What Madness is This

First Snow of the Season

2009-12-05T12:58:00.002-05:00

As I drank my Earl Grey this morning, I watched a cold drizzle turn to light snowfall. Now, just about 1 pm, a bit more than half an inch has accumulated on the stones surrounding the fish pond. The paving stones round the pond are treacherously slick, as one would expect. Still, the fish must be fed. I missed yesterday's feeding, so they were quite ravenous just now, devouring the bits of dried and ground up insect as they hit the pond's surface.

I don't know how long I stood watching as they fed, but it was long enough that I'm chilled to the bone and my sweatshirt is soaked through. I can't even say why I stayed so long. I certainly wasn't engrossed in the feeding frenzy, nor even the quiet beauty of snow dusted on rock and evergreen. But there I stood, reluctant to leave and yet not really wanting to stay.

One might say that's metaphoric of my life at present.

I know that I am horribly depressed. The temptation is to stop the medications, as they are outrageously expensive–"no generic equivalent"–and don't seem to be helping a bloody bit. Then I think, but what if I weren't taking them? How much worse off would I be? And the therapy sessions are a disaster. Group is dominated by two thirty- or forty-something women who seem determined that no one shall be more depressed than they. It would be comical were it not so very sad. The monthly (thanks for naught, Blue Cross) private sessions are more productive, but nevertheless have helped only little. Still, little is better than none, eh?

The snow has begun to fall harder now. Perhaps we will get the predicted three inches, after all. It has begun accumulating on the street and drive, blanketing unraked leaves in my garden and disguising the weeds left unpulled in my flower beds. It's quite lovely, actually. Would that I could but enjoy it.

You Betcha!

2009-09-29T15:17:00.001-04:00

Gotta love YouTube contributors:

This is Why...

2009-09-22T10:45:00.003-04:00

I'm so goddamn depressed:

NEW YORK (AP) -- The estranged wife of South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford is writing a memoir.
Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House Inc., said Tuesday it will publish Jenny Sanford's "inspirational memoir" in May 2010.

The publisher says Sanford "will grapple with the universal issue of maintaining integrity and a sense of self during life's difficult times."

The book is currently untitled, and financial terms were not disclosed.

Mark Sanford was once a rising star in the Republican Party. He acknowledged in June that he had a yearlong affair with an Argentine woman he called his soul mate.

Jenny Sanford moved out of the governor's mansion in August, but she and her husband have said they're trying to repair their marriage.

For every piece of worthless crap like this—and the faeces dropping from the likes of Glenn Beck—as many as five worthwhile books won't see publication.

To be fair, it isn't Jenny Sanford's fault. Much as I'd like to blame him, it isn't even Beck's fault. No, good reader (I know there's one of you out there), the blame falls squarely upon the shoulders of we, the people, and our seemingly insatiable appetite for salaciousness. Not to mention political incoherence.

And the bad news is, there's no end in sight.

Back, for a Brief Visit

2009-08-31T14:17:00.002-04:00

I haven't posted in a good while, and it probably will be another good while before I post again. But, for those few who actually read this, I thought you might want to know why.

I've been wrestling with the black dog, and I'm afraid he's winning. I've been on sertraline hydrochloride for a month as of tomorrow. It doesn't seem to be working. Though, God knows, were I not on it I might be dead now. Hey, I guess it is working, at least a little. That's the first time I've voiced thoughts about my own death since, well, I can't recall. Wait, now I remember: two weeks ago this morning, in the shrink's office.

Group therapy twice a week and private sessions every other Monday may be helping, I don't know. I don't participate much in group, but I can't shut up in private.

Still, I'm so bloody depressed I can barely haul my fat old arse out of bed most days. Gregory isn't taking classes this semester, so I don't even have to get up to send him out the door. Anyway, he's 20 years old, he can handle that on his own.

Anhedonia. Do you know what that means? It's the inability to find pleasure in actions or events one normally would find pleasurable. I'm a foodie: I love to cook, and I love to eat. Lately, we've survived on Chinese take-away and Papa John's. Yesterday, Gregory and I made spaghetti for the first time in weeks. I mean made spaghetti--the pasta, the sauce--from scratch. He ate. Most of mine is in the fridge.

I sleep 12 to 14 hours, or almost not at all. Some nights I lie in bed and listen to the grandfather's clock chime away the quarter hours, until the sky grows light. Then, if I'm lucky, I sleep an hour or two. Other nights, I fall asleep in this chair before eight o'clock, wake cold and stiff-jointed sometime later, and then off to bed for another ten or more hours of dead-to-the-world.

Maybe the worst is, I can't seem to work. Just writing this little bit, I've been sitting at this bloody machine some 90 minutes.

I need stronger meds, or maybe a hospital bed. Or maybe more therapy. But this one thing is certain: something has to change.

I Just Can't Stand It!

2009-07-14T17:07:00.003-04:00

Remember what I said about bookstores (see yesterday's post)? If anyone needed more proof...

NEW YORK (AP) -- Lauren Conrad wants to be known as more than just the former star of MTV's "The Hills." And now she is.

Her first book for teens, "L.A. Candy" (HarperCollins, 326 pages, $17.99), has topped The New York Times best-seller list for children's chapter books. For two straight weeks, Conrad's novel about a young woman living in Los Angeles, who gets discovered for her own reality show, has made the list.

I just can't friggin' stand it!

Rabbis, Oprah and Dating

2009-07-13T12:30:00.000-04:00

A well-meaning friend emailed a link to a page on Oprah.com, titled "Where to Find a Nice Guy." No, she wasn't suggesting I switch teams. Rather, she seemed to think I could "reverse-engineer" Rabbi Shmuley's advice to find where women might be looking for nice guys.

All due respect to the good Rabbi, he needs to find his way out of the nineteenth century.

His first suggestion is to look in houses of worship, where one will find "men with a spiritual disposition." Maybe. One also may find religious zealots, child molesters building their cred, and con artists looking for an easy mark (which also would be about building cred, come to that). In short, dear Rabbi, the scum of the earth now go to church not to pray, but to prey. I would be doubly cautious about anyone I met in a house of worship. Scepticism? Perhaps, though I would think it more on the path of prudence.

Next Rabbi Shmuley suggests bookstores, where "you'll find men who are intelligent." Obviously, the Rabbi hasn't been to a Borders lately, and seen the sort of books dominating the shelves. Rabbi, no one who reads the bovine droppings that constitute the vast majority of offerings from the American publishing industry can be considered intelligent. For every No Country for Old Men, or The Brief History of the Dead, there are a dozen dozen bodice-rippers or potboilers. Which do you suppose fly off the shelves?

On that same theme, he suggests libraries: "quiet, contemplative settings that often attract intellectual guys." Not to mention the homeless, who haunt public libraries as refuge from the weather. Now, lest anyone claim I am biased against those down on their luck, I am merely stating the obvious: libraries are no longer the ivory towers they once were.

I have a bit of ambivalence over Rabbi's advice to look to the military. I hold our armed forces in highest regard, but experience—first- and second-hand—proves today's Army attracts many undesirables. Does the name Timothy McVeigh ring any bells? We are fortunate that the wackos of any stripe generally are weeded out in the first two or three years of service, though a few slip through and make the Army a career. So yes, Rabbi, these are "men [and women] with a sense of mission." Just what that mission might be is what must concern us.

I had to laugh at the advice to look to charity events for "men with a social conscience." I have four words for you, Rabbi: court ordered community service.

Likewise, seeking a soul mate on dates set up by friends brought a chuckle. Whilst my friends might be "discerning in who they'll introduce," most of my friends have heard all my tales of blind date disasters—and thus steer well clear of setting me up.

Rabbi Shmuley also suggests the workplace and weddings as potential mate-finding zones. Even if I didn't work in my very own little study, at home, I don't believe in dipping my pen in the company ink. And weddings? Almost everyone I know is married, and has children. Perhaps when the children are ready to marry...

Rabbi, I must say this: at least you try to amplify your spot-on core advice ("Shmuleyism"): "A good [mate], while not easy to find, is possible as long as you look in the right places, and the right places mean venues that foster purpose, compassion, hard work and spiritual commitment." But Rabbi, you gotta get out in the world more.

When It Rains...

2009-06-09T11:43:00.000-04:00

Gregory was late returning home last night. Very late. About half two this morning, I was awakened by doorbell ringing and fist pounding. I was rather in a haze, but lucid enough to realise his car was not parked in the driveway.

The Caddy had died, and he waited several hours for AAA to send a tow. Then he left both his house keys and the garage door remote in the bloody car.

Initial diagnosis: blown radiator, blown head gasket. Long story shortened, it seems we are going to be car shopping this weekend. And I'm going to be cashing out at least one more CD—this one well before it matures.

What the hell, I don't need to retire to Provence or Tuscany...

Turning Point

2009-06-08T13:23:00.001-04:00

I have reached one of those proverbial forks in the road. The thing is, at this junction there are several choices, and each of those leads to several more.

For instance, one choice presented me is the offer of a job in my chosen field, naval architecture. The pay isn't bad, but it isn't worth what I would bring to the position. To be fair, I haven't practised in several years and thus have no recent credentials. I appreciate their need to see evidence of my abilities, and have been assured performance is recognised and rewarded quickly in this firm. Still, my CV should stand on its own merit.

Suppose I do accept this position. Well, first I'd have to move—across the country. Can I do that to my son, just leave him here? Not that he'd be out in the street: my mum has said he can live with her until he goes to Charlottesville. But he yet feels his mother has turned against him. Would he not feel I, too, have abandoned him? He needed more than a year to come out of his shell after being rudely tossed out on his arse. I just don't see how I can risk putting him through that again.

Down another road, I accept a somewhat less lucrative position with a DoD prime contractor. This one isn't in my chosen field, but is related, and at the very least I wouldn't have to relocate. I could even ride public transit to work, saving both my car and sanity. The problem is, I promised myself I never again would work as a cog in the war machine.

Yet another path is to take a very low paying (by my standards) job with one of the local businesses. A year or so past, this would not have been feasible. Even now it would mean considerable adjustment. While it is true many of those adjustments already have been made, given my circumstances, this would mean accepting as permanent what I have promised both Gregory and myself would be only temporary.

Another somewhat low-paying and uncertain path recently suggested was that I apply to the local school system as a substitute teacher. I suppose, yes, this is a possibility. At very best, though, it would be a stop-gap measure. I am not a licensed teacher, nor do I wish to be, and this seems to be the goal of many substitutes. Or so I have been told by those who should know.

Of course, I could continue on the same path, pursuing a career in writing. I could even go back to editing, assuming I could find work. There are too many very good—and far too many very poor—free lance editors looking for too little work, so I couldn't depend upon that to sustain us.

What has predicated this look down the road? Money. Filthy lucre. I don't want to label the situation crisis, as it is miles and miles from that point. Still, I am haemorrhaging cash. Two weeks ago, I had a CD mature and, rather than roll it over at current anaemic interest, I cashed out. Besides, I was confident those funds would sustain Gregory and me through this year.

And then I got hit with the semi-annual real estate tax bill. I knew it was coming, of course. I also knew it would be outrageous, given the current market. And I know it comes due again in December. What I did not factor in was how long I would be going without income. Nor did I consider the bleak economic outlook for the next six months—or more.

I'm not destitute, not by a long way. But if I don't follow a new road, the one I'm on surely will lead to a number of most unhappy changes in lifestyle and future. Still, none of my apparent choices seem viable. So I'll keep looking for that hidden path, the one barely noticable and perhaps overgrown from disuse. And maybe I'll take a short detour down one of the less attractive options. One must do what one must do, after all.

Home Again

2009-04-16T13:07:00.004-04:00

I'll not say "safe and sound," as he's dangerously close to a good arse-kicking, but Gregory is home again.

He turned up last night about ten o'clock, after ringing home about half past seven. I must say, he had utterly no concept of the drama he had initiated, but he was most apologetic. And now that I know he's safe, I have the luxury of getting quite angry with him. To his good fortune, he has gone to class and so won't be here to bear the brunt of my wrath. And by time he gets home this evening, I'll have calmed considerably.

So, here's what happened to my wayward son...

It seems Tuesday was just like any other day. He went to his morning class, ate lunch, then went to his afternoon class. As he was leaving for the day, he ran into a friend in the car park. Said friend invited Gregory to his place, quite a ways out in the country. Gregory went.

At that point details get thin, and a bit hazy. I'm not at all certain I want to know what went on--ignorance is bliss, after all--but it seems time got away from them, and Gregory decided to stay the night. Now, as to why he blew off classes yesterday, apparently he didn't wake until noon. I still haven't had a good answer as to why he never rang me until prodded by a third party, though he did mumble something about not having a good cellular signal where he was. Never mind that the friend had a land line, and it was via that he rang me.

As for me, I called in lots of favours yesterday. For instance, a friend at the FBI got Gregory's cellular usage details for me, and I rang up the numbers he called most. (Brief aside: I believe it was one of those I spoke with who urged him to 'phone home.) But mostly, