Since it is apparent that I'm pretty crabby these days, especially if one were to read my most recent entries, why not mine this vein of vitriol for more?
Last time I went to the doctor for my check up, which they make me do every year as a condition of getting my prescriptions re-issued, I could have phoned it in.
By the way, did I mention that I could die without my prescriptions, so when they blackmail me to come in for a check up, I'm not necessarily in a good mood. Combined with my increasingly crabbette persona, a conflagration is possible.
Here's how my yearly exam went last time: I came in, sat down, and waited in the examining room. I didn't even have to change into a gown. I've noticed that since becoming older, doctors don't seem to require me to undress as much.
The doc came in and took my blood pressure. It was slightly elevated. I mentioned that I'd taken my medicine an hour before. To prove that these drugs aren't very effective any more I took another dose. They hate when you do something they haven't mandated. He actually looked a bit frightened. I told him, don't worry, nothing's going to happen.
Meanwhile, while we were waiting for me to pass out or something, I showed him a spot on my leg where a derm had removed a sunspot. I also showed him how arthritis is messing up the little finger on my left hand.
In my head I'm thinking, is this kindergarten and I'm at SHOW and TELL? Why isn't HE asking me questions about my health?
All this time he was sitting at the computer, typing. Until, suddenly, he got called out of the room by the nurse. So, with nothing to do, I weighed myself.
About fifteen minutes later the doc came back and we took my blood pressure again. It was exactly the same as it was before. With twice as much medication. He said nothing and typed something else into the computer. I told him I weighed myself while he was gone.
He asked whether I wanted to get a blood workup and pee into a cup. Since I had to be downtown and I'd already had breakfast, I said I would prefer to do it another day.
That was the end of my "yearly physical." They charged me $186. before insurance. I actually think they charged me for the time that the doc was called away.
The other day I realized I still hadn't had my blood and urine tested. It's been a few months, so I called the doc's nurse, since you never talk to the doctor anymore.
Hi, can you schedule my blood and pee pee test, since I didn't get it done when I was in last time?
You need to come in for your physical before we do that.
But, I was in for my yearly "physical" a few months ago. [You know, the one where I chat and the doc types? The physical where he doesn't look into my eyes or my ears or my throat. Where he doesn't check my heart. He doesn't check my reflexes. He doesn't do shit. ]
You need to come in.
It hasn't been a year. I just need the doc to order the tests. And by the way you can skip the thyroid test. But I need to check my uric acid levels because of the medicine I'm on and I --
You have to come in and discuss this with the doctor.
Why can't the doctor call me so we can discuss this on the phone?
Because that's not how we do things here.
Please tell the doctor that I only want him to give the order for the tests. I don't need to come in; it hasn't been a year. And last time it was a waste of time.
[SPEAKING SLOWLY LIKE A PRINCIPAL WHO IS NOT USED TO HAVING HER ORDERS COUNTERMANDED] I'll tell the doctor what you said and we'll see what he decides to do.
It's been two weeks. I haven't heard from the doc. But over the weekend I got a form letter with a 4/color insert that has a bunch of tests that the doc can give me as part of the hospital's comprehensive something or other.
But only if I make an appointment to see him and DISCUSS our options.
Time to get a new doc.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Cleaning House
Hey, it's spring. Time to clean house. In this case, end a friendship.
I hired a friend of mine to work for me on a big project last year and I probably won't do it again. In fact, I know I won't do it again. I've worked with friends before -- it's fun. Especially when you started out as colleagues and became friends. The problem is that she and I had never worked directly together before. I would do the advertising; she would do the sales promotion. But we always had a good time talking, so I thought a collaboration could work.
But up close and personal. things quickly turned to kitty litter. In the past, I was always under the impression that she knew a lot about our business, but I discovered that she was mostly BS-ing. Apparently I was confused into thinking she knew a lot because her lips were moving. When I had to actually listen to her I began to realize she wasn't saying anything. She would make broad sweeping statements and I just took them at face value before. But turns out when we started working together, it became obvious that she was almost always wrong about everything she said.
I began to realize that was her m.o. -- lots of sound and fury, signifying nothing. I kept finding myself thinking, What are you saying? That's not true, you're making it up. Of course, we could have remained friends, but not work together.
Then she did two things that were astonishing. The first was pretending to forget that we had a conference call with the client -- after I had talked to her the day before about what time we had to call in. Instead she showed up at the client in person. This was a deliberate attempt on her part to plant seeds for taking the business away from me.
The second thing she did was at our client celebration dinner after the project ended. She told the client and everyone else assembled that she had been MY boss at the ad agency where we both had worked at one time. I was flabbergasted. I just stared at her like she was an alien, but she was talking so fast and furiously that I couldn't interrupt without being unpleasant.
When we were working at that agency I was a VP creative director and she wasn't even in our department. I didn't even know who she was. In fact, I didn't even meet her for another four years. So, was she insane? At the same moment she was lying through her teeth, she gave me the look that a bad child gives a parent. There was no other way to describe it.
I finally made some non committal remark like, "I guess I better not get out of line" and didn't challenge her. I figured people had been drinking, so I wouldn't get into things in front of a client.
Later I decided not to confront her at all, just to back away from her and let the friendship and business relationship die. Eventually I could clear up things with the client.
Recently she emailed me wanting to get together to "catch up." We'd seen each other at a party and a bunch of us had a lot of fun talking about all kinds of subjects. Her husband was there too so she couldn't go off half-cocked about anything. He has a way of looking at her and gently interpreting what she really meant.
Her email was very flattering about how interesting I am, blah blah blah, and I was the only one she wanted to actually sit down and follow up with.
I didn't respond. If she calls I'll send it to voicemail. If she leaves a voicemail and brings up the subject of getting together sometime, I'll ignore it. If she asks me to brunch, I'll be busy. I could just tell her the friendship's over, but we have lots of friends in common, so we'll be thrown together on occasion. Nobody wants to feel awkward. So if I don't say anything directly, but just sidestep her, she probably won't notice that the friendship has ended. Not for a long time. Maybe never.
Of course I'm left wondering whether the friendship's over when you don't actually say to the other person that it's over.
It's over.
I hired a friend of mine to work for me on a big project last year and I probably won't do it again. In fact, I know I won't do it again. I've worked with friends before -- it's fun. Especially when you started out as colleagues and became friends. The problem is that she and I had never worked directly together before. I would do the advertising; she would do the sales promotion. But we always had a good time talking, so I thought a collaboration could work.
But up close and personal. things quickly turned to kitty litter. In the past, I was always under the impression that she knew a lot about our business, but I discovered that she was mostly BS-ing. Apparently I was confused into thinking she knew a lot because her lips were moving. When I had to actually listen to her I began to realize she wasn't saying anything. She would make broad sweeping statements and I just took them at face value before. But turns out when we started working together, it became obvious that she was almost always wrong about everything she said.
I began to realize that was her m.o. -- lots of sound and fury, signifying nothing. I kept finding myself thinking, What are you saying? That's not true, you're making it up. Of course, we could have remained friends, but not work together.
Then she did two things that were astonishing. The first was pretending to forget that we had a conference call with the client -- after I had talked to her the day before about what time we had to call in. Instead she showed up at the client in person. This was a deliberate attempt on her part to plant seeds for taking the business away from me.
The second thing she did was at our client celebration dinner after the project ended. She told the client and everyone else assembled that she had been MY boss at the ad agency where we both had worked at one time. I was flabbergasted. I just stared at her like she was an alien, but she was talking so fast and furiously that I couldn't interrupt without being unpleasant.
When we were working at that agency I was a VP creative director and she wasn't even in our department. I didn't even know who she was. In fact, I didn't even meet her for another four years. So, was she insane? At the same moment she was lying through her teeth, she gave me the look that a bad child gives a parent. There was no other way to describe it.
I finally made some non committal remark like, "I guess I better not get out of line" and didn't challenge her. I figured people had been drinking, so I wouldn't get into things in front of a client.
Later I decided not to confront her at all, just to back away from her and let the friendship and business relationship die. Eventually I could clear up things with the client.
Recently she emailed me wanting to get together to "catch up." We'd seen each other at a party and a bunch of us had a lot of fun talking about all kinds of subjects. Her husband was there too so she couldn't go off half-cocked about anything. He has a way of looking at her and gently interpreting what she really meant.
Her email was very flattering about how interesting I am, blah blah blah, and I was the only one she wanted to actually sit down and follow up with.
I didn't respond. If she calls I'll send it to voicemail. If she leaves a voicemail and brings up the subject of getting together sometime, I'll ignore it. If she asks me to brunch, I'll be busy. I could just tell her the friendship's over, but we have lots of friends in common, so we'll be thrown together on occasion. Nobody wants to feel awkward. So if I don't say anything directly, but just sidestep her, she probably won't notice that the friendship has ended. Not for a long time. Maybe never.
Of course I'm left wondering whether the friendship's over when you don't actually say to the other person that it's over.
It's over.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Woo-hoo
I guess AOL is still trying to act like there's a "journal" community here. Of course, when they let John Scalzi go, you knew they were just kidding.
Apparently Magic Smoke, which used to be written by a smart tech guy, is now operated by two other people who write like high school kids working for the school paper -- Hey, gang, enter the caption contest!!!
If you want to read what I'm talking about click on the MAGIC SMOKE link up there on the top right of my blog. It's now a permanent part of the headband or whatever you call all the ads and junk they keep dumping on us.
Meanwhile AOL is still having guest editors. I remember when I used to look forward to that little feature. I also remember when gas was $.33 a gallon.
This week the Guest Editor is a project manager at a nuclear plant who lives in Indiana. His name is Ken and his blog is called Bucko. He has stopped by this journal a few times recently, based on a couple of comments he left.
As the Guest Editor, he included me in his list of recommended blogs. At the bottom. He obviously saved the best for last.
"Learn some interesting facts about life in the Windy City, which Mrs. Linklater clearly loves."
I worry that some people may be stopping here to read restaurant reviews or to get directions to the Bean, so I hope they won't be disappointed.
Ken seems like a perfectly nice guy. He and his wife both blog and she was nice enough to stop here to congratulate me on making Bucko's list. That's how I found out about the mention.
So how can I say what I want to say now without sounding ungracious? Let me first start with "Thank you, Ken, for honoring me with a mention in your Guest Editor's column."
I think Ken thought he was doing me a favor. But, the last thing I need is more readers. I've got the ones I want, along with a few I wish would go away, and based on my newly loaded counter, there's a bunch of lurkers who just hang in the background. Fine by me if they stay there.
When I first started this journal four years ago, I wanted lots of people to read it and comment. But then I discovered the price of "fame." You can't choose which people you get. So, after the angry AOL exodus, I stopped "marketing" myself by going around to as many AOL blogs as I could and leaving a link to mine.
If anyone finds this blog, it's almost by accident. Although I have tagged some entries in a [so far] fruitless attempt to get a Google mention on a hot topic or two.
Even without a tag, some woman in Australia found and quoted something I said in my Bag Lady With A Baby rant. Remember the 67 year old Romanian woman who gave birth a couple of years ago?
Over time I've discovered that I don't embrace new people very easily. So if you've linked here from Magic Smoke and left a comment, please don't be alarmed if I don't go out of my way to say thank you for stopping by.
Unless you're really funny. And then, maybe. . .
Apparently Magic Smoke, which used to be written by a smart tech guy, is now operated by two other people who write like high school kids working for the school paper -- Hey, gang, enter the caption contest!!!
If you want to read what I'm talking about click on the MAGIC SMOKE link up there on the top right of my blog. It's now a permanent part of the headband or whatever you call all the ads and junk they keep dumping on us.
Meanwhile AOL is still having guest editors. I remember when I used to look forward to that little feature. I also remember when gas was $.33 a gallon.
This week the Guest Editor is a project manager at a nuclear plant who lives in Indiana. His name is Ken and his blog is called Bucko. He has stopped by this journal a few times recently, based on a couple of comments he left.
As the Guest Editor, he included me in his list of recommended blogs. At the bottom. He obviously saved the best for last.
"Learn some interesting facts about life in the Windy City, which Mrs. Linklater clearly loves."
I worry that some people may be stopping here to read restaurant reviews or to get directions to the Bean, so I hope they won't be disappointed.
Ken seems like a perfectly nice guy. He and his wife both blog and she was nice enough to stop here to congratulate me on making Bucko's list. That's how I found out about the mention.
So how can I say what I want to say now without sounding ungracious? Let me first start with "Thank you, Ken, for honoring me with a mention in your Guest Editor's column."
I think Ken thought he was doing me a favor. But, the last thing I need is more readers. I've got the ones I want, along with a few I wish would go away, and based on my newly loaded counter, there's a bunch of lurkers who just hang in the background. Fine by me if they stay there.
When I first started this journal four years ago, I wanted lots of people to read it and comment. But then I discovered the price of "fame." You can't choose which people you get. So, after the angry AOL exodus, I stopped "marketing" myself by going around to as many AOL blogs as I could and leaving a link to mine.
If anyone finds this blog, it's almost by accident. Although I have tagged some entries in a [so far] fruitless attempt to get a Google mention on a hot topic or two.
Even without a tag, some woman in Australia found and quoted something I said in my Bag Lady With A Baby rant. Remember the 67 year old Romanian woman who gave birth a couple of years ago?
Over time I've discovered that I don't embrace new people very easily. So if you've linked here from Magic Smoke and left a comment, please don't be alarmed if I don't go out of my way to say thank you for stopping by.
Unless you're really funny. And then, maybe. . .
Exacta, Schmacta
In my life I've spent a lot of time around horses. I started riding when I was seven on the bridle paths that traversed Chicago's Hyde Park. Soon, when I wasn't riding horses I was drawing them. Or reading everything Walter Farley ever wrote. I grew up and my honeymoon was spent on a horse round up in Wyoming and riding in the back country of Yellowstone Park.
But I have never spent time at the racetrack. If I were going to be around horses, I wanted to be riding them. There had never seemed to be much point in sitting around and watching other people ride them. Needless to say, the thrill of betting on them has always eluded me.
A couple of days ago I had a chance to spend my first day with girlfriends at Arlington Racetrack. Bad body parts prevent me from riding anymore. So over the years I've embraced horse-racing with growing enthusiasm -- on TV at least. Especially after a wild ride years ago on a bullheaded thoroughbred steeplechaser. That pigheaded horse gave me a heartfelt appreciation for what it feels like to race like the wind on an animal that may or may not stop, no matter what your plans are.
