After a weird couple of days, I’m leaving today for Germany, and following on with some days in London. I’m still in a sling, and still wincing mightily all the way through my day. The slightest motion makes me cringe like I’m thinking about root canals, and it doesn’t seem to matter whether I’m in a sling or not.
Something struck me as very odd: why is it that an x-ray taken in Pennsylvania, which I know is digitized, and which I saw on a computer monitor when the doctor pulled it up at her workstation, can’t be emailed to me?? Tigger said it had something to do with HIPAA (look up for reference…) but I’m just aggravated.
So, in this modern world of digital X-Rays, yours truly had to get a fax sent over, attach a photocopy of my driver’s license, and send it back to them by fax. All of this required filling out forms with my gimpy arm. Right, that’s a really effective method of getting people their radiology documentation.
Anyhow, I went to a follow-up with a regular (non-emergency) doctor here in New York, and they used a fluoroscope to re-do all the X-Rays I had already had done, so they could tell me what I already knew, and send me on my way with another prescription similar to what I already have (but slightly less heavy, apparently.) Also, it seems that the practice in this place was to have the receptionist fill in and sign the prescription slip. At least I’m pretty sure that’s what happened.
So, off to the fatherland and my mother’s home town for a few days of Christeningtastic Excitement! I guess it goes to show that the old saying is wrong: you CAN go home after all.
Except when you try to go back to the playground you used to use as a child, and find out that it’s tainted with dioxins in the sand. Precious!
This was a few years ago, the last time I was out there, and I went to go look at said playground, saw said signs with previously unmentioned skulls &c on them, and spoke with an older guy who was walking his dog in the dioxin laced red sand. He just waved it off and said that he’d been coming for years and he thought he was doing fine, so screw it, in his mind.
I’m not sure I’m so certain.
I will, however, be sure not to eat any sand at any childhood loci of memory. Just in case, it’s best to be safe.
I had hoped to tool around, go to the swimming pool we used to frequent, see the sights, but with an arm in the crapper (ugh, not literally, thanks) it’s less likely to be feasible. I will try and shoot some pictures, but I’m not sure how readily I’ll be able to manage that. Stupid me for getting an SLR, it means I need two hands, which is not so much so good a thing at the moment.
Also: it’s official, I may be becoming an adult (read as: I hate our moth-eaten couch, and have now looked online at new sofas. Oh Lawdy. Heaven forfend.)
Also: I’m a little sad about this trip, as my grandmother has been declining with some speed, and I wonder whether this might be the last time I get to be there with the whole family, and it’s hitting me a bit hard from time to time.
Hypothetical reader, the background here is that we spent every second summer from my first to my eighteenth birthday over in Germany with family, initially split between my father’s mother and my mother’s mother, with the final third of the time being spent on some junket elsewhere. As time passed, my father’s mother had a bit of a hard time getting comfortable with having guests, as she was older and quite particular about, well, everything. So, we spent more time with at my mother’s childhood home, and I have lots of memories that fill me with warmth even now. Paper lanters in the yard, an actual swingset, the local Olympic sized swimming pool, trips into town to go to the music store (yes, I know, I was a weird kid, and somehow staring at instruments when I was young totally geeked me out, though since it still does I guess it’s just a warning sign for those of you with youngsters to be aware of as to future spending habits…)
Anyway, just wanted to give a thought or two to those times, and reflect on how it feels a lot like an era is ending for me, and I just wonder whether I feel like enough of an adult to make sense of the changing of the guard.
My parent’s are obsessive grandparents now to my nephew.
That’s what I’m talking about here. And it’s weirding me out. Kind of.
So, in a little while I’m going to be heading out to a train, to a monorail to JFK, getting on a plane, then off of it, then onto another one, then off of THAT one, and then aboard a train, and then off of that again, into a cab and then into a mattress to mutter and whimper for a while, jetlagged in a foreign country.
Pain medication of the prescription variety will be included somewhere along the way, to be sure.
Keeps me from enjoying a beer on the flight, but never forget that which may be true everywhere EXCEPT airplanes, and the reason why I'm going to be feeling no pain as the drink cart mauls my shattered shoulder:
“Sleep - the most beautiful experience in life – except drink.” W.C. Fields
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
Good Question...
Went to a meeting today, for a project management deal that I'm involved with at work. It's a surreal experience at times, but that's nothing to go into in depth.
It was my first day at work in a sling, and if it weren't for me leaving in two days, I would have been home whimpering on Percocet. Hey, it hurts like crazy, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. So, everyone had to ask me the exact same question about what happened, and it would have been great to have a different story to tell them.
Falling down the stairs is not a cool story.
Base jumping would have been nice, an ATV wreck would have been fantastic.
Perhaps a claim that I had shattered my shoulder firing an elephant gun into the back of a fleeing home invader.
Something along those lines, something with a hint of sex appeal. However, I failed to open with the lie, so I ran with the truth. Ah well, so it is sometimes.
At the end of the meeting, someone asked for the nth time what had happened, and then asked how I was feeling. I mentioned that I couldn't really write at all, without some serious grimacing.
They looked back and said "Well, why did you bring a pen and paper with you then?"
Good question.
"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry." --Ernest Hemingway ("A Farewell to Arms")
It was my first day at work in a sling, and if it weren't for me leaving in two days, I would have been home whimpering on Percocet. Hey, it hurts like crazy, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. So, everyone had to ask me the exact same question about what happened, and it would have been great to have a different story to tell them.
Falling down the stairs is not a cool story.
Base jumping would have been nice, an ATV wreck would have been fantastic.
Perhaps a claim that I had shattered my shoulder firing an elephant gun into the back of a fleeing home invader.
Something along those lines, something with a hint of sex appeal. However, I failed to open with the lie, so I ran with the truth. Ah well, so it is sometimes.
At the end of the meeting, someone asked for the nth time what had happened, and then asked how I was feeling. I mentioned that I couldn't really write at all, without some serious grimacing.
They looked back and said "Well, why did you bring a pen and paper with you then?"
Good question.
"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry." --Ernest Hemingway ("A Farewell to Arms")
Sunday, November 25, 2007
It's Not Polite to Stair, Kids.
So, we went out to the Farm to have Thanksgiving with Tigger's folks. My old friend R. came along with us, and all was right in the world.
ATVs were ridden, guns were fired, turkey was eaten, football was watched. Drinks were consumed, out with us into a country night and a bar where some complete stranger kept on catching me to finish telling me some story about a bear and a monkey, which he proudly informed me he "used to tell to his kids". I was playing pool, and every time I had a pause, he would come up to me and carry on telling the story where he had left off. I can not for the life of me remember a single point of the story, or why he was telling it to me, but so it went, and I smiled and nodded.
He finally arrived at the moral/punchline/ending two hours after he had introduced himself to me. He was at this point, to put it quite charitably, very drunk. I was not entirely sober myself, but that was all well and good and it was a happy Friday night out in the country.
Rode home scrunched six people into a car, joyously met and happily to bed.
Here's where it get's interesting, or funny, or really tremendously shitty depending on your perspective.
I have a habit of sleepwalking occasionally, and this house happens to have a habit of having two-hundred year old staircases, which make tight turns (in the back of the house the stairs are more of a servants' quarters/household use shape, with two turns in a flight of stairs, which result in very narrow ends of wedges at the inner part of the turn, which is always exciting at the best of times, and has no hand railing.
We were sleeping on the third floor, in Tigger's old bedroom, and somehow, at some random hour I apparently decided to start walking around, possibly to go use the bathroom.
I had socks on.
Next thing I vaguely remember is being on my side on the stairs, in some noticeable pain, and struggling back to bed where it hurt too badly to lie back down. Tigger was awakened by my screaming (I like to think it was manly "give me the morphine doc!" screaming, but I may have just sounded like somebody stole my My Little Pony and was playing keepaway with it in the schoolyard for all I know.)
I put up a minimal fight about it, and ended up conceding that perhaps going to the hospital was The Best Thing.
I broke my collarbone in either 3 or 4 places, the Oxycodone made it hard to be sure when I saw the X-Ray. All day Saturday sacked out wincing, and all of today as well. Tigger, to her credit, made the whole drive back to New York despite the fact that she usually doesn't care for highway driving and was absolutely wonderful throughout.
Oh, in case it needed to get worse, it feels like I have a sprain on the joint as well.
And, I'm left handed, and it's my left side (right by the shoulder, a handful of hairline breaks all along the end of the collarbone. Oh joy.
And, I have to fly to Europe on Wednesday, and can't take any time off of work until then.
Sometimes you just can't even imagine how things could get more unpleasant.
You know what I like to do at those moments? As a Giants fan, I like nothing more than to come home, doped up on opiates, and watch the Hometown Heroes go down 41-17 to a team with a losing record. Kudos to the Vikings for really putting the Cherry on my Sundae/Sunday of wincing and misery.
Last night, after a day of watching mediocre TV, and eating leftovers, I was at least mercifully asleep, doped up on Turkocet. Ah, tryptophan and Percoset. Sweet, sweet, miserable, addle-pated relief.
Pray for Mojo.
"If you can't be a good example, at least be a horrifying cautionary tale." --sidney (RIP, www.bikeforums.net misses you)
ATVs were ridden, guns were fired, turkey was eaten, football was watched. Drinks were consumed, out with us into a country night and a bar where some complete stranger kept on catching me to finish telling me some story about a bear and a monkey, which he proudly informed me he "used to tell to his kids". I was playing pool, and every time I had a pause, he would come up to me and carry on telling the story where he had left off. I can not for the life of me remember a single point of the story, or why he was telling it to me, but so it went, and I smiled and nodded.
He finally arrived at the moral/punchline/ending two hours after he had introduced himself to me. He was at this point, to put it quite charitably, very drunk. I was not entirely sober myself, but that was all well and good and it was a happy Friday night out in the country.
Rode home scrunched six people into a car, joyously met and happily to bed.
Here's where it get's interesting, or funny, or really tremendously shitty depending on your perspective.
I have a habit of sleepwalking occasionally, and this house happens to have a habit of having two-hundred year old staircases, which make tight turns (in the back of the house the stairs are more of a servants' quarters/household use shape, with two turns in a flight of stairs, which result in very narrow ends of wedges at the inner part of the turn, which is always exciting at the best of times, and has no hand railing.
We were sleeping on the third floor, in Tigger's old bedroom, and somehow, at some random hour I apparently decided to start walking around, possibly to go use the bathroom.
I had socks on.
Next thing I vaguely remember is being on my side on the stairs, in some noticeable pain, and struggling back to bed where it hurt too badly to lie back down. Tigger was awakened by my screaming (I like to think it was manly "give me the morphine doc!" screaming, but I may have just sounded like somebody stole my My Little Pony and was playing keepaway with it in the schoolyard for all I know.)
I put up a minimal fight about it, and ended up conceding that perhaps going to the hospital was The Best Thing.
I broke my collarbone in either 3 or 4 places, the Oxycodone made it hard to be sure when I saw the X-Ray. All day Saturday sacked out wincing, and all of today as well. Tigger, to her credit, made the whole drive back to New York despite the fact that she usually doesn't care for highway driving and was absolutely wonderful throughout.
Oh, in case it needed to get worse, it feels like I have a sprain on the joint as well.
And, I'm left handed, and it's my left side (right by the shoulder, a handful of hairline breaks all along the end of the collarbone. Oh joy.
And, I have to fly to Europe on Wednesday, and can't take any time off of work until then.
Sometimes you just can't even imagine how things could get more unpleasant.
You know what I like to do at those moments? As a Giants fan, I like nothing more than to come home, doped up on opiates, and watch the Hometown Heroes go down 41-17 to a team with a losing record. Kudos to the Vikings for really putting the Cherry on my Sundae/Sunday of wincing and misery.
Last night, after a day of watching mediocre TV, and eating leftovers, I was at least mercifully asleep, doped up on Turkocet. Ah, tryptophan and Percoset. Sweet, sweet, miserable, addle-pated relief.
Pray for Mojo.
"If you can't be a good example, at least be a horrifying cautionary tale." --sidney (RIP, www.bikeforums.net misses you)
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Train Time
So, living in Brooklyn and commuting into Midtown I spend a fairly dismal amount of time on the Subway. Let's say about 40 minutes each way on a workday. Naturally, you have a good, hefty number of minutes to muse on something, nothing, or everything.
I think there are some people who will start paying attention to their infants when their infants have ipod screens implanted in their foreheads. What motivates you to watch video on an ipod when you have a very rapidly developing human being looking at you for interaction? It is still the case that you don't have to have kids in this or any country if you don't want to. I can certainly see that they don't always want to talk about Proust, or the latest Roca Wear lineup with you, but isn't it a bit of a good thing to look at and/or talk to them? If you were going to have some entertainment or media with you, how about at least reading a book or something?
Don't get me wrong, pompous asshole that I am I definitely understand that not everyone is going to be perusing the latest issue of Foreign Affairs on the train, or even The Economist or the New Yorker, but all that being said it's better to listen to them, occasionally play with or watch them, and even reading People or InStyle would be an improvement.
Yeah, I'm judging you all, all the time. My glass house is absolutely rent and shattered, needless to say.
Also, am I crazy, or was that guy playing a PSP version of Dance Dance Revolution??? Even if weren't someone who hated dancing, I would find the life-size actual footstomping monstrosity that is Dance Dance Revolution (the Arcade version*) blindingly, hoppingly stupid.
Playing it with your fingers?? Doesn't that defeat even the purpose that was defeated by the original purpose of Dance Dance Revolution?**
Until today, I had a bit of scattered schedule for the prior four days of workweek. On each of those days, the time I got on the train was off by a few hours one way or the other. Anywhere between 3:00 PM and 5:15 PM I would get on the train, and on my homeward bound train for four days in a row was the exact same person. I could believe that this was a result of taking the red pill, but I don't believe that. I could believe it was determinism, but I don't believe that. I could believe it was a lot of things, and I could believe that if we do have an all-powerful god he sometimes really, completely phones it in on the details.
Hey there, hypothetical all powerful deity: we do notice these little things, especially in a place where you really don't expect to EVER see the same people again, and feel almost warm when there's a repeater on your regular commute.
Perhaps the presumption of anonymity is the reason why a guy suddenly leapt up from a seat next to me, and crop dusted right past my face at a sprint before plonking down in an empty spot perhaps 12 feet away. Everyone knew it was him, and if he hadn't moved we would have only had a sense of aromatic discomfort (trust me, everybody farts on the train occasionally, it can't be entirely avoided, and while it's not as much fun as farting right before leaving an empty elevator behind it is something to be done stealthily.) As it was, I couldn't help but just exchange completely baffled glances with all my immediate neighbors, as we clutched shirts and jackets over our noses and held our breath.
*I briefly, and badly, played singles league pool, and the place had an attached arcade. The matches were very seriously played, and though I got beaten a lot even with a handicap I enjoyed the quiet focus of the event. It was real, and beautifully laid out pool hall with new tables. There was nothing quite as awesome as lining up a critical shot while listening the brittle, special sound of vigorous pairs of feet stomping away on plastic in a frenzy of hypnotic suggestion.
**I always thought the point of dancing was social, and regretted not being a dance happy fool as I figured it would have been a good sort of activity to be really happy about at all kinds of clubs and parties that I've been to. I didn't go home with the dumb girls at the time, and I feel dancing was my Achilles Heel. So, to me, DDR takes the only thing that makes sense about dancing (fun, sweating, hitting on people when you are single, physical closeness with somebody etc.) and kills it. Everyone stares ahead, grabs on to a couple of hand rails, and takes the stupid, but potentially fun activity and try to beat one another at flailing around.***
***Yes, I'm misanthropic towards elements of our collective "anthropy", and I feel I have my own reasons. See above re: glass houses.****
****Additional thought for a substitute aphorism: "Those who live in glass houses should be well acquainted with a good glazier, or opt for small, petty rocks."
I think there are some people who will start paying attention to their infants when their infants have ipod screens implanted in their foreheads. What motivates you to watch video on an ipod when you have a very rapidly developing human being looking at you for interaction? It is still the case that you don't have to have kids in this or any country if you don't want to. I can certainly see that they don't always want to talk about Proust, or the latest Roca Wear lineup with you, but isn't it a bit of a good thing to look at and/or talk to them? If you were going to have some entertainment or media with you, how about at least reading a book or something?
Don't get me wrong, pompous asshole that I am I definitely understand that not everyone is going to be perusing the latest issue of Foreign Affairs on the train, or even The Economist or the New Yorker, but all that being said it's better to listen to them, occasionally play with or watch them, and even reading People or InStyle would be an improvement.
Yeah, I'm judging you all, all the time. My glass house is absolutely rent and shattered, needless to say.
Also, am I crazy, or was that guy playing a PSP version of Dance Dance Revolution??? Even if weren't someone who hated dancing, I would find the life-size actual footstomping monstrosity that is Dance Dance Revolution (the Arcade version*) blindingly, hoppingly stupid.
Playing it with your fingers?? Doesn't that defeat even the purpose that was defeated by the original purpose of Dance Dance Revolution?**
Until today, I had a bit of scattered schedule for the prior four days of workweek. On each of those days, the time I got on the train was off by a few hours one way or the other. Anywhere between 3:00 PM and 5:15 PM I would get on the train, and on my homeward bound train for four days in a row was the exact same person. I could believe that this was a result of taking the red pill, but I don't believe that. I could believe it was determinism, but I don't believe that. I could believe it was a lot of things, and I could believe that if we do have an all-powerful god he sometimes really, completely phones it in on the details.
Hey there, hypothetical all powerful deity: we do notice these little things, especially in a place where you really don't expect to EVER see the same people again, and feel almost warm when there's a repeater on your regular commute.
Perhaps the presumption of anonymity is the reason why a guy suddenly leapt up from a seat next to me, and crop dusted right past my face at a sprint before plonking down in an empty spot perhaps 12 feet away. Everyone knew it was him, and if he hadn't moved we would have only had a sense of aromatic discomfort (trust me, everybody farts on the train occasionally, it can't be entirely avoided, and while it's not as much fun as farting right before leaving an empty elevator behind it is something to be done stealthily.) As it was, I couldn't help but just exchange completely baffled glances with all my immediate neighbors, as we clutched shirts and jackets over our noses and held our breath.
*I briefly, and badly, played singles league pool, and the place had an attached arcade. The matches were very seriously played, and though I got beaten a lot even with a handicap I enjoyed the quiet focus of the event. It was real, and beautifully laid out pool hall with new tables. There was nothing quite as awesome as lining up a critical shot while listening the brittle, special sound of vigorous pairs of feet stomping away on plastic in a frenzy of hypnotic suggestion.
**I always thought the point of dancing was social, and regretted not being a dance happy fool as I figured it would have been a good sort of activity to be really happy about at all kinds of clubs and parties that I've been to. I didn't go home with the dumb girls at the time, and I feel dancing was my Achilles Heel. So, to me, DDR takes the only thing that makes sense about dancing (fun, sweating, hitting on people when you are single, physical closeness with somebody etc.) and kills it. Everyone stares ahead, grabs on to a couple of hand rails, and takes the stupid, but potentially fun activity and try to beat one another at flailing around.***
***Yes, I'm misanthropic towards elements of our collective "anthropy", and I feel I have my own reasons. See above re: glass houses.****
****Additional thought for a substitute aphorism: "Those who live in glass houses should be well acquainted with a good glazier, or opt for small, petty rocks."
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Beware of Dogs and Judges
Unlike Stephon Marbury, I'm not asking you to feel sorry for Michael Vick. I'm not talking about how normal dogfighting is, and I don't necessarily have any love for Mike Vick.
I love dogs, and the whole story is pretty horrifying.
And so, with all the disclaimer swept briskly to the side, I will say that I really don't envy him for the position he's in at the moment...
Thanks to the presence of the Honorable U.S. District Judge Henry E. Hudson, I would expect that this will go down in dark and scary ways for the former hero of the Battle of Atlanta Football.
I'm just figuring that a guy who sought the death penalty against David Vasquez (who was retarded, not credibly nearby, not connected by DNA evidence to the attack, AND had his confession certifiably fed to him before accepting an Alford Plea along with a 35 year sentence,) is probably going to be less than lenient.
If he tried to kill an innocent, poor, developmentally disabled defendant, what the hell is he going to do to a genuinely guilty party? Beat him comatose with a rusty office chair? Tie him to an anthill after smearing him with honey? Drag him over broken AOL Free Trial CD ROMs behind a Segway until dead?
Read the other piece in the column above... it's involving a drunk guy and a bag of Fritos, and a hilarious minor assault on a cop for which Hudson sought a five year minimum term for a felony "malicious wounding" charge.
Oh, and by the way he served on the Ed Meese Pornography Commission under Reagan.
A real charmer.
Rest easy everyone, not only are you not in jail, you also don't have a date for a sentencing in front of that guy. Well, at least as far as I know you don't... but who knows who google may bring here in the future, I guess.
"Resist Much. Obey Little." --Walt Whitman
I love dogs, and the whole story is pretty horrifying.
And so, with all the disclaimer swept briskly to the side, I will say that I really don't envy him for the position he's in at the moment...
Thanks to the presence of the Honorable U.S. District Judge Henry E. Hudson, I would expect that this will go down in dark and scary ways for the former hero of the Battle of Atlanta Football.
I'm just figuring that a guy who sought the death penalty against David Vasquez (who was retarded, not credibly nearby, not connected by DNA evidence to the attack, AND had his confession certifiably fed to him before accepting an Alford Plea along with a 35 year sentence,) is probably going to be less than lenient.
If he tried to kill an innocent, poor, developmentally disabled defendant, what the hell is he going to do to a genuinely guilty party? Beat him comatose with a rusty office chair? Tie him to an anthill after smearing him with honey? Drag him over broken AOL Free Trial CD ROMs behind a Segway until dead?
Read the other piece in the column above... it's involving a drunk guy and a bag of Fritos, and a hilarious minor assault on a cop for which Hudson sought a five year minimum term for a felony "malicious wounding" charge.
Oh, and by the way he served on the Ed Meese Pornography Commission under Reagan.
A real charmer.
Rest easy everyone, not only are you not in jail, you also don't have a date for a sentencing in front of that guy. Well, at least as far as I know you don't... but who knows who google may bring here in the future, I guess.
"Resist Much. Obey Little." --Walt Whitman
Monday, November 19, 2007
Joy in the Most Puzzling Ways
So, I have to correct my error in not crediting Tigger on the corkscrew free bottle opening technique. I watched, I marveled.
I'm in an industry where there's a good chance of getting laid off in the current climate. I worry, but what can you do but truck on and hope you don't get run over while playing economic frogger.
We were on our way to the aforementioned divorce party, and since the vagaries of Brooklyn transportation means that you can't get from our particular Here to his particular There, and so we took a Black Car. They are the call-ahead car services without meters here in New York in case you weren't familiar.
I generally don't take them, but it can be useful, and us in the outer boroughs don't have a choice sometimes.
The driver was possibly Iranian, possibly Afghanistani, I didn't want to ask specifically. We all four piled into the car, and he tore around the block, and hit the massive hump in the intersection around the corner. The car touched down on asphalt, sailed up and swamped down again over the bump. He looked over, and gave a small, absolutely joyous laugh at the occasion. You might think it would seem unsettling, but with a bit of a language barrier, he seemed to be sharing his happiness at how fun life was turning out to be.
The radio was playing an old DJ, playing old American pop songs. "Alone Again, Naturally" was on as we wheeled around onto Ocean Parkway.
It puzzled me that a persian or middle eastern car service driver would be listening to old easy listening on an AM burning station out of what may well have been a shack in the Meadowlands. But, you learn to find things more beautiful and less surprising in this life as you go along... anyway...
DJ: "Well, that was my wife Barbara's favorite song. I never knew, until my son told me after she had passed."
As the DJ introduced the next song, the driver looked around at us, smiled and gave another small but rich chuckle.
I don't know what he found funny, but something either in a misunderstanding or in a reality struck a chord with him.
I have known and in the past even worked with some folks who make a far better living than most of us, and than I could even imagine. There seems to be a lot of tension that comes from the lifestyle (watch Bridezillas sometime, Tigger finds it fascinating, and see how miserable people are with a quarter million dollars to pitch at a wedding.)
So, I've decided that if I do end up unemployed, maybe I should about getting a hack license to drive a TLC car. I think maybe some of them get something that would be good to understand.
Also, if you write, or even if you just live somewhat, read Anne Lamott's "Bird by Bird". It's really tremendous, as per the first fifteen pages plus the introduction (xx pages in addition.)
Also, if you take pictures, read Ansel Adams's series on photography technique. It will blow your mind open, and then leave you to slowly reassemble the pieces into a tremendous new whole. (1 - The Camera, 2 - The Negative, 3 - The Print.)
I guess that's it, and I'll see about something more interesting or amusing along the way. Things have been really making me stressed recently, and I'm having a hard time with it. So hope you are all well...
And don't forget:
"Take it easy, but take it." --Pete Seeger
I'm in an industry where there's a good chance of getting laid off in the current climate. I worry, but what can you do but truck on and hope you don't get run over while playing economic frogger.
We were on our way to the aforementioned divorce party, and since the vagaries of Brooklyn transportation means that you can't get from our particular Here to his particular There, and so we took a Black Car. They are the call-ahead car services without meters here in New York in case you weren't familiar.
I generally don't take them, but it can be useful, and us in the outer boroughs don't have a choice sometimes.
The driver was possibly Iranian, possibly Afghanistani, I didn't want to ask specifically. We all four piled into the car, and he tore around the block, and hit the massive hump in the intersection around the corner. The car touched down on asphalt, sailed up and swamped down again over the bump. He looked over, and gave a small, absolutely joyous laugh at the occasion. You might think it would seem unsettling, but with a bit of a language barrier, he seemed to be sharing his happiness at how fun life was turning out to be.
The radio was playing an old DJ, playing old American pop songs. "Alone Again, Naturally" was on as we wheeled around onto Ocean Parkway.
It puzzled me that a persian or middle eastern car service driver would be listening to old easy listening on an AM burning station out of what may well have been a shack in the Meadowlands. But, you learn to find things more beautiful and less surprising in this life as you go along... anyway...
DJ: "Well, that was my wife Barbara's favorite song. I never knew, until my son told me after she had passed."
As the DJ introduced the next song, the driver looked around at us, smiled and gave another small but rich chuckle.
I don't know what he found funny, but something either in a misunderstanding or in a reality struck a chord with him.
I have known and in the past even worked with some folks who make a far better living than most of us, and than I could even imagine. There seems to be a lot of tension that comes from the lifestyle (watch Bridezillas sometime, Tigger finds it fascinating, and see how miserable people are with a quarter million dollars to pitch at a wedding.)
So, I've decided that if I do end up unemployed, maybe I should about getting a hack license to drive a TLC car. I think maybe some of them get something that would be good to understand.
Also, if you write, or even if you just live somewhat, read Anne Lamott's "Bird by Bird". It's really tremendous, as per the first fifteen pages plus the introduction (xx pages in addition.)
Also, if you take pictures, read Ansel Adams's series on photography technique. It will blow your mind open, and then leave you to slowly reassemble the pieces into a tremendous new whole. (1 - The Camera, 2 - The Negative, 3 - The Print.)
I guess that's it, and I'll see about something more interesting or amusing along the way. Things have been really making me stressed recently, and I'm having a hard time with it. So hope you are all well...
And don't forget:
"Take it easy, but take it." --Pete Seeger
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Pop... I think I have the Black Lung
Tigger and I are both down for the count sick today. Her brother came up from Philly for the weekend, we went and had a good time (without a lot of furniture) at my friend's house for his divorce party, and I woke up today with enough soreness in my lungs that it hurts to sneeze.
Good times on the ranch.
Promised ire about tie knotting still to come, tease that I am I can't stop throwing that out there.
Also, the lesson here is that if you have to divide up your property with a former significant other, make sure you get left at least one corkscrew. That is the implement that has the least broad range of use, but is the most difficult to do without when you do happen to need it. Tricks involving screws and claw hammers were used to address the problem (screw goes into cork, claw hammer nail pulling end holds screw, and voila.) I live to serve, and now you know...
Good times on the ranch.
Promised ire about tie knotting still to come, tease that I am I can't stop throwing that out there.
Also, the lesson here is that if you have to divide up your property with a former significant other, make sure you get left at least one corkscrew. That is the implement that has the least broad range of use, but is the most difficult to do without when you do happen to need it. Tricks involving screws and claw hammers were used to address the problem (screw goes into cork, claw hammer nail pulling end holds screw, and voila.) I live to serve, and now you know...
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