaking. jax mulled it over for a couple days (2) and then told bill that he was going to call a high school in the area and talk to a counselor about speaking to a group of kids about drugs and recovery. the next morning, BEFORE JAX WAS EVEN UP, bill got a phone call from the intensive outpatient treatment counselor who treated jax, asking him and bill to be a part of a panel discussing prescription and over-the-counter drug abuse at a seminar that was going to be held for health and educational professionals at our local community college.

[if you're a regular reader here at nbl, you know that a big problem for jax was robitussin and coricidin. bill's written a lot about the problems with these otc cold treatments. if you haven't read about this here yet and you have kids, PLEASE educate yourself. bill's got links to information sites. i'll put up some links to what we've written about it, too. in the meantime, if you want some links, e-mail us.]

of course, bill said yes immediately for both he and jax. actually, ed (the counselor) asked both bill AND me; but bill felt that since it was only a half-day seminar, there might not be enough time for anybody else to speak, once stacey got going. haha, bill, haha. anyway, it was great. jax was awesome. he impressed a lot of people who attended and asked him for his phone number to speak to THEIR groups. and bill and jax got to verbally kick the "expert" pharmacist's ass, who, when asked directly about a robitussin "problem," said THERE WAS NO PROBLEM. WTF??? this is the real reason bill is glad i wasn't there. they sat quietly and waited their turn to kick his ass. you know i would have jumped up and beat him with my cane (metaphorically speaking, of course.) dumbass.

since this first seminar, jax and bill sat on another panel at a different seminar; and jax was invited to a large area high school to speak with a group of students.

it's awesome.

and. and. the director of a large area substance-abuse program told bill that the most unusual thing about our "story" is our willingness as parents to continue to address this and speak openly about the whole thing. that most parents whose children are in recovery choose to quietly resume their roles as part of "normal" society. you know - like "normal" people don't have these problems.

yeah. as if. whatever. you see, this is a big, big part of the problem. this problem is huge, people. and it doesn't only happen to bad people. like m.s. doesn't only happen to bad people. and. and. if you don't talk about it if you are or have been confronted with it, you MUST talk about it. and try to become part of the solution.

i am NOT ashamed. i will NEVER be ashamed. i have been blessed. gifted, even. and i believe that drug addiction was the greatest gift of jackson's life. to him. and, i hope, i pray, to a lot more people. i know i can count plenty already.

Dental Caries

I saw this ... thing ... in the dentist's office this afternoon. I don't know what it is. I did not ask. I watched to make sure that my dentist didn't use it on me. It is called "WIG-L-BUG®." It sounds like something that might be alive -- it was in a clouded-glass covered opaque plastic container with a power cord.

Dentist: We are going to be treating your gum disease in a new way.

Patient: Will it hurt?

Dentist: Hahahahaha! Did you hear that, Nurse Ratched, 'Does it hurt?' You, sir, should go on the Letterman Show. ... I said it was new, not that it was painless. Are you daft? Of course, it hurts. I am a dentist. By definition, everything I do to you hurts. And what is even funnier is that I get paid to do that ... by you!

Patient: Wha-wha-what is this n-n-new treatment?

Dentist: We call it ... the WIG-L-BUG®! Open wide, now. We wouldn't want to miss your mouth now, would we, and have this little sucker burrow into your eye and start eating, eating, eating, would we now!!! Mwahaha-mwahahaha! Turn up the Muzak, Nurse Ratched! We don't want other patients to hear your screams!! Mwahahaha!

The dentist and I reviewed the radiographs of my teeth. She poked around with a poker tool. She stabbed at my gums with a stabber tool. I made her laugh about my wisdom tooth. We discussed a "treatment plan," replacing two fillings in a couple weeks. I said, "That sounds good. You won't be using those WIG-L-BUGS® on me, then?"

She looked at the dental assistant, who shrugged. "Let's go up front and set up that next appointment," the dentist said. It was supposed to be a joke ....

The fillings are old. The silver-y ones. They probably have mercury in them. I wonder if the haz-mat team will be there.

CHECKING IN

THINKING: about what dan wrote the other day about blogging. and wondering why i do it (blog). i know it's not for the same reason (or with the style) that dan does it - at least not to that extent. before i started blogging, i would from time to time send an e-mail to my family that would resemble a post. i had something i wanted to say - and no outlet.

FEELING: oh, i don't know, kind of dissatisfied with this blogging "thing." i don't know why. just don't feel like posting or commenting. ennui. yuck.

READING: another marcus didius falco (author: lindsay davis) novel. fun, light, summer reading. spenser in ancient rome. fun.

WATCHING: the rain POURING outside.

HOPING: the travel agent can work up a nice thanksgiving trip to rome for bill and me and several of his cousins and their spouses.

WANTING: really, REALLY, wanting to go to rome.

PISSED OFF ABOUT: cheney, halliburton. iraq. that's enough, right?

LOOKING FORWARD TO: oh, i don't know. tuesday's my 30th wedding anniversary. i think i'll take the day off. maybe we can do something special. got any ideas?

REGRETTING: things i've said. things i didn't say. not things i've done. it's usually my mouth that gets me into trouble.