It was a hot, humid day at the track, but we sat in box seats in the shade of the high canopy. And there was a wonderful breeze blowing to keep us cool all day. The view was spectacular -- a panoramic sweep of the sky, which entertained us all afternoon with imaginative cloud formations.
Before each race we could walk over to view the horses in the paddock on their way to the track. Arlington Park is beautiful and spotless, every blade of grass groomed to perfection. But, despite the elegant surroundings, or perhaps because of them, there was something missing for me. I love the smell of horses -- the straw, the leather, everything about a barn. Unfortunately, those smells are considered declasse and therefore banished from the track. [I wonder who has the Febreze franchise?] I guess the scent interferes with the flavor of the $38 shrimp cocktails and other expensive foodly delights they want you to order. Despite my longing for the barn smells, I must admit I appreciated having a delicious, scent free lunch, washed down with some of the best lemonade I've ever tasted.
Our hostess for the day, who was over ninety, came from a family that owned a racehorse or two in their day and she spends a good part of each week at the track. When we arrived in her Lincoln Town Car [circa 1978], everyone seemed to know her by name. I'm not sure whether that was because of her driving or not.
She made sure we all got our programs so we could make our educated two dollar bets on each race. I quickly realized that figuring out the multiple betting options was way beyond my skill level. Trifectas and superfectas are all Greek to me.
I was also surprised to discover that while waiting for each race at Arlington, you also could watch and bet on the races at other tracks around the world, from Churchill Downs to Australia. No sense in sitting around when you could be losing more money.
After reading through my program to review the multiple opinions of the experts and check out how fast each horse had run in its last five races, I picked my favorites to win by the color of the jockey's silks. Especially if they were coordinated with the horse's tack.
But I didn't have as much luck as my girlfriend's mother who made her picks by choosing a horse whose name she liked. She had three outright winners in eight races and a two of them were real longshots. So she walked away a couple of times with a nice payoff on her two bucks. I remember thinking I could have paid off my house with a thousand dollar bet on just one of those ponies.
I guess that's why they call it gambling. But, for my first real foray into the sport of kings, I was happy enough with the view, the weather, and the delicious lemonade. The late afternoon Dove bar was pretty good too.
But I have never spent time at the racetrack. If I were going to be around horses, I wanted to be riding them. There had never seemed to be much point in sitting around and watching other people ride them. Needless to say, the thrill of betting on them has always eluded me.
A couple of days ago I had a chance to spend my first day with girlfriends at Arlington Racetrack. Bad body parts prevent me from riding anymore. So over the years I've embraced horse-racing with growing enthusiasm -- on TV at least. Especially after a wild ride years ago on a bullheaded thoroughbred steeplechaser. That pigheaded horse gave me a heartfelt appreciation for what it feels like to race like the wind on an animal that may or may not stop, no matter what your plans are.
It was a hot, humid day at the track, but we sat in box seats in the shade of the high canopy. And there was a wonderful breeze blowing to keep us cool all day. The view was spectacular -- a panoramic sweep of the sky, which entertained us all afternoon with imaginative cloud formations.
Before each race we could walk over to view the horses in the paddock on their way to the track. Arlington Park is beautiful and spotless, every blade of grass groomed to perfection. But, despite the elegant surroundings, or perhaps because of them, there was something missing for me. I love the smell of horses -- the straw, the leather, everything about a barn. Unfortunately, those smells are considered declasse and therefore banished from the track. [I wonder who has the Febreze franchise?] I guess the scent interferes with the flavor of the $38 shrimp cocktails and other expensive foodly delights they want you to order. Despite my longing for the barn smells, I must admit I appreciated having a delicious, scent free lunch, washed down with some of the best lemonade I've ever tasted.
Our hostess for the day, who was over ninety, came from a family that owned a racehorse or two in their day and she spends a good part of each week at the track. When we arrived in her Lincoln Town Car [circa 1978], everyone seemed to know her by name. I'm not sure whether that was because of her driving or not.
She made sure we all got our programs so we could make our educated two dollar bets on each race. I quickly realized that figuring out the multiple betting options was way beyond my skill level. Trifectas and superfectas are all Greek to me.
I was also surprised to discover that while waiting for each race at Arlington, you also could watch and bet on the races at other tracks around the world, from Churchill Downs to Australia. No sense in sitting around when you could be losing more money.
After reading through my program to review the multiple opinions of the experts and check out how fast each horse had run in its last five races, I picked my favorites to win by the color of the jockey's silks. Especially if they were coordinated with the horse's tack.
But I didn't have as much luck as my girlfriend's mother who made her picks by choosing a horse whose name she liked. She had three outright winners in eight races and a two of them were real longshots. So she walked away a couple of times with a nice payoff on her two bucks. I remember thinking I could have paid off my house with a thousand dollar bet on just one of those ponies.
I guess that's why they call it gambling. But, for my first real foray into the sport of kings, I was happy enough with the view, the weather, and the delicious lemonade. The late afternoon Dove bar was pretty good too.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Dateline: Mrs. Linklater
I worked as a crisis line worker and advocate for battered women for six years and got burned out. Listening to their stories on the hotline was like being forced to watch re-runs of the same bad movie. The actors changed, but the story was still the same old shit. I could tell each caller exactly what she was going through before she told me. To them I seemed like I was a fountain of empathy and understanding. To me they were becoming a pain in the ass.
Usually the women called after an incident, when he was safely out of the house. I magically described to them exactly what it was like to live with their batterers. And I got the same incredulous response every time -- "How did you know?" Because in the end, batterers are all alike. And they never change.
I talked to a guy who called the hotline once who claimed his wife beat him up all the time and I should have compassion for a husband, too. Sorry. All the battered women I talked to, except one, lived in terror. They also didn't have a job or an independent source of income. Leaving with their children was always an act of heroism. But this mope was the family breadwinner and he could have walked out the door anytime. He also said he wasn't afraid of his wife. So, gimme a break, Mr. S&M freak.
In the end, I got tired of mothers with small children refusing to accept the cycle of violence in their lives and constantly returning home to the jerks who beat them up. "Because he's really sorry."
The greatest irony in the work I did occurred when I organized an event called "Light Up the Lakefront." The nonprofit I worked for got dozens of volunteers to help set up 3000 luminaria that eventually stretched for a mile along the main beach path by the lake in Chicago. Each one of the lights would represent the death of a woman from domestic violence that year. When night came, the impact of all those flickering candles would be truly remarkable.
Wechose the first Monday in October as the inaugural date for the event, since October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. We notified the print and broadcast media but didn't know how much coverage we were going to get.
A lot, as it turned out. Because the night of that first event turned out to be the same day that O.J.'s not quilty verdict came in. Cosmic. The reporters couldn't wait to talk to a bunch of battered women's advocates and they knew where to find us.
That trip down memory lane was a long pre-mumble to the point of this entry.
After a wonderful afternoon at the racetrack yesterday -- something I've never done before and thoroughly enjoyed -- I heard a story at dinner that has bothered me since.
Someone at our table asked someone else a seemingly innocuous question: "You were an only child, weren't you?"
She wasn't. At one time she said she had a brother. But after his daughter and granddaughter died in a fire, he died, too, about a year later, from frustration over the investigation and a broken heart.
Her brother's son in law wanted a divorce, but his religious daughter didn't. At the hospital where the dead bodies were taken, the family was told that the mother had a broken nose and the daughter had a bump on her head. Also an accelerant had been used to start the fire. Separated from his wife, the husband suggested that his wife was depressed about the divorce and proposed that she had killed her daughter, then killed herself by setting the house on fire. Sounds like an Entwhistle to me.
At the funeral, according to the storyteller, she saw a woman come over to the husband's car. When he lowered the window she leaned in and kissed him. The final straw for her brother's family? The husband had also recently bought life insurance on his wife.
Needless to say, my domestic violence DNA was lit up by this story, and I wanted to know how many years this farkwad had spent in jail.
Not one day.
He married his girlfriend and, it turns out, for the last 35 years, he has been living in my town. His dead wife's dad was destroyed in the end because the cops in the suburb where his daughter and granddaughter died called the case a murder-suicide and filed it away. Nothing he could do would get them to reconsider.
The only good news is that in these more enlightened times, the cops aren't quite so willing to accept a husband's version of what might have happened.
In another twist of O.J. irony, his three-ring circus murder trial, as flawed as it was, may have made the greatest contribution to insuring future justice for DV victims and survivors.
Even though he got away with murdering his wife, too.
Usually the women called after an incident, when he was safely out of the house. I magically described to them exactly what it was like to live with their batterers. And I got the same incredulous response every time -- "How did you know?" Because in the end, batterers are all alike. And they never change.
I talked to a guy who called the hotline once who claimed his wife beat him up all the time and I should have compassion for a husband, too. Sorry. All the battered women I talked to, except one, lived in terror. They also didn't have a job or an independent source of income. Leaving with their children was always an act of heroism. But this mope was the family breadwinner and he could have walked out the door anytime. He also said he wasn't afraid of his wife. So, gimme a break, Mr. S&M freak.
In the end, I got tired of mothers with small children refusing to accept the cycle of violence in their lives and constantly returning home to the jerks who beat them up. "Because he's really sorry."
The greatest irony in the work I did occurred when I organized an event called "Light Up the Lakefront." The nonprofit I worked for got dozens of volunteers to help set up 3000 luminaria that eventually stretched for a mile along the main beach path by the lake in Chicago. Each one of the lights would represent the death of a woman from domestic violence that year. When night came, the impact of all those flickering candles would be truly remarkable.
Wechose the first Monday in October as the inaugural date for the event, since October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. We notified the print and broadcast media but didn't know how much coverage we were going to get.
A lot, as it turned out. Because the night of that first event turned out to be the same day that O.J.'s not quilty verdict came in. Cosmic. The reporters couldn't wait to talk to a bunch of battered women's advocates and they knew where to find us.
That trip down memory lane was a long pre-mumble to the point of this entry.
After a wonderful afternoon at the racetrack yesterday -- something I've never done before and thoroughly enjoyed -- I heard a story at dinner that has bothered me since.
Someone at our table asked someone else a seemingly innocuous question: "You were an only child, weren't you?"
She wasn't. At one time she said she had a brother. But after his daughter and granddaughter died in a fire, he died, too, about a year later, from frustration over the investigation and a broken heart.
Her brother's son in law wanted a divorce, but his religious daughter didn't. At the hospital where the dead bodies were taken, the family was told that the mother had a broken nose and the daughter had a bump on her head. Also an accelerant had been used to start the fire. Separated from his wife, the husband suggested that his wife was depressed about the divorce and proposed that she had killed her daughter, then killed herself by setting the house on fire. Sounds like an Entwhistle to me.
At the funeral, according to the storyteller, she saw a woman come over to the husband's car. When he lowered the window she leaned in and kissed him. The final straw for her brother's family? The husband had also recently bought life insurance on his wife.
Needless to say, my domestic violence DNA was lit up by this story, and I wanted to know how many years this farkwad had spent in jail.
Not one day.
He married his girlfriend and, it turns out, for the last 35 years, he has been living in my town. His dead wife's dad was destroyed in the end because the cops in the suburb where his daughter and granddaughter died called the case a murder-suicide and filed it away. Nothing he could do would get them to reconsider.
The only good news is that in these more enlightened times, the cops aren't quite so willing to accept a husband's version of what might have happened.
In another twist of O.J. irony, his three-ring circus murder trial, as flawed as it was, may have made the greatest contribution to insuring future justice for DV victims and survivors.
Even though he got away with murdering his wife, too.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Wait A Second
The second amendment was written in language which made sense 250 years ago. Unfortunately, as we have dumbed down our education over the years, nobody seems to remember the rules about adjectival clauses any more. So the Supreme Court is going to rely on the five members who went to Catholic schools to sort out the grammar.
A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free
State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.
Back in the day, owning a rifle was a useful part of our daily lives, insofar as it helped to provide food and a livelihood from the slaughter of animals for their meat and valuable fur, Owning a rifle also provided protection from marauding Native Americans who didn't get the memo about the white man's right to their land. Not to mention all the times we've had to deal with their resentment over the neverending attempts to exterminate their civilization.
Of course, despite our success as rifle toting invaders, we also had to deal with the British, who weren't going to roll over and give away a country they wanted to rape for themselves. Not without a fight.
That's where American ingenuity first came in handy. We didn't have enough bodies to field a standing army like England, France, Russia, Germany and the like. Being a soldier in their part of the world could be a full-time occupation. But over here in the less populated colonies, being a soldier was done on an as needed basis. We'll call you when you need you. And don't forget your rifle. The local militia was like Rotary. You belonged to it like a club.
When the Brits had a hissy fit over our American rebelliousness, they sent an army to come over and squash us. So we simply called a club meeting to protect ourselves. That idea worked so well, someone made a note to include it in the constitution when we got around to putting one together. Meanwhile, outguinned, outmanned and outnumbered, we also invented guerilla warfare along the way -- making the best use of personal firearms and our knowledge of the terrain against a professional fighting force.
Who knew it would backfire.
Fighting the British is probably when the character of a typical American emerged. During the Revolutionary War, there was a Prussian officer assigned to train Americans in traditional warfare -- the kind where straight lines of soldiers carry their rifles on their shoulders and march together in lockstep to the battlefield.
The frontiersmen he was dealing with were already crack shots. They were used to stalking and killing food and indigenous people by hiding behind trees or lying in ditches. Anything else didn't make much sense to them. Marching in the middle of the road like sitting ducks seemed counterintuitive. And there was that whole "Who is this guy and why is HE telling us what to do?" thing, which continues to this day.
The Prussian officer, like most military types, was used to having his commands obeyed without question and he soon ran into attitude problems with the Americans.
Every time Herr Deutchenofficer gave a command, the Americans always wanted to know why? first. Each of them was already his own army of one. Why take orders from someone else? But they managed to work something out.
Unfortunately, old habits die hard. And the diehards started their own group -- the NRA. I'd like to see that group gathering together to fend off a British attack during the Revolutionary War. Bunch of overweight white guys in camo pants and wifebeaters, dragging coolers full of beer. Led by Charlton Heston.
No longer do we have to go out every day to kill the Big Macs we eat to feed our families. Or protect our lawns from anything but crabgrass.
No longer do our dads have to be a part of a local militia and be ready to bring their rifles to fight invading countries. These days invading armies just swim or walk across at the border.
So we really don't need firearms to live our daily lives.
Any day of the week you can buy enough food at Costco to feed an army of kids. The local militia mentioned in the constitution reflected the times, but it is now a rellic of the times, like slavery.
In fact, you could argue that the militia have evolved into our local police force. They're the only ones who should have access to firearms. Except for sport. And there are enough dead family members for those weapons not to be kept in the home.
Someone I know discovered she'd married a man who had a .357 magnum for personal protection. He was a firm believer in the right of every citizen to bear arms. She thought keeping a gun was a form of paranoia.
One night they bothheard a noise downstairs in their home. He looked at her and said, "Would you please go check and see what that was?"
The next day she made him dismantle the gun and put it in the attic.
There's no moral to the story. Only food for thought.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Eleventy-Twenty-One, Eleventy-Twenty-Two
I put up the counter on the blog again. I've done this three or four times and I always take it down eventually because, after a time, it loses its mind. How do I know this? Because it will suddenly reset itself to zero for no reason.
Today, for instance, when a momentary lapse in judgment prompted me to put it up again, I noticed that between the time I clicked the preference box and and the few seconds it took me to get back to this journal, the counter was already at 34.
Sure.
So, I'll be leaving it up for a week or so, or until it craps out again or it does something else to annoy me. In case you're wondering.
Today, for instance, when a momentary lapse in judgment prompted me to put it up again, I noticed that between the time I clicked the preference box and and the few seconds it took me to get back to this journal, the counter was already at 34.
Sure.
So, I'll be leaving it up for a week or so, or until it craps out again or it does something else to annoy me. In case you're wondering.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Interpreting for Mr. Imus
I'm sure that Don Imus is not racist. First of all he says he isn't. Is there anything more definitive than a disclaimer straight from the horse's ass's mouth?
Granted he called the women on the Rutgers Basketball Team "nappy hos," but, despite all evidence to the contrary, he has continually assured us that he is not racist.
Now the media are after him again, accusing him of more racist comments, this time about Pacman Jones.
What we have here is just a failure to communicate.
The other day on the Don Imus radio show, where Don Imus makes his non-racist remarks, Warner Wolf reported that Pacman Jones had been "arrested six times since he was drafted by Tennessee in 2005."
Mr. Imus, who was fired from his previous job for making the aforementioned racist comments about the Rutgers' women's basketball team, even though he insists he isn't a racist, responded by asking "What color is he?"
"He's African-American," Wolf replied.
"Well, there you go," Imus said. "Now we know."
So, just what DO we know about what you know, Mr. Imus? Besides the fact that you're not a racist.
He insists he meant that African-American men are unfairly targeted by law enforcement,and what happened to Pacman Jones is typical of the abuse he suffers because he is black.
I don't know how anybody could think Imus meant otherwise. In fact when he says "Well, there you go," I'm sure he's referring to the visiting hours for the Martin Luther King Memorial.
And why else would a non racist care what Pacman's race is? Except as a show of solidarity with his "brother."
So could you people start cutting an ugly, old white dude some slack?
Granted he called the women on the Rutgers Basketball Team "nappy hos," but, despite all evidence to the contrary, he has continually assured us that he is not racist.
Now the media are after him again, accusing him of more racist comments, this time about Pacman Jones.
What we have here is just a failure to communicate.
The other day on the Don Imus radio show, where Don Imus makes his non-racist remarks, Warner Wolf reported that Pacman Jones had been "arrested six times since he was drafted by Tennessee in 2005."
Mr. Imus, who was fired from his previous job for making the aforementioned racist comments about the Rutgers' women's basketball team, even though he insists he isn't a racist, responded by asking "What color is he?"
"He's African-American," Wolf replied.
"Well, there you go," Imus said. "Now we know."
So, just what DO we know about what you know, Mr. Imus? Besides the fact that you're not a racist.
He insists he meant that African-American men are unfairly targeted by law enforcement,and what happened to Pacman Jones is typical of the abuse he suffers because he is black.
I don't know how anybody could think Imus meant otherwise. In fact when he says "Well, there you go," I'm sure he's referring to the visiting hours for the Martin Luther King Memorial.
And why else would a non racist care what Pacman's race is? Except as a show of solidarity with his "brother."
So could you people start cutting an ugly, old white dude some slack?
Slice of Life
Yesterday I went to my local bookstore to get a birthday gift for my four year old niece. She has two little brothers, so I planned to buy something for them too, since I see no reason not to suck up to children from birth.
I did not go to Borders or Barnes and Noble to buy the gifts. Or any of the large stores that hire people who are often texting someone while they point you toward the wrong book section.
On the contrary, I make it a habit to shop at the small, independent store in my town, owned by a group of older, entertaining ladies [like, say, ME] who have actually read the books they sell. They even listen to the audio books to make sure they're read well by the actor or author.
But as I walked into the tiny establishment yesterday, I was approached by someone I had never seen before. A very young woman. Very, very young. Rats, I forgot about summer hires. The closer she got the younger she looked. So I went from thinking she was in college to thinking she was in high school to thinking she had been stolen by gypsies from a circus juggler in one of the former soviet republics and sold to the ladies to work in their store as a book slave. By the time she asked whether she might help me, I thought she was really tall for a fourth grader.
Okay, I kid. She was sixteen. Wow, I forget that you don't have crow's feet and smile lines yet when you're sixteen. I could tell that she, unlike many girls her age, was still a virgin. She didn't have that "look" in her eye yet, usually enhanced by very black eyeliner. Like you've seen what's behind Door Number Three and holy crap, I wanna change my mind.
My mother used to tell me when she saw the "look" in my girlfriends' faces. "Your friend Ann is no longer a virgin, I notice." I think that was her way of letting me know she would be able to tell when it happened to me. And I would be grounded. Oh, great. Mom -- I'm six feet all, breast-free and barely weigh 124 pounds. Do you think I'm actually going to lose my virginity in this century?
Of course, that was back when getting pregnant in high school wouldn't be considered an outside activity on your college application. It meant you spent junior year at your aunt's in New Jersey and came back for senior year looking guilty of a crime.
Show of hands from preggo teens in Gloucester -- did any of you actually have an orgasm while copping to the copulation?
But I digress.
After she asked, I told the young, wide-eyed, last-remaining-high-school-virgin the ages and genders of the kids I wanted outfitted with books. I didn't expect much. Perhaps a shuffling of feet and a mumbled, "Look over there."
But I was in for a huge surprise. Instead of pointing me toward the children's book area and walking away, she actually helped me. She personally selected a very entertaining book for my niece from special group of the most popular kids' books they sell. It told a funny story with wonderful pictures. The book was perfect for my niece and her budding sense of humor. Virgin girl said it was the second in a series, whereupon she got me the first one to look at, which I bought, too. She was very familiar with all the books. I was quite impressed.
She picked out something just right for the two boys, too. A story about trains that I loved and a touchy feelly book about a dinosaur that was very cute.
While we were at the counter, she asked if I would like to have them wrapped and I said I also wanted them sent, which, for that age group of girls, is like setting their hair on fire. But she handled everything without getting flustered. I only mention this because in the past the other young people who worked there had to stop and ask someone else what to do. She, however, never missed a beat.
She even got me a new discount card and punched it according to the amount I'd spent without having to have someone else do the math.
While we were finishing up I said she was the best young person who had ever waited on me in the all years I had been coming to that store. I was also thinking that teenage celibacy prevents your brain from rotting.
She said thank you; I had made her day. I said, no. no you made my day. She probably thought I was thanking her for the help she gave me. I was thinking -- oh, good I can write about this in my blog.
I did not go to Borders or Barnes and Noble to buy the gifts. Or any of the large stores that hire people who are often texting someone while they point you toward the wrong book section.
On the contrary, I make it a habit to shop at the small, independent store in my town, owned by a group of older, entertaining ladies [like, say, ME] who have actually read the books they sell. They even listen to the audio books to make sure they're read well by the actor or author.
But as I walked into the tiny establishment yesterday, I was approached by someone I had never seen before. A very young woman. Very, very young. Rats, I forgot about summer hires. The closer she got the younger she looked. So I went from thinking she was in college to thinking she was in high school to thinking she had been stolen by gypsies from a circus juggler in one of the former soviet republics and sold to the ladies to work in their store as a book slave. By the time she asked whether she might help me, I thought she was really tall for a fourth grader.
Okay, I kid. She was sixteen. Wow, I forget that you don't have crow's feet and smile lines yet when you're sixteen. I could tell that she, unlike many girls her age, was still a virgin. She didn't have that "look" in her eye yet, usually enhanced by very black eyeliner. Like you've seen what's behind Door Number Three and holy crap, I wanna change my mind.
My mother used to tell me when she saw the "look" in my girlfriends' faces. "Your friend Ann is no longer a virgin, I notice." I think that was her way of letting me know she would be able to tell when it happened to me. And I would be grounded. Oh, great. Mom -- I'm six feet all, breast-free and barely weigh 124 pounds. Do you think I'm actually going to lose my virginity in this century?
Of course, that was back when getting pregnant in high school wouldn't be considered an outside activity on your college application. It meant you spent junior year at your aunt's in New Jersey and came back for senior year looking guilty of a crime.
Show of hands from preggo teens in Gloucester -- did any of you actually have an orgasm while copping to the copulation?
But I digress.
After she asked, I told the young, wide-eyed, last-remaining-high-school-virgin the ages and genders of the kids I wanted outfitted with books. I didn't expect much. Perhaps a shuffling of feet and a mumbled, "Look over there."
But I was in for a huge surprise. Instead of pointing me toward the children's book area and walking away, she actually helped me. She personally selected a very entertaining book for my niece from special group of the most popular kids' books they sell. It told a funny story with wonderful pictures. The book was perfect for my niece and her budding sense of humor. Virgin girl said it was the second in a series, whereupon she got me the first one to look at, which I bought, too. She was very familiar with all the books. I was quite impressed.
She picked out something just right for the two boys, too. A story about trains that I loved and a touchy feelly book about a dinosaur that was very cute.
While we were at the counter, she asked if I would like to have them wrapped and I said I also wanted them sent, which, for that age group of girls, is like setting their hair on fire. But she handled everything without getting flustered. I only mention this because in the past the other young people who worked there had to stop and ask someone else what to do. She, however, never missed a beat.
She even got me a new discount card and punched it according to the amount I'd spent without having to have someone else do the math.
While we were finishing up I said she was the best young person who had ever waited on me in the all years I had been coming to that store. I was also thinking that teenage celibacy prevents your brain from rotting.
She said thank you; I had made her day. I said, no. no you made my day. She probably thought I was thanking her for the help she gave me. I was thinking -- oh, good I can write about this in my blog.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Chicago's Real Baseball Season Begins
Today was the first game of six crosstown faceoffs between the Cubs and the Sox this season. It's the first time the two teams have met when they were both in first place. I think the Cubs have the best record in baseball. They were on an 11 - 0 streak at home coming into today.
Of course, if you live here you already know this, as well as who won this afternoon. In case your Zenith is on the fritz, the Cubs took it 4-3, thanks to a walk off homer by third baseman Aramis Ramirez. Yo! You want drama, we dish it out wid mustard and onions.
Not a bad outing for the Cubbies, considering that the White Sox just swept Pittsburgh, slamming in thirty runs in three games. And the Cubs not only just got swept by Tampa Bay, but they've lost two of their best players for a good chunk of time: Alfonso Soriano with a broken hand and Carlos Zambrano with a bad shoulder.
These games get the whole city riled up. In a good way. Compared to Cubs' fans, Sox fans tend to be edgier, less preppy. And notoriously bad mannered. Probably the most generous thing they do is sing "na na na na na na na na hey hey good bye" when the game is out of reach.
Ozzie Guillen made fun of Wrigley Field today during his rival coach interview -- tongue firmly in cheek, of course. He complained that the rats out by the Wrigley Field batting cage are so big they must be lifting weights.
At heart, I'm always a White Sox fan, despite years of efforts by Jerry Reinsdorf to make it impossible to find their games on television. Meanwhile, I've come to love the Cubs' radio guys, Pat Hughes and Ron Santo. Do you know any other city where they run the fans' favorite Ron and Pat moments from the past week? At 10:00 PM every Sunday during the season, you can hear replays of their most amusing play by plays, accidental or on purpose. Only in Chicago.
This morning before the game there was a contest to see what fan could pitch a ball the fastest for a chance to get four tickets to the game and throw out the first pitch.
The three finalists were all Sox fans. The winner threw a 76 mph pitch. At the game he threw out the first pitch wearing a Cubs shirt. Then he took it off, revealing his true allegiance. Yo! Drama wid a slice of ham.
Just before and just after the game there's always a frenzy of sorts because, as one sportscaster put it, the current Cub/Sox rivalry is bigger and more intense than the Dodgers - Giants of the fifties. Although I would have thought the Yankees and Dodgers were bigger rivals, since they were always the ones playing each other in the World Series. The current Mets - Yankees rivalry is weak tea by comparison.
You probably won't believe this, but I was going to write about the Rick Telander - Jay Mariotti sportswriter smackdown here. Mariotti called his colleagues "soft," implying that they suck up to the teams like homies. Compared tp Mariotti, Telander, who used to write for Sports Illustrated, is a class act. He actually played football on a Division I team. Mariotti is like a resentful, bitter kid who never got picked for dodgeball. And he writes like it. People are taking sides with one or the other like two dogs in a fight. Only I couldn't think of a dog that looks as ugly as Mariotti, except for a bulldog and I didn't want to insult any bulldogs. So I did the Cubs/Sox thing.
Of course, if you live here you already know this, as well as who won this afternoon. In case your Zenith is on the fritz, the Cubs took it 4-3, thanks to a walk off homer by third baseman Aramis Ramirez. Yo! You want drama, we dish it out wid mustard and onions.
Not a bad outing for the Cubbies, considering that the White Sox just swept Pittsburgh, slamming in thirty runs in three games. And the Cubs not only just got swept by Tampa Bay, but they've lost two of their best players for a good chunk of time: Alfonso Soriano with a broken hand and Carlos Zambrano with a bad shoulder.
These games get the whole city riled up. In a good way. Compared to Cubs' fans, Sox fans tend to be edgier, less preppy. And notoriously bad mannered. Probably the most generous thing they do is sing "na na na na na na na na hey hey good bye" when the game is out of reach.
Ozzie Guillen made fun of Wrigley Field today during his rival coach interview -- tongue firmly in cheek, of course. He complained that the rats out by the Wrigley Field batting cage are so big they must be lifting weights.
At heart, I'm always a White Sox fan, despite years of efforts by Jerry Reinsdorf to make it impossible to find their games on television. Meanwhile, I've come to love the Cubs' radio guys, Pat Hughes and Ron Santo. Do you know any other city where they run the fans' favorite Ron and Pat moments from the past week? At 10:00 PM every Sunday during the season, you can hear replays of their most amusing play by plays, accidental or on purpose. Only in Chicago.
This morning before the game there was a contest to see what fan could pitch a ball the fastest for a chance to get four tickets to the game and throw out the first pitch.
The three finalists were all Sox fans. The winner threw a 76 mph pitch. At the game he threw out the first pitch wearing a Cubs shirt. Then he took it off, revealing his true allegiance. Yo! Drama wid a slice of ham.
Just before and just after the game there's always a frenzy of sorts because, as one sportscaster put it, the current Cub/Sox rivalry is bigger and more intense than the Dodgers - Giants of the fifties. Although I would have thought the Yankees and Dodgers were bigger rivals, since they were always the ones playing each other in the World Series. The current Mets - Yankees rivalry is weak tea by comparison.
You probably won't believe this, but I was going to write about the Rick Telander - Jay Mariotti sportswriter smackdown here. Mariotti called his colleagues "soft," implying that they suck up to the teams like homies. Compared tp Mariotti, Telander, who used to write for Sports Illustrated, is a class act. He actually played football on a Division I team. Mariotti is like a resentful, bitter kid who never got picked for dodgeball. And he writes like it. People are taking sides with one or the other like two dogs in a fight. Only I couldn't think of a dog that looks as ugly as Mariotti, except for a bulldog and I didn't want to insult any bulldogs. So I did the Cubs/Sox thing.
20/20 Hindsight
I have always enjoyed better than average eyesight. Of course, I didn't appreciate how good it was until I was almost fifty and had to get my first pair of reading glasses. The fact that most people need reading glasses ten years sooner didn't mean squat to me.
All of a sudden I couldn't see what I was reading anymore. I went into a funk. I overcame my denial long enough to get a pair of Walgreen's readers but I stayed in a funk. Because I couldn't adjust my eyes to wearing glasses. It was like walking and chewing gum. I couldn't get the hang of it.
What a baby.
Finally, I caught on. It took about a year. For a time I even stopped reading. The part I couldn't and still can't comprehend was that my vision was still considered excellent -- 20/15, because I guess needing reading glasses doesn't affect the big picture. So for the last fourteen years I've been coasting, using Walgreen's readers and upping the strength as reading begins to get blurry. Most lately my reading vision corrected at 1.75.
Recently, I got a reminder to come in for an eye checkup and, like a good little soldier, I did as I was told. To make a long story short my left eye is pissing me off. I can't see the teeny tiny letters on the chart any more. Certainly not nearly as well as my right eye. I was also told that I had developed astigmatism. Or do you develop AN astigmatism? That's how much about eyesight I know.
So here's the deal -- after my exam, I ordered a pair of reading glasses because now my left eye needs a stronger reading lens than my right and you can't get lenses like that at Walgreen's.
The frames cost about $79, so I didn't think that was too bad. Until I saw all the other charges for the lenses. There's a charge for non glare, a charge for lightweight, a charge for UV, a charge for being stupid enough to think there wouldn't be any more charges. So now we're up to $186. Let's not talk about insurance coverage because that's not even the point.
The point I'm getting at is when I put on the new reading glasses yesterday I felt like my left eye was looking through a fun house mirror. I did the thing where you close one eye and then the other to see if they can see things the same. My left eye was seeing weird stuff, like a 3-D effect. My right eye was crisp and clean and fine.
To compare, I put on my latest Walgreen readers to see if it was my eye or the lens. I did the one eye at a time thing and I could see fine with either eye using the old readers.
So it's not my eye, it's the lens. I can see better with the cheapo twenty buck readers than I can with this new pair of fancy ass almost two hundred dollar readers.
Now I have to come back for another eye exam tomorrow. I'm sure they'll charge me for it. Or accuse me of trying to cheat on the eye test or something. How else would a prescription get messed up? These are trained professionals -- they don't make mistakes. It's my left eye's fault.
In the midst of all this I also found out that my vision isn't as good as it used to be. Duh. I can tell I can't see as far as I used to. I can tell I need stronger reading glasses. I can tell my left eye seems to be acting weird. So what are we talking about? 20/80? 20/200?
No, 20/20.
Weird.
All of a sudden I couldn't see what I was reading anymore. I went into a funk. I overcame my denial long enough to get a pair of Walgreen's readers but I stayed in a funk. Because I couldn't adjust my eyes to wearing glasses. It was like walking and chewing gum. I couldn't get the hang of it.
What a baby.
Finally, I caught on. It took about a year. For a time I even stopped reading. The part I couldn't and still can't comprehend was that my vision was still considered excellent -- 20/15, because I guess needing reading glasses doesn't affect the big picture. So for the last fourteen years I've been coasting, using Walgreen's readers and upping the strength as reading begins to get blurry. Most lately my reading vision corrected at 1.75.
Recently, I got a reminder to come in for an eye checkup and, like a good little soldier, I did as I was told. To make a long story short my left eye is pissing me off. I can't see the teeny tiny letters on the chart any more. Certainly not nearly as well as my right eye. I was also told that I had developed astigmatism. Or do you develop AN astigmatism? That's how much about eyesight I know.
So here's the deal -- after my exam, I ordered a pair of reading glasses because now my left eye needs a stronger reading lens than my right and you can't get lenses like that at Walgreen's.
The frames cost about $79, so I didn't think that was too bad. Until I saw all the other charges for the lenses. There's a charge for non glare, a charge for lightweight, a charge for UV, a charge for being stupid enough to think there wouldn't be any more charges. So now we're up to $186. Let's not talk about insurance coverage because that's not even the point.
The point I'm getting at is when I put on the new reading glasses yesterday I felt like my left eye was looking through a fun house mirror. I did the thing where you close one eye and then the other to see if they can see things the same. My left eye was seeing weird stuff, like a 3-D effect. My right eye was crisp and clean and fine.
To compare, I put on my latest Walgreen readers to see if it was my eye or the lens. I did the one eye at a time thing and I could see fine with either eye using the old readers.
So it's not my eye, it's the lens. I can see better with the cheapo twenty buck readers than I can with this new pair of fancy ass almost two hundred dollar readers.
Now I have to come back for another eye exam tomorrow. I'm sure they'll charge me for it. Or accuse me of trying to cheat on the eye test or something. How else would a prescription get messed up? These are trained professionals -- they don't make mistakes. It's my left eye's fault.
In the midst of all this I also found out that my vision isn't as good as it used to be. Duh. I can tell I can't see as far as I used to. I can tell I need stronger reading glasses. I can tell my left eye seems to be acting weird. So what are we talking about? 20/80? 20/200?
No, 20/20.
Weird.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
The Lake Versus The River
I forget that one whole side of Illinois is bordered by the banks of the Mississippi River. That's no doubt because I'm in Chicago and we have a hard time admitting that there's anything else in Illinois but us. Plus, we've got our own big damn body of water on this side of the state, so we're always looking the other way.
Without putting too fine a point on it, the lake has thousands of miles of beautiful sandy beaches and dunes, instead of hanging trees, old refrigerators and rusty barrels, which, I admit, I have only seen in pictures, scattered along the banks of the Mississippi.
When you walk into the lake, your feet sink into a soft sandy bottom. Someone tell me that the Mississippi doesn't make your feet squish into a muddy crawfish bottom. We both have catfish. But over here they aren't big enough to eat small children.
For Chicagoans, the Mississippi side of Illinois might as well be on the other side of the world. Sure, I could drive over to Big Muddy in a couple of hours, but I've only been on that side of the state on my way to another state. Although I have been impressed by the river's size returning from LA at 30,000 feet. When you're up that high you can actually see how the river defines the shape of the state. You can also see how huge and wide it is, something that no map can ever capture.
Once in awhile you'll hear a commercial for overnight boat rides on the river and they sound like a lot of fun. Not now, of course, when all the morning shows are standing on sandbags showing where the water has breeched the levees.
Ironically, while they're having massive floods along the borders of Iowa and Illinois, we've been having some of the nicest weather of the spring over here. Blue skies, low humidity, seventy degrees. A few weeks ago, there was some flooding over here, too, but our little rivers on this side of the state haven't got the heft to swamp an entire city.
Even when we have a seiche, which is the lake version of a tidal wave, it only knocks off people fishing on the piers. It doesn't rise ten or twelve feet and stay there for days or weeks. So, as big as it is, the lake can't touch the river when it comes to causing disasters.
In fact, if the lake were an animal it would probably be a slow-moving slug. The river, on the other hand, acts like a poisonous snake.
So I'm grateful not to have Al Roker or Sam Champion broadcasting over here from the bow of an emergency relief boat anytime soon.
But when the waters subside, I think I'll drive over and pay my respects.
Without putting too fine a point on it, the lake has thousands of miles of beautiful sandy beaches and dunes, instead of hanging trees, old refrigerators and rusty barrels, which, I admit, I have only seen in pictures, scattered along the banks of the Mississippi.
When you walk into the lake, your feet sink into a soft sandy bottom. Someone tell me that the Mississippi doesn't make your feet squish into a muddy crawfish bottom. We both have catfish. But over here they aren't big enough to eat small children.
For Chicagoans, the Mississippi side of Illinois might as well be on the other side of the world. Sure, I could drive over to Big Muddy in a couple of hours, but I've only been on that side of the state on my way to another state. Although I have been impressed by the river's size returning from LA at 30,000 feet. When you're up that high you can actually see how the river defines the shape of the state. You can also see how huge and wide it is, something that no map can ever capture.
Once in awhile you'll hear a commercial for overnight boat rides on the river and they sound like a lot of fun. Not now, of course, when all the morning shows are standing on sandbags showing where the water has breeched the levees.
Ironically, while they're having massive floods along the borders of Iowa and Illinois, we've been having some of the nicest weather of the spring over here. Blue skies, low humidity, seventy degrees. A few weeks ago, there was some flooding over here, too, but our little rivers on this side of the state haven't got the heft to swamp an entire city.
Even when we have a seiche, which is the lake version of a tidal wave, it only knocks off people fishing on the piers. It doesn't rise ten or twelve feet and stay there for days or weeks. So, as big as it is, the lake can't touch the river when it comes to causing disasters.
In fact, if the lake were an animal it would probably be a slow-moving slug. The river, on the other hand, acts like a poisonous snake.
So I'm grateful not to have Al Roker or Sam Champion broadcasting over here from the bow of an emergency relief boat anytime soon.
But when the waters subside, I think I'll drive over and pay my respects.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Tim Russert, Part Deux
I'm mad that Tim Russert is dead. He shouldn't be. And it pisses me off. Some nutritionist went on a rant about how his face clearly showed signs of impaired kidney function and he needed to eliminate meat from his diet. His point was that pharmaceuticals lull us into a false sense of safety. And that might have contributed to his death too.
Everybody has a take on it.
Apparently a defibrillator might have helped Tim Russert while they were waiting for the paramedics. Shock the heart into a better rhythm. Any rhythm. Except when you've got a clot and the blood can't get through the vessel that's blocked, how does that work? I guess it keeps things going well enough in the short term.
Dr. Oz was on the Today Program talking about the portable defibrillator. How it can save lives. But only if you can find it. Even though most businesses have one these days, nobody seems to know where it's located. Dr. Oz demonstrated as much this morning by asking lots of people where it was at NBC and practically nobody knew.
Personally, I think Tim Russert just needed a different doctor. Not someone who could get him to stop drinking or change his diet, because I don't think anyone could have done that. But a doctor who could have ordered some more conclusive tests on his heart instead of relying on a stress test. A stress test? That's it? The guy's 58, working in one of the most high stress businesses in the world, and the doc orders a stress test?
In my humble [okay not humble], layperson's opinion, the stress test is probably the most useless diagnostic tool there is for determining a bad heart. Give me a nickel for everyone who has passed a stress test and had a heart attack soon after, and I would be eating caviar out of a Waterford bowl in my Aspen hideaway.
Stress tests are so low tech, you can take one at your health club. They're also easy to misread. Doctors have many more accurate options for finding out how your ticker is ticking.
I bet a million dollars Russert wasn't on aspirin either. Since he had already been diagnosed with heart disease, I'm surprised he wasn't on it every day. In fact, if he had recognized his symptoms ahead of time he could have taken an aspirin before he passed out. It might have broken up the clot.
About that clot. I still think long hours on a plane didn't help. Now that I have discovered he was diabetic, I'm sure it didn't help.
I also don't think he was asymptomatic. He just gutted it out. Denied any symptoms at his physical. No doc, I'm fine, really.
A guy Russert had just interviewed about an upcoming book said to his co-author that he didn't think Tim was feeling well when they were leaving the recording studio. Shortly before Russert died.
He probably wasn't feeling well at all, but since he didn't have sharp, staggering pain, only a nagging something, he just kept pushing through.
I think you tend to ignore vague symptoms. when you're in a job that makes enormous physical, mental and emotional demands on you. There's no time to stop. So he was probably thinking he'd take care of whatever it was later. He was also thinking that maybe later, the problem might even be gone. No doubt, the same thing had probably happened before and whatever it was had passed.
I'm one of those people who has to dissect everything when something goes wrong. Especially when it shouldn't go wrong.
I'll get over it.
His son, Luke, talked about his father on TV today. What an articulate, smart young man. Clearly a good father has passed his legacy down to a remarkable son.
Everybody has a take on it.
Apparently a defibrillator might have helped Tim Russert while they were waiting for the paramedics. Shock the heart into a better rhythm. Any rhythm. Except when you've got a clot and the blood can't get through the vessel that's blocked, how does that work? I guess it keeps things going well enough in the short term.
Dr. Oz was on the Today Program talking about the portable defibrillator. How it can save lives. But only if you can find it. Even though most businesses have one these days, nobody seems to know where it's located. Dr. Oz demonstrated as much this morning by asking lots of people where it was at NBC and practically nobody knew.
Personally, I think Tim Russert just needed a different doctor. Not someone who could get him to stop drinking or change his diet, because I don't think anyone could have done that. But a doctor who could have ordered some more conclusive tests on his heart instead of relying on a stress test. A stress test? That's it? The guy's 58, working in one of the most high stress businesses in the world, and the doc orders a stress test?
In my humble [okay not humble], layperson's opinion, the stress test is probably the most useless diagnostic tool there is for determining a bad heart. Give me a nickel for everyone who has passed a stress test and had a heart attack soon after, and I would be eating caviar out of a Waterford bowl in my Aspen hideaway.
Stress tests are so low tech, you can take one at your health club. They're also easy to misread. Doctors have many more accurate options for finding out how your ticker is ticking.
I bet a million dollars Russert wasn't on aspirin either. Since he had already been diagnosed with heart disease, I'm surprised he wasn't on it every day. In fact, if he had recognized his symptoms ahead of time he could have taken an aspirin before he passed out. It might have broken up the clot.
About that clot. I still think long hours on a plane didn't help. Now that I have discovered he was diabetic, I'm sure it didn't help.
I also don't think he was asymptomatic. He just gutted it out. Denied any symptoms at his physical. No doc, I'm fine, really.
A guy Russert had just interviewed about an upcoming book said to his co-author that he didn't think Tim was feeling well when they were leaving the recording studio. Shortly before Russert died.
He probably wasn't feeling well at all, but since he didn't have sharp, staggering pain, only a nagging something, he just kept pushing through.
I think you tend to ignore vague symptoms. when you're in a job that makes enormous physical, mental and emotional demands on you. There's no time to stop. So he was probably thinking he'd take care of whatever it was later. He was also thinking that maybe later, the problem might even be gone. No doubt, the same thing had probably happened before and whatever it was had passed.
I'm one of those people who has to dissect everything when something goes wrong. Especially when it shouldn't go wrong.
I'll get over it.
His son, Luke, talked about his father on TV today. What an articulate, smart young man. Clearly a good father has passed his legacy down to a remarkable son.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Go Celtics!!
Okay, I've got a soft spot for Phil Jackson. Hmm, maybe soft spot isn't the right phrase. Let's just say those of us in Chicago owe the Zenmeister some serious gratitude for all those Windy City championship rings. Along with a guy named Mike. So in some ways it's hard not to root for any team he coaches.
But the team he's coaching these days doesn't have Shaq. It features Kobe Bryant, who will always be the poster boy for pro athletes who abuse women. So I'll take a pass.
It also helps a lot that the Celtics' Kevin Garnett calls Chicago home. Even though he's been languishing up north on the Timberwolves for years. I'm with Bill Russell about Garnett -- he's the pivotal player who joined the team and got the Celtics to the playoffs and now into the finals. With some great acting by Paul Pierce and some inspired benchwork by the unheralded, hardworking Mr. Powe.
The Celtics win, even if they have to wait and do it at home. Even better if they do it at home.
But the team he's coaching these days doesn't have Shaq. It features Kobe Bryant, who will always be the poster boy for pro athletes who abuse women. So I'll take a pass.
It also helps a lot that the Celtics' Kevin Garnett calls Chicago home. Even though he's been languishing up north on the Timberwolves for years. I'm with Bill Russell about Garnett -- he's the pivotal player who joined the team and got the Celtics to the playoffs and now into the finals. With some great acting by Paul Pierce and some inspired benchwork by the unheralded, hardworking Mr. Powe.
The Celtics win, even if they have to wait and do it at home. Even better if they do it at home.
Tiger Tiger Burning Bright
Is Tiger the best player ever, or what??!!!
He ties the Open on the last shot on the last hole. Nobody else makes that put under those conditions, but Tiger. Lee Westwood had his chance. Couldn't do it.
Rocco did as well as he did because today he wasn't paired with Earl Woods' only child. Tomorrow he will be.
Tiger wins.
Oh wait a minute, Tiger wasn't Earl's only kid. He had three grown kids with another wife before his golf wonder was born. But Tiger got the benefits of being an only child.
He ties the Open on the last shot on the last hole. Nobody else makes that put under those conditions, but Tiger. Lee Westwood had his chance. Couldn't do it.
Rocco did as well as he did because today he wasn't paired with Earl Woods' only child. Tomorrow he will be.
Tiger wins.
Oh wait a minute, Tiger wasn't Earl's only kid. He had three grown kids with another wife before his golf wonder was born. But Tiger got the benefits of being an only child.
Tiger Tiger Burning Out?
I think I'm with the commentators on this one. Or at least the way they're teasing this last round of the US Open. Tiger has never lost a major when he's up like this in the last round. He's 13-0 with a lead. But they also pointed out that Big Brown had never lost before the Belmont. [Like that's relevant]. Like Big Brown, Tiger has an owwwie.
Anyhoo, consistency is the watchword apparently and Lee Westwood has been more consistent over the tournament. Nothing fancy mind you -- no eagles, but also no bogeys. Or double bogeys for that matter.
Okay, we're on the first hole and both Tiger and Westwood look like they're all over the place. Another double bogey for Mr. Woods. Sheesh.
Maybe that Rocko guy can pull it out. I think Tiger is hurting too much. And Westwood will take himself out because of the intimidation factor.
Okay, enough with the prognostications for today.
Anyhoo, consistency is the watchword apparently and Lee Westwood has been more consistent over the tournament. Nothing fancy mind you -- no eagles, but also no bogeys. Or double bogeys for that matter.
Okay, we're on the first hole and both Tiger and Westwood look like they're all over the place. Another double bogey for Mr. Woods. Sheesh.
Maybe that Rocko guy can pull it out. I think Tiger is hurting too much. And Westwood will take himself out because of the intimidation factor.
Okay, enough with the prognostications for today.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Tim Russert's Death Preventable?
Tim Russert had just returned from Rome. He'd been on a plane for hours. I wonder if his "heart attack" was from an embolism, a clot that blocked an artery in his heart. A clot that formed from long hours of sitting.
I wonder, since he was older and traveled a lot, if he was taking aspirin to prevent something like this. I wonder if he'd been given TPA or another clotbuster when the paramedics got there whether the clot, if that's what killed him, would have dissolved.
If he suffered an arrythmia, I would think the EMTs could have restarted his heart if they got there soon enough. He may have died from undiagnosed SDS, sudden death syndrome, an arrythmia problem which causes the heart to beat so fast the blood isn't pumping, and you pass out. Sometimes falling to the floor can correct the rhythm. Other times, without intervention, you die.
Either way, blood clot, or SDS, I don't think he had to die. Unless no one discovered him unconscious until it was too late.
Sometimes being a celebrity means that your medical care suffers from doctors and paramedics not wanting to make a mistake, so they aren't aggressive enough. There was a study that I can't quote or link to [what else is new?] that said medical intervention errs on the side of caution when it comes to famous people. Better to be anonymous in an emergency.
On the other hand, Buffalo Bills' player, Kevin Everett, is walking because his team's doctor made a controversial and brave decision in front of millions of viewers to cool his body internally to prevent swelling around the spinal cord. Initially the decision was made to help Kevin because he was having so much trouble with his breathing when they took him to the ambulance. Ultimately, the decision meant he would walk again.
I don't think anybody truly reallizes how courageous that doctor was to make that decision.
Meanwhile, it makes me wonder what brave decision could have saved Tim Russert's life.
I wonder, since he was older and traveled a lot, if he was taking aspirin to prevent something like this. I wonder if he'd been given TPA or another clotbuster when the paramedics got there whether the clot, if that's what killed him, would have dissolved.
If he suffered an arrythmia, I would think the EMTs could have restarted his heart if they got there soon enough. He may have died from undiagnosed SDS, sudden death syndrome, an arrythmia problem which causes the heart to beat so fast the blood isn't pumping, and you pass out. Sometimes falling to the floor can correct the rhythm. Other times, without intervention, you die.
Either way, blood clot, or SDS, I don't think he had to die. Unless no one discovered him unconscious until it was too late.
Sometimes being a celebrity means that your medical care suffers from doctors and paramedics not wanting to make a mistake, so they aren't aggressive enough. There was a study that I can't quote or link to [what else is new?] that said medical intervention errs on the side of caution when it comes to famous people. Better to be anonymous in an emergency.
On the other hand, Buffalo Bills' player, Kevin Everett, is walking because his team's doctor made a controversial and brave decision in front of millions of viewers to cool his body internally to prevent swelling around the spinal cord. Initially the decision was made to help Kevin because he was having so much trouble with his breathing when they took him to the ambulance. Ultimately, the decision meant he would walk again.
I don't think anybody truly reallizes how courageous that doctor was to make that decision.
Meanwhile, it makes me wonder what brave decision could have saved Tim Russert's life.
ComEd Starts Playing Hardball
THE FOLLOWING IS AN EMAIL TO ME FROM A REPORTER WHO HAS BEEN WRITING ABOUT THE COMED PROBLEMS. SHE OFFERED TO HELP ME GET A COPY OF THE "ONE PERCENT" LIST FOR MY TOWN. HOWEVER, SINCE COMED GOT SUED FOR FAILING TO SUPPLY RELIABLE ELECTRICITY TO THE TOWN JUST NORTH OF ME, THEY'VE STARTED PLAYING HARDBALL.
Dear Mrs. L:
Here is the Web site with the reliability reports:
www.icc.illinois.gov
On the Web site, click on “electricity” and then click on “reliability reports” and then click on “Com Ed.” Look at the Table of Contents. Table J-2 is supposed to have geographical maps of the worst performing circuits. They did when I wrote the story for the May issue. This time, the maps are not there, and instead it says “embedPbrush” which makes absolutely no sense.
Another curious notation on the ComEd reliability report is in Section b.1 2006 where its states “Privileged and confidential subject to client/attorney privilege.” Perhaps that is due to the [NAME OF TOWN] village lawsuit just filed against ComEd?
I was able to find in Table 25 a reference to a transformer in [YOUR TOWN] that was among a few dozen in the Chicago area that were close to reaching peak loading (loading is a measure of the power delivered through the equipment and reaches a peak when electricity use is highest, usually in the summer) in 2006, the last year the data is available.
One of the main points in my last article was that ComEd promised they will be providing reliability information to towns with the worst performing 1 percent circuits “some time between July and September.” So I assume, this information will allow each town to actually make sense of all the numbers and see exactly which areas have the worst problems.
I know the information on which areas of town have the worst performing circuits is out there, because ComEd provided it to the village [IMMEDIATELY SOUTH OF YOU].
Anyway, another reporter, an editor and I are supposed to meet with a ComEd representative next week to get exact information about the geographical location of the 1 percent worst performing circuits. I will ask him about the lack of maps and the privileged information on the report. Let me know if you have any better luck navigating this reliability report.
Thanks!
NOTE FROM MRS. L: The only good news in all this is that a state senator recently got on the bandwagon to take ComEd to task for their inadequacies. And require the ICC to provide more user friendly access to information. The reliability report for ComEd is as thick as a phone book apparently. That may explain why downloading it has been taking forever.
Dear Mrs. L:
Here is the Web site with the reliability reports:
www.icc.illinois.gov
On the Web site, click on “electricity” and then click on “reliability reports” and then click on “Com Ed.” Look at the Table of Contents. Table J-2 is supposed to have geographical maps of the worst performing circuits. They did when I wrote the story for the May issue. This time, the maps are not there, and instead it says “embedPbrush” which makes absolutely no sense.
Another curious notation on the ComEd reliability report is in Section b.1 2006 where its states “Privileged and confidential subject to client/attorney privilege.” Perhaps that is due to the [NAME OF TOWN] village lawsuit just filed against ComEd?
I was able to find in Table 25 a reference to a transformer in [YOUR TOWN] that was among a few dozen in the Chicago area that were close to reaching peak loading (loading is a measure of the power delivered through the equipment and reaches a peak when electricity use is highest, usually in the summer) in 2006, the last year the data is available.
One of the main points in my last article was that ComEd promised they will be providing reliability information to towns with the worst performing 1 percent circuits “some time between July and September.” So I assume, this information will allow each town to actually make sense of all the numbers and see exactly which areas have the worst problems.
I know the information on which areas of town have the worst performing circuits is out there, because ComEd provided it to the village [IMMEDIATELY SOUTH OF YOU].
Anyway, another reporter, an editor and I are supposed to meet with a ComEd representative next week to get exact information about the geographical location of the 1 percent worst performing circuits. I will ask him about the lack of maps and the privileged information on the report. Let me know if you have any better luck navigating this reliability report.
Thanks!
NOTE FROM MRS. L: The only good news in all this is that a state senator recently got on the bandwagon to take ComEd to task for their inadequacies. And require the ICC to provide more user friendly access to information. The reliability report for ComEd is as thick as a phone book apparently. That may explain why downloading it has been taking forever.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Mrs. Linklater Gets Off Her Butt
Some people enjoy gardening, others play golf, still more find pleasure in going for walks. I prefer missions. And not just because I like men in uniform.
The other night my electricity went out for six hours. Nothing new. The electricity goes out regularly in my neighborhood. Many times a year. But after thirty years of outage after outage, it has finally started to get old.
Ironically, but not unexpectedly, there was no wind at the time and the sky was full of stars. A couple of things came to mind: I wondered if the outage was just a preemptive strike to take our power and give it to someone else, since the it shut off so quickly and thoroughly like a switch was flipped. Usually, during a storm, the light flickers a bit and then crashes. Or, now that we have so many McMansions replacing the little houses, will the neigbhorhood simply max out more often?
Since I couldn't watch Law and Order any more, I took a drive around my town to see if there were any other areas affected. I've done this several times before, whenever our lights are out. And I have noticed every other time that almost no other neighborhood but mine seems to be affected.
This time I found one other small area with a power outage about a mile away from us. In my search, I also noticed there were two random stoplights without power, which I couldn't figure out, since nothing else around them was affected.
i grew up in the town across the highway, by the lake, and I can count on one finger the number of times the electricity went out over there. Since moving over here after my divorce, the electricity goes out long enough to ruin all your food a minimum of four times a year, not counting all the little brownouts that leave your digital clocks flashing and your computers reverting back to day one.
Commonwealth Edison, an Exelon Company [they don't say one without the other], is our power monger. Years ago when the power outages had become a Chicago joke, they sent a bunch of retired execs around the metro area to bullshit their way through village meetings, trying to blame the blackouts on tree branches and a host of other natural occurrences.
Turns out their infrastructure was in dire need of repair and hadn't been updated in years. A bunch of ComEd heads rolled and things seemed to get better -- which, in my case, meant the power outages didn't last as long. But around here, they still keep happening. Storms or no storms. And the outages are getting longer again.
Yesterday I read an article that said ComEd still has a bullshit factor. One town just north of me is suing them for failing to provide reliable service. Another one just south of me made ComEd come explain to its citizens what areas were affected most and then follow it up with how and when they're going to fix things.
What I found interesting is that there is a list of the top outage areas. The list is called the "one percent."
The first I've heard of this.
ComEd points with pride to the one percent part. Yes, that's a low percentage in the big picture, but there's a catch. The one percent problem occurs in the same places all the time. It's not like the outages take turns. They're always in the same areas.
The town I lived in when I was married got a high rating for reliability according to ComEd, because they only had one neighborhood circuit with problems. But that one neighborhood circuit has lost power FOURTEEN times this year alone.
My village manager was quoted in the article as saying our town has a good relationship with ComEd. But the writer of the article then pointed out that we have FOUR neighborhood circuits listed in the top one percent of multiple outages.
Too bad the village manager doesn't feel obligated to have a good relationship with the people who pay his salary.
The name of the guy who is in charge of our town's Utility Management was mentioned in the article. So I called him at noon thirty today. He didn't answer. I left a message. He hasn't called back.
Yoohoo, I would like to know whether my house is in a high outage area, please. If he doesn't call me back and give me a straight answer, I will set something in motion. First to find out for sure whether we're in the top one percent. Second to get it fixed.
I don't think people around me realize that ComEd has ignored our outage plight for years. Our village has such a good relationship with ComEd I'm sure they had no plans to ever fix our problem.
In fact, after refusing for years to reveal where the problems were, ComEd was forced to tell by the town next door. ComEd used to say they couldn't reveal that information because homeland security could be compromised. But it's not the little grids they have to worry about, it's the big ones, so give it up electric boys.
Because they were unmasked, ComEd had to spend money to start fixing the power problems in that town. It has cost them 1.59 million so far to add extrapower. They need to do the same in my town.
Too bad I can't do a rage against the machine on my own. I have to find a family with small children to front the movement. No way anyone's going to listen to me alone. But I'm happy to start the ball rolling by getting everybody pissed off that ComEd has been messing with us.
Yep, this is going to be fun.
I wonder what I should wear when I go door to door to show everybody, except the new neighbors, the information I've found?
The other night my electricity went out for six hours. Nothing new. The electricity goes out regularly in my neighborhood. Many times a year. But after thirty years of outage after outage, it has finally started to get old.
Ironically, but not unexpectedly, there was no wind at the time and the sky was full of stars. A couple of things came to mind: I wondered if the outage was just a preemptive strike to take our power and give it to someone else, since the it shut off so quickly and thoroughly like a switch was flipped. Usually, during a storm, the light flickers a bit and then crashes. Or, now that we have so many McMansions replacing the little houses, will the neigbhorhood simply max out more often?
Since I couldn't watch Law and Order any more, I took a drive around my town to see if there were any other areas affected. I've done this several times before, whenever our lights are out. And I have noticed every other time that almost no other neighborhood but mine seems to be affected.
This time I found one other small area with a power outage about a mile away from us. In my search, I also noticed there were two random stoplights without power, which I couldn't figure out, since nothing else around them was affected.
i grew up in the town across the highway, by the lake, and I can count on one finger the number of times the electricity went out over there. Since moving over here after my divorce, the electricity goes out long enough to ruin all your food a minimum of four times a year, not counting all the little brownouts that leave your digital clocks flashing and your computers reverting back to day one.
Commonwealth Edison, an Exelon Company [they don't say one without the other], is our power monger. Years ago when the power outages had become a Chicago joke, they sent a bunch of retired execs around the metro area to bullshit their way through village meetings, trying to blame the blackouts on tree branches and a host of other natural occurrences.
Turns out their infrastructure was in dire need of repair and hadn't been updated in years. A bunch of ComEd heads rolled and things seemed to get better -- which, in my case, meant the power outages didn't last as long. But around here, they still keep happening. Storms or no storms. And the outages are getting longer again.
Yesterday I read an article that said ComEd still has a bullshit factor. One town just north of me is suing them for failing to provide reliable service. Another one just south of me made ComEd come explain to its citizens what areas were affected most and then follow it up with how and when they're going to fix things.
What I found interesting is that there is a list of the top outage areas. The list is called the "one percent."
The first I've heard of this.
ComEd points with pride to the one percent part. Yes, that's a low percentage in the big picture, but there's a catch. The one percent problem occurs in the same places all the time. It's not like the outages take turns. They're always in the same areas.
The town I lived in when I was married got a high rating for reliability according to ComEd, because they only had one neighborhood circuit with problems. But that one neighborhood circuit has lost power FOURTEEN times this year alone.
My village manager was quoted in the article as saying our town has a good relationship with ComEd. But the writer of the article then pointed out that we have FOUR neighborhood circuits listed in the top one percent of multiple outages.
Too bad the village manager doesn't feel obligated to have a good relationship with the people who pay his salary.
The name of the guy who is in charge of our town's Utility Management was mentioned in the article. So I called him at noon thirty today. He didn't answer. I left a message. He hasn't called back.
Yoohoo, I would like to know whether my house is in a high outage area, please. If he doesn't call me back and give me a straight answer, I will set something in motion. First to find out for sure whether we're in the top one percent. Second to get it fixed.
I don't think people around me realize that ComEd has ignored our outage plight for years. Our village has such a good relationship with ComEd I'm sure they had no plans to ever fix our problem.
In fact, after refusing for years to reveal where the problems were, ComEd was forced to tell by the town next door. ComEd used to say they couldn't reveal that information because homeland security could be compromised. But it's not the little grids they have to worry about, it's the big ones, so give it up electric boys.
Because they were unmasked, ComEd had to spend money to start fixing the power problems in that town. It has cost them 1.59 million so far to add extrapower. They need to do the same in my town.
Too bad I can't do a rage against the machine on my own. I have to find a family with small children to front the movement. No way anyone's going to listen to me alone. But I'm happy to start the ball rolling by getting everybody pissed off that ComEd has been messing with us.
Yep, this is going to be fun.
I wonder what I should wear when I go door to door to show everybody, except the new neighbors, the information I've found?
My Schadenfreude, I mean Gratitude, Journal
Okay, I didn't have to go downtown today, so I'm writing in my blog and watching Oprah at the same time.
She's got a bunch of personal growth babes on the program who are talking about how your thoughts determine your happiness. Think happy, be happy. Stop thinking about how fat, ugly, stupid, old, lonely, wrinkled, horny, whatever you are, and love yourself. Look in the mirror and say, Self, I love you. Yes, these women -- and Oprah , too -- are actually telling us to do these things. One of them wrote a book 25 years ago called You Can Heal Your Life. I'd settle for something to reverse the crease in my smile lines. I had originally said, "FROWN" lines, but that was too negative. I can think happy.
One of the ladies just said, "Consciousness brings matter into being." What do you mean lady? Be alert and you'll notice stuff?
Let's not forget to invoke The Secret, the bible of personal growth these days. The whole Law of Attraction thing. Your thoughts create your reality. Right now I'm thinking I'd be attracted to something to eat.
Does this theory mean that somehow I'm attracting all these weird neighbors? Actually, I have been wishing that their ugly houses wouldn't sell -- to spite the people who built them. Apparently that's working pretty well. Two of them are still waiting, waiting, waiting.
Oprah just mentioned that she keeps a gratitude journal. She writes down everything she's grateful for every day.
I tried that once. I found myself writing things like: I'm grateful that things aren't worse. I'm grateful that the jerk I'm working with didn't piss me off today. I kept dwelling on stuff that was wrong. And very little seemed right, so I stopped trying to be grateful, because it was grating on me.
In fact, on reflection, since I'm clearly too cynical to embrace happy thinking, I believe my personal philosophy leans toward schadenfreude -- the wonderful, uniquely Germanic trait of enjoying the misfortune of others. Apparently that's my peculiar kind of happiness.
For instance, yesterday I had some free time during a video edit so I was Googling. I heard that a guy I knew was being divorced by his second wife, his third relationship. This was something I had predicted, gleefully, since the day five years ago, when I heard she was pregnant with their first kid and he was dragging his feet about marriage. In the midst of my Google, I suddenly wondered about one of his former girlfriends. What was she up to, since her whole goal seemed to be marrying rich?
I found an effusive article about a Hall of Fame award she'd won for her twenty-five years of devoted service to her high school, her church and the wealthy community she lived in. Her list of accomplishments and many board positions went on and on and on. We had been friends for a short time years ago, but, even then, I thought she was a social climber, and not the best mom in the world.
Delightfully, there was another, better Google mention that listed the local paper of the town next to mine. Muffy [not her real name], who now lives in the fanciest suburb along the lake with her new doctor hubby, had been arrested for retail theft. That's code for shoplifter! The article listed her full name, age, complete address, the name of the store, and what she walked out with.
I was joyful. Not that I should be throwing stones, given my checkered past. But, I could not contain my glee at her come-uppance.
I guess the village trustees won't be asking her to serve on the Fourth of July commission this year. And all those fashion shows and luncheons she plans won't be needing her any time soon.
Her little escapade made me wonder if some of the stuff she'd given me when we were friends hadn't been heisted. After all, you don't start shoplifting for the first time in your late forties. That's a lifelong habit.
She just finally got caught.
Out-f**king-standing. I am a happy camper today.
She's got a bunch of personal growth babes on the program who are talking about how your thoughts determine your happiness. Think happy, be happy. Stop thinking about how fat, ugly, stupid, old, lonely, wrinkled, horny, whatever you are, and love yourself. Look in the mirror and say, Self, I love you. Yes, these women -- and Oprah , too -- are actually telling us to do these things. One of them wrote a book 25 years ago called You Can Heal Your Life. I'd settle for something to reverse the crease in my smile lines. I had originally said, "FROWN" lines, but that was too negative. I can think happy.
One of the ladies just said, "Consciousness brings matter into being." What do you mean lady? Be alert and you'll notice stuff?
Let's not forget to invoke The Secret, the bible of personal growth these days. The whole Law of Attraction thing. Your thoughts create your reality. Right now I'm thinking I'd be attracted to something to eat.
Does this theory mean that somehow I'm attracting all these weird neighbors? Actually, I have been wishing that their ugly houses wouldn't sell -- to spite the people who built them. Apparently that's working pretty well. Two of them are still waiting, waiting, waiting.
Oprah just mentioned that she keeps a gratitude journal. She writes down everything she's grateful for every day.
I tried that once. I found myself writing things like: I'm grateful that things aren't worse. I'm grateful that the jerk I'm working with didn't piss me off today. I kept dwelling on stuff that was wrong. And very little seemed right, so I stopped trying to be grateful, because it was grating on me.
In fact, on reflection, since I'm clearly too cynical to embrace happy thinking, I believe my personal philosophy leans toward schadenfreude -- the wonderful, uniquely Germanic trait of enjoying the misfortune of others. Apparently that's my peculiar kind of happiness.
For instance, yesterday I had some free time during a video edit so I was Googling. I heard that a guy I knew was being divorced by his second wife, his third relationship. This was something I had predicted, gleefully, since the day five years ago, when I heard she was pregnant with their first kid and he was dragging his feet about marriage. In the midst of my Google, I suddenly wondered about one of his former girlfriends. What was she up to, since her whole goal seemed to be marrying rich?
I found an effusive article about a Hall of Fame award she'd won for her twenty-five years of devoted service to her high school, her church and the wealthy community she lived in. Her list of accomplishments and many board positions went on and on and on. We had been friends for a short time years ago, but, even then, I thought she was a social climber, and not the best mom in the world.
Delightfully, there was another, better Google mention that listed the local paper of the town next to mine. Muffy [not her real name], who now lives in the fanciest suburb along the lake with her new doctor hubby, had been arrested for retail theft. That's code for shoplifter! The article listed her full name, age, complete address, the name of the store, and what she walked out with.
I was joyful. Not that I should be throwing stones, given my checkered past. But, I could not contain my glee at her come-uppance.
I guess the village trustees won't be asking her to serve on the Fourth of July commission this year. And all those fashion shows and luncheons she plans won't be needing her any time soon.
Her little escapade made me wonder if some of the stuff she'd given me when we were friends hadn't been heisted. After all, you don't start shoplifting for the first time in your late forties. That's a lifelong habit.
She just finally got caught.
Out-f**king-standing. I am a happy camper today.
Which came first, the river or the canyon?
I watched a PBS special a few years ago that presented a contrary theory to how the Grand Canyon was formed. In fact, it reversed previous notions about water carving out the sides. The new theory was that the canyon came first, in a cataclysmic event millions of years ago, and the water just followed the road of least resistance, just like it always does.
I mention this fascinating challenge to conventional wisdom, which I am inclined to embrace because it goes against the grain, since I just heard the same theory about how the Mississippi river formed. Apparently there was a big split in the continent and the water heading downhill just filled in the hole and became the river we know today. Same with the Ohio river that feeds into the Mississippi. There was probably a big quake back in the day, and when the land split, the water found the route of least resistance.
Speaking of which, Niagara Falls is backing up stream a few inches at a time every year. You've still got time to visit. These days, since more than a week has passed since I saw this concept on TV [so I know it's true], I can't remember why this phenomenon happens. PBS had a fascinating special which showed how the falls got started several miles away from where they are now. Then over thousands of years the weight of the water just kept chipping away at the earth. Over time, the falls kept moving farther and farther down the road. Or up the road. Guess I've got to hit the Google button, to prove that I'm not hallucinating any of this.
Not that anyone could tell the difference.
I mention this fascinating challenge to conventional wisdom, which I am inclined to embrace because it goes against the grain, since I just heard the same theory about how the Mississippi river formed. Apparently there was a big split in the continent and the water heading downhill just filled in the hole and became the river we know today. Same with the Ohio river that feeds into the Mississippi. There was probably a big quake back in the day, and when the land split, the water found the route of least resistance.
Speaking of which, Niagara Falls is backing up stream a few inches at a time every year. You've still got time to visit. These days, since more than a week has passed since I saw this concept on TV [so I know it's true], I can't remember why this phenomenon happens. PBS had a fascinating special which showed how the falls got started several miles away from where they are now. Then over thousands of years the weight of the water just kept chipping away at the earth. Over time, the falls kept moving farther and farther down the road. Or up the road. Guess I've got to hit the Google button, to prove that I'm not hallucinating any of this.
Not that anyone could tell the difference.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Tennis Anyone?
Today, numero uno del mundo, Roger Federer, meets numero dos del mundo, Rafa Nadal, in the finals of the French Open. Federer is Swiss and his style of play has the precision of a well-crafted timepiece, without an ounce of emotion. By contrast, Nadal is dark, brooding, and ferocious on the court. He also dresses in bright colors and sleeveless shirts usually favored by male prostitutes -- at least in this country.
Everyone who has a nodding acquaintance with tennis knows we're going to watch Federer lose because they're playing on clay. Nadal has won their head to head matches on clay eight times. Federer has won only once. On every other surface, Federer owns Nadal.
The French Open is the only one of the four Grand Slam tennis tournaments still played on the frustration of red clay, the slow surface I learned to play on in my youth. It's a great equalizer. The clay has a way of affecting the pace of the ball, making it set up when it bounces to neutralize the speed advantage of power players, who tend to be built tall and lanky, but slow of foot. Shorter players who can't match the power angles of the tall guys can rely on their greater footspeed to chase down the high bouncing balls and return shots with an effective array of spins and placement. The clay levels the playing field so they can play the big guys even. David can beat Goliath.
Grass, on the other hand, the original and fastest surface, is not for the faint of heart or weak of serve. It's the surface on the courts of Wimbledon. Over the course of a two week tournament there are worn patches that get to be harder than concrete. The ball tends to bounce low and pick up speed after it hits on a grass court surface.
Hardcourt is what most people are familiar with. Slower than grass, it's a fast, rubberized surface laid over asphalt or concrete. Inexpensive and easy to maintain, hardcourt is the surface on most park district courts in the US. And the surface of choice for both the US and Australian Opens.
Har Tru is a form of clay, called green clay. Developed to replace red clay because it dries faster and it's easier to maintain, the surface acts like red clay to slow the ball down. Also like red clay, you learn to adjust to sliding into your shot on the sandy surface. While there are tournaments played on Har Tru, none of the Grand Slams will ever be. Tradition in tennis dies hard.
I can't think of another sport where the playing surface can be so radically different from one major tournament to another. Volleyball is played outdoors on sand and indoors on gym floors, but teams don't go from competing against each other on one surface and then switching to another next time.
Football and baseball each have two playing surfaces and they are interchangeable for competition. On those playing fields however, the artificial surface tries to emulate the real stuff. Not so in tennis. No attempt is made to have any of the surfaces play like the others, except for red clay and Har Tru.
What I think is interesting, at least in my experience, is that nothing has been done to make shoes for playing on each of the different surfaces. They're usually constructed for the comfort of the player, rather than adding playing effectiveness adjusted for the surface of the court.
Watching these two guys face each other today in the French, I have to remind myself that the struggling Federer is No. 1 in the world on every other surface.
As we speak Nadal has broken Federer's serve twice and taken the first set 6-1. They usually go five sets on clay. Even though Federer usually loses, they tend to play pretty even. But today Roger is looking pretty lame.
Having said all that, the crowd just started roaring because Federer has tied Nadal in the second set, 3-all.
He's still going to lose. Nadal wouldn't look at Federer before the match started. He is on a mission to take Roger out in three sets.
We'll see.
P.S. Nadal beat Federer in three sets. 1, 3, and 0 [he bageled him in the third].
P.P.S. I neglected to mention perhaps the most important aspect of Nadal's success -- he plays lefthanded. If he weren't a lefty, I'm not writing about him beating Federer.
Lefties are represented in greater percentages at the top of the sport than their numbers would indicate. Connors, McEnroe, Lendl, Laver, Seles, and Martina are some familiar names.
P.P.P.S. Bjorn Borg, who didn't play leftie, was at Wimbledon last year when Federer beat Nadal for his fifth straight title -- tying Borg. He was at Roland Garros today to see Nadal beat Federer for his fourth straight title -- also to tie Borg.
Everyone who has a nodding acquaintance with tennis knows we're going to watch Federer lose because they're playing on clay. Nadal has won their head to head matches on clay eight times. Federer has won only once. On every other surface, Federer owns Nadal.
The French Open is the only one of the four Grand Slam tennis tournaments still played on the frustration of red clay, the slow surface I learned to play on in my youth. It's a great equalizer. The clay has a way of affecting the pace of the ball, making it set up when it bounces to neutralize the speed advantage of power players, who tend to be built tall and lanky, but slow of foot. Shorter players who can't match the power angles of the tall guys can rely on their greater footspeed to chase down the high bouncing balls and return shots with an effective array of spins and placement. The clay levels the playing field so they can play the big guys even. David can beat Goliath.
Grass, on the other hand, the original and fastest surface, is not for the faint of heart or weak of serve. It's the surface on the courts of Wimbledon. Over the course of a two week tournament there are worn patches that get to be harder than concrete. The ball tends to bounce low and pick up speed after it hits on a grass court surface.
Hardcourt is what most people are familiar with. Slower than grass, it's a fast, rubberized surface laid over asphalt or concrete. Inexpensive and easy to maintain, hardcourt is the surface on most park district courts in the US. And the surface of choice for both the US and Australian Opens.
Har Tru is a form of clay, called green clay. Developed to replace red clay because it dries faster and it's easier to maintain, the surface acts like red clay to slow the ball down. Also like red clay, you learn to adjust to sliding into your shot on the sandy surface. While there are tournaments played on Har Tru, none of the Grand Slams will ever be. Tradition in tennis dies hard.
I can't think of another sport where the playing surface can be so radically different from one major tournament to another. Volleyball is played outdoors on sand and indoors on gym floors, but teams don't go from competing against each other on one surface and then switching to another next time.
Football and baseball each have two playing surfaces and they are interchangeable for competition. On those playing fields however, the artificial surface tries to emulate the real stuff. Not so in tennis. No attempt is made to have any of the surfaces play like the others, except for red clay and Har Tru.
What I think is interesting, at least in my experience, is that nothing has been done to make shoes for playing on each of the different surfaces. They're usually constructed for the comfort of the player, rather than adding playing effectiveness adjusted for the surface of the court.
Watching these two guys face each other today in the French, I have to remind myself that the struggling Federer is No. 1 in the world on every other surface.
As we speak Nadal has broken Federer's serve twice and taken the first set 6-1. They usually go five sets on clay. Even though Federer usually loses, they tend to play pretty even. But today Roger is looking pretty lame.
Having said all that, the crowd just started roaring because Federer has tied Nadal in the second set, 3-all.
He's still going to lose. Nadal wouldn't look at Federer before the match started. He is on a mission to take Roger out in three sets.
We'll see.
P.S. Nadal beat Federer in three sets. 1, 3, and 0 [he bageled him in the third].
P.P.S. I neglected to mention perhaps the most important aspect of Nadal's success -- he plays lefthanded. If he weren't a lefty, I'm not writing about him beating Federer.
Lefties are represented in greater percentages at the top of the sport than their numbers would indicate. Connors, McEnroe, Lendl, Laver, Seles, and Martina are some familiar names.
P.P.P.S. Bjorn Borg, who didn't play leftie, was at Wimbledon last year when Federer beat Nadal for his fifth straight title -- tying Borg. He was at Roland Garros today to see Nadal beat Federer for his fourth straight title -- also to tie Borg.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Should I Bring My New Neighbors Some Cupcakes?
Somebody bought one of the large, ugly houses with the decorative medieval turrets that was built across the street. Not that I think these folks are longing for their hometown in Transylvania, but the name of the company that constructed the place was BALTIC.
Both houses have been on the market for almost two years, since they brought in the bulldozers and dug the first holes. Today someone seems to be moving into Count Dracula's cozy cottage. The other house, by the way, has been occupied for several weeks by the contractor who built it. Even though the For Sale sign is still up.
Viktor, the contractor, gets home around 7:00 PM and parks his huge black Dodge Hemi truck across from my driveway. His wife, or the woman posing as one, drives a big black SUV, which she parks in the double driveway. Occasionally I see a small child. Or a very short relative. Nobody uses their garage[s] or the other side of their fancy paver block driveway. As soon as the Vikmeister gets home. two panel vans or other service type vehicles pull up behind him, driven by guys who seem to work with him or for him. Then all three or four guys stand in the street for a hour at least in their t-shirts, jeans and work boots, before going into the house, often carrying a case of beer. Classy.
But this isn't about how Vikarama annoys me by his very existence. Here's what i noticed about the people moving into the other house -- the size of the moving truck is very small. I had a bigger moving truck and my house is half, maybe a third, the size of theirs. I've had bigger trucks deliver mattresses and appliances.
I can't tell if it's a young couple or an old couple, since I've seen both coming and going. Part of me thinks that the guy who built the house sold it to someone in his family. I have no evidence to back this cockamammy idea up. I figure they'll live in it for a time so it won't sit on the market any longer, then try to sell it again.
So, along with the people next door to ME who don't put out their garbage for pick up and don't seem to be around except when they're entertaining Spanish speaking friends, and the guy across the street who seems to be running his business out of his house and the assortment of people moving in today with almost no possessions, this is looking like it's going to be a lovely summer.
Both houses have been on the market for almost two years, since they brought in the bulldozers and dug the first holes. Today someone seems to be moving into Count Dracula's cozy cottage. The other house, by the way, has been occupied for several weeks by the contractor who built it. Even though the For Sale sign is still up.
Viktor, the contractor, gets home around 7:00 PM and parks his huge black Dodge Hemi truck across from my driveway. His wife, or the woman posing as one, drives a big black SUV, which she parks in the double driveway. Occasionally I see a small child. Or a very short relative. Nobody uses their garage[s] or the other side of their fancy paver block driveway. As soon as the Vikmeister gets home. two panel vans or other service type vehicles pull up behind him, driven by guys who seem to work with him or for him. Then all three or four guys stand in the street for a hour at least in their t-shirts, jeans and work boots, before going into the house, often carrying a case of beer. Classy.
But this isn't about how Vikarama annoys me by his very existence. Here's what i noticed about the people moving into the other house -- the size of the moving truck is very small. I had a bigger moving truck and my house is half, maybe a third, the size of theirs. I've had bigger trucks deliver mattresses and appliances.
I can't tell if it's a young couple or an old couple, since I've seen both coming and going. Part of me thinks that the guy who built the house sold it to someone in his family. I have no evidence to back this cockamammy idea up. I figure they'll live in it for a time so it won't sit on the market any longer, then try to sell it again.
So, along with the people next door to ME who don't put out their garbage for pick up and don't seem to be around except when they're entertaining Spanish speaking friends, and the guy across the street who seems to be running his business out of his house and the assortment of people moving in today with almost no possessions, this is looking like it's going to be a lovely summer.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Do You Have A Cool Email Address?
I heard a radio discussion about email addresses yesterday on the way downtown. Apparently if your address is aol.com, you're a bona fide fuddy duddy. Except for all the teenagers who called in and said they were on aol.com, too. Until it was pointed out that they were living at home and had to use what their parents were paying for. So the kids were fuddy duddies by association.
I guess gmail is the hot new address, if you want to be perceived as a hip and now thirty-something. But don't tell the two guys I know with gmail who are over sixty. As near as I can tell, gmail doesn't offer anything better than AOL except for the perception of six pack abs.
If you've got comcast.com or att.com or any one of the other cable hook ups for email you're probably a suburbanite, living in a big house, driving an SUV, and not worried about paying through the nose.
Most young people that I know have several email addresses. Hotmail, Yahoo, gmail, their work, their school, and even AOL, through AIM. I guess AIM doesn't count as fuddy duddy for some reason. Nobody mentioned Earthlink -- a value for the money address. One person I know with an Earthlink address is worth millions. She also doesn't mind taking the bus.
Most of my creative friends -- webmasters, fillm people, designers and illustrators are on mac.com for their work. I could be too, but I chose not to switch or add it -- too much bother. But. on reflection, it might not be a bad idea one day. Mac users are a cliquely bunch. When you're only ten per cent of the world, you gotta stick together.
I like that I can listen to my AOL email over the phone, which I often do while driving downtown. I can also send a message via phone to another AOL email, which has freaked people out from time to time.
I don't usually text very much -- slow thumbs -- but I could if I wanted to. Sometimes it comes in handy when the signal isn't good for making a call. I can get through by texting. I have also used AOL to send a journal entry by IM. And I'm sure there's stuff I could do that I just don't know about.
I just remembered I know someone who has an email address with a pro sports team. Now that's cool, if you ask me.
I wonder if British royalty has an email address. Can you write to Harry and Wills @Buckpal.com or @Chuckcam.com or @Harryqueen.com? There's a funny one in there somewhere. Maybe I'll think of one.
Probably not.
I guess gmail is the hot new address, if you want to be perceived as a hip and now thirty-something. But don't tell the two guys I know with gmail who are over sixty. As near as I can tell, gmail doesn't offer anything better than AOL except for the perception of six pack abs.
If you've got comcast.com or att.com or any one of the other cable hook ups for email you're probably a suburbanite, living in a big house, driving an SUV, and not worried about paying through the nose.
Most young people that I know have several email addresses. Hotmail, Yahoo, gmail, their work, their school, and even AOL, through AIM. I guess AIM doesn't count as fuddy duddy for some reason. Nobody mentioned Earthlink -- a value for the money address. One person I know with an Earthlink address is worth millions. She also doesn't mind taking the bus.
Most of my creative friends -- webmasters, fillm people, designers and illustrators are on mac.com for their work. I could be too, but I chose not to switch or add it -- too much bother. But. on reflection, it might not be a bad idea one day. Mac users are a cliquely bunch. When you're only ten per cent of the world, you gotta stick together.
I like that I can listen to my AOL email over the phone, which I often do while driving downtown. I can also send a message via phone to another AOL email, which has freaked people out from time to time.
I don't usually text very much -- slow thumbs -- but I could if I wanted to. Sometimes it comes in handy when the signal isn't good for making a call. I can get through by texting. I have also used AOL to send a journal entry by IM. And I'm sure there's stuff I could do that I just don't know about.
I just remembered I know someone who has an email address with a pro sports team. Now that's cool, if you ask me.
I wonder if British royalty has an email address. Can you write to Harry and Wills @Buckpal.com or @Chuckcam.com or @Harryqueen.com? There's a funny one in there somewhere. Maybe I'll think of one.
Probably not.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Please Send Harrison Ford To Do My Lawn
FYI: The Cubs have the best record in baseball in June for the first time in 100 years.
Meanwhile, did you see the full body shot of Harrison Ford walking on the beach in Cannes with Shia LeBoeuf or whatever the name of his babyfaced co-star is? The guy [FORD] looks seriously buffed out in a Polo shirt and slacks. His pecs are pressing the envelope pretty hard.
Naturally, the youth of America will just think he doesn't look bad for an old guy. But women over a certain age, like say, moi, will consider dusting off their last remaining pair of Pucci panties and give serious thought to donating to the Brazilian economy for a million to one shot at an Indiana Jones throwdown. [I sure hope someone gets my little stab at hygiene humor.]
Frankly I think Harry is looking better than Shia, who not only has a name that sounds vaguely like a skin disease, but appears as though nobody has broken him in properly yet.
But this entry isn't about Calista Flockhart's freaking good fortune. Au contraire. My front yard grass -- and I'm talking about actual FRONT YARD GRASS, by the way -- was getting long enough to make me worry about a possible wellness check by the local cops and robbers. So I called one of the ten or so companies that left their flyers hanging on my door this spring to ask them to bring their machines around for a harvest.
I decided against last year's crew because I got charged $25 per hour per man for work that only took ten minutes a visit. I would have been willing to pay that amount if they'd actually spent a whole hour on my yard.
This time I chose a company based on the quality of their advertising piece. It was printed in a tasteful Martha Stewart green on nice white card stock. They offered lots of services. Nothing was misspelled. Their name -- something like Jan and Steve's Lawncare -- sounded like I could communicate with them in English.
So I called. And got Esmeralda, Javier's wife. I am not sure who Steve is. It took awhile for her to understand that I wanted an estimate for things like cleaning the gutters, planting the beds, fertilizing and other stuff. BUT, I would pay them at their going rate, whatever it was, to cut the grass ASAP without an estimate. I know, when the bill for $500 arrives, I may feel differently.
Because we were in an English to Spanish to English nightmare, she didn't understand. Shekept wanting to send a guy over to give me an estimate first, then come back in a week to do the job. She finally got my gist -- cut the grass AND give me the estimate all at once -- when I pointed out the savings in gas if they only had to make one trip.
The grass has been cut. I can tell they use nice sharp blades. Dull blades make the grass tops brown. But, instead of cultivating the beds to get rid of weeds, they used their wackers to chop them to the ground -- a quick, but temporary fix, and not as esthetically pleasing as turning the dirt.
Now I have to take a gander at how much it cost. You'll be the second to know. Once I recover from the shock.
Meanwhile, did you see the full body shot of Harrison Ford walking on the beach in Cannes with Shia LeBoeuf or whatever the name of his babyfaced co-star is? The guy [FORD] looks seriously buffed out in a Polo shirt and slacks. His pecs are pressing the envelope pretty hard.
Naturally, the youth of America will just think he doesn't look bad for an old guy. But women over a certain age, like say, moi, will consider dusting off their last remaining pair of Pucci panties and give serious thought to donating to the Brazilian economy for a million to one shot at an Indiana Jones throwdown. [I sure hope someone gets my little stab at hygiene humor.]
Frankly I think Harry is looking better than Shia, who not only has a name that sounds vaguely like a skin disease, but appears as though nobody has broken him in properly yet.
But this entry isn't about Calista Flockhart's freaking good fortune. Au contraire. My front yard grass -- and I'm talking about actual FRONT YARD GRASS, by the way -- was getting long enough to make me worry about a possible wellness check by the local cops and robbers. So I called one of the ten or so companies that left their flyers hanging on my door this spring to ask them to bring their machines around for a harvest.
I decided against last year's crew because I got charged $25 per hour per man for work that only took ten minutes a visit. I would have been willing to pay that amount if they'd actually spent a whole hour on my yard.
This time I chose a company based on the quality of their advertising piece. It was printed in a tasteful Martha Stewart green on nice white card stock. They offered lots of services. Nothing was misspelled. Their name -- something like Jan and Steve's Lawncare -- sounded like I could communicate with them in English.
So I called. And got Esmeralda, Javier's wife. I am not sure who Steve is. It took awhile for her to understand that I wanted an estimate for things like cleaning the gutters, planting the beds, fertilizing and other stuff. BUT, I would pay them at their going rate, whatever it was, to cut the grass ASAP without an estimate. I know, when the bill for $500 arrives, I may feel differently.
Because we were in an English to Spanish to English nightmare, she didn't understand. Shekept wanting to send a guy over to give me an estimate first, then come back in a week to do the job. She finally got my gist -- cut the grass AND give me the estimate all at once -- when I pointed out the savings in gas if they only had to make one trip.
The grass has been cut. I can tell they use nice sharp blades. Dull blades make the grass tops brown. But, instead of cultivating the beds to get rid of weeds, they used their wackers to chop them to the ground -- a quick, but temporary fix, and not as esthetically pleasing as turning the dirt.
Now I have to take a gander at how much it cost. You'll be the second to know. Once I recover from the shock.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
NOTE TO DEMOCRATIC COMMITTEE: You're a bunch of idiots.
Why not defer the punishment for Michigan and Florida until the next primary? Remove those in charge first of all.
Meanwhile, the only people being punished by knocking out half the delegates are the voters.
Stupid stupid stupid. And unfair.
And what the hell is a Catholic priest doing giving a sermon in a Protestant church? Barack Obama's church? Would someone remind Father Michael Pfleger AGAIN that he's white? I guess Cardinal George has tried. Father Pfleger has built a very successful and popular parish in a predominately African American neighborhood. He has been an outspoken and truly effective advocate for his parishioners, who petitioned the archdiocese to let him stay when it was time for his required transfer to another parish. I believe he's been there for almost twenty years.
Over time his homilies have assumed the fiery oratory of Martin Luther King, no doubt contributing to his popularity. Nothing wrong with that. But most recently, he's decided to channel the Reverend Wright in Rev. Wright's own church. What was that about? He's on the verge of becoming an entertainment spectacle -- the white guy who preaches like he's black. It just seems so incongruent to watch this pasty faced priest with the 1950's haircut using black vernacular and rhythms that aren't part of his cultural heritage.
We'll see what happens next.
Meanwhile, the only people being punished by knocking out half the delegates are the voters.
Stupid stupid stupid. And unfair.
And what the hell is a Catholic priest doing giving a sermon in a Protestant church? Barack Obama's church? Would someone remind Father Michael Pfleger AGAIN that he's white? I guess Cardinal George has tried. Father Pfleger has built a very successful and popular parish in a predominately African American neighborhood. He has been an outspoken and truly effective advocate for his parishioners, who petitioned the archdiocese to let him stay when it was time for his required transfer to another parish. I believe he's been there for almost twenty years.
Over time his homilies have assumed the fiery oratory of Martin Luther King, no doubt contributing to his popularity. Nothing wrong with that. But most recently, he's decided to channel the Reverend Wright in Rev. Wright's own church. What was that about? He's on the verge of becoming an entertainment spectacle -- the white guy who preaches like he's black. It just seems so incongruent to watch this pasty faced priest with the 1950's haircut using black vernacular and rhythms that aren't part of his cultural heritage.
We'll see what happens next.
Doggy Bags
The last two days I've been served such huge portions at lunch and dinner that I've had to resort to the doggy bag.
For lunch I was at a Thai restaurant and I split a springroll with my girlfriend. There were eight pieces, and the four I ate were quite filling. In fact, with my iced tea, that would have been enough for lunch.
But because I am American, no meal is complete without an ENTREE. First because we're trained not to stop eating until we feel uncomfortable. Second because eating an appetizer alone robs a server of his or her right to a tip that will raise their hourly pay to subsistence level. So moderation has never entered my decision making when eating out. Okay, I'll skip the sour cream, but bring the whole potato.
So my girlfriend and I also ordered main courses. She requested something curried and I settled for something porked. Both of us have ordered food at Asian restaurants before. I can't recall a single time when I was ever served a small portion. So what were we thinking?
Within minutes, two plates the size of Oklahoma were brought to the table steaming with rice and our respective menu selections.
Despite both our efforts, we could only eat enough to clean half our plates. So the doggy bag request went out. Soon two neatly prepared bags of leftovers were brought to the table.
But it seemed like I had barely finished my noon meal when it was time to contemplate ordering the evening repast. This time I was at an Italian restaurant with friends. We ordered grilled calimari for five people to share. A footlong dish piled six inches high with the tentacled tidbits was presented to the table.We did our best, but we couldn't finish it all.
After a bread and olive oil break, we ordered our entrees. I got the veal marsala [don't tell PETA]. At least it doesn't come breaded and it isn't pasta. Plus the veal is usually pounded very thin.
With great flourish, the waiter set down an enormous platter in front of me. A platter, not a plate. I thought maybe I was supposed to pass it around, family style, since someone else had order the same thing. Until he put a matching platter in front of my dinner partner. Apparently, the huge portion staring back at me was mine alone. I couldn't begin to see the veal for the wall to wall mound of mushrooms and marsala sauce.
Did I mention the side order of pasta which came with the entree? It was a meal in itself. An homage to Italian mothers everywhere who don't think you've had enough to eat until you've had pasta with some of her best "gravy."
So I brought home two more doggy bags.
Here's the sad part. This morning I felt like having my lunch or dinner leftovers for breakfast. To complete this tasty visual, imagine me eating from the box over the sink.
Until I saw what the food looked like after spending a night in the refrigerator in their doggy carriers. Gelatinous goo comes to mind. It still looked like gelatinous goo when I made the effort to arrange things on a plate and actually spend an extra couple of minutes to reheat everything in the microwave.
Heated gelatinous goo. How can two meals that looked so tasty just a few hours ago, look and smell so disappointing despite my best efforts to reconstitute everything? Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought eating leftovers would leave a smaller carbon footprint on the planet, since there were no more animals killed in the preparation of my doggy bags.
It's not like I have high standards for food quality or anything. Particularly when it comes to leftovers. I never turn down cold pizza, as long as the box was kept closed. I've eaten melted ice cream left on my nightstand from the previous eveniing. The chocolate thingys make it real crunchy. I even drank a pint of melted Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia that got left in the car by accident. I just pretended it was a milkshake.
Since doggy bags originated back in the depression when people would lie and ask to have their leftovers put in a bag for the family pet, maybe I should stop eating what's in the doggy bag myself and just get a dog.
For lunch I was at a Thai restaurant and I split a springroll with my girlfriend. There were eight pieces, and the four I ate were quite filling. In fact, with my iced tea, that would have been enough for lunch.
But because I am American, no meal is complete without an ENTREE. First because we're trained not to stop eating until we feel uncomfortable. Second because eating an appetizer alone robs a server of his or her right to a tip that will raise their hourly pay to subsistence level. So moderation has never entered my decision making when eating out. Okay, I'll skip the sour cream, but bring the whole potato.
So my girlfriend and I also ordered main courses. She requested something curried and I settled for something porked. Both of us have ordered food at Asian restaurants before. I can't recall a single time when I was ever served a small portion. So what were we thinking?
Within minutes, two plates the size of Oklahoma were brought to the table steaming with rice and our respective menu selections.
Despite both our efforts, we could only eat enough to clean half our plates. So the doggy bag request went out. Soon two neatly prepared bags of leftovers were brought to the table.
But it seemed like I had barely finished my noon meal when it was time to contemplate ordering the evening repast. This time I was at an Italian restaurant with friends. We ordered grilled calimari for five people to share. A footlong dish piled six inches high with the tentacled tidbits was presented to the table.We did our best, but we couldn't finish it all.
After a bread and olive oil break, we ordered our entrees. I got the veal marsala [don't tell PETA]. At least it doesn't come breaded and it isn't pasta. Plus the veal is usually pounded very thin.
With great flourish, the waiter set down an enormous platter in front of me. A platter, not a plate. I thought maybe I was supposed to pass it around, family style, since someone else had order the same thing. Until he put a matching platter in front of my dinner partner. Apparently, the huge portion staring back at me was mine alone. I couldn't begin to see the veal for the wall to wall mound of mushrooms and marsala sauce.
Did I mention the side order of pasta which came with the entree? It was a meal in itself. An homage to Italian mothers everywhere who don't think you've had enough to eat until you've had pasta with some of her best "gravy."
So I brought home two more doggy bags.
Here's the sad part. This morning I felt like having my lunch or dinner leftovers for breakfast. To complete this tasty visual, imagine me eating from the box over the sink.
Until I saw what the food looked like after spending a night in the refrigerator in their doggy carriers. Gelatinous goo comes to mind. It still looked like gelatinous goo when I made the effort to arrange things on a plate and actually spend an extra couple of minutes to reheat everything in the microwave.
Heated gelatinous goo. How can two meals that looked so tasty just a few hours ago, look and smell so disappointing despite my best efforts to reconstitute everything? Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought eating leftovers would leave a smaller carbon footprint on the planet, since there were no more animals killed in the preparation of my doggy bags.
It's not like I have high standards for food quality or anything. Particularly when it comes to leftovers. I never turn down cold pizza, as long as the box was kept closed. I've eaten melted ice cream left on my nightstand from the previous eveniing. The chocolate thingys make it real crunchy. I even drank a pint of melted Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia that got left in the car by accident. I just pretended it was a milkshake.
Since doggy bags originated back in the depression when people would lie and ask to have their leftovers put in a bag for the family pet, maybe I should stop eating what's in the doggy bag myself and just get a dog.
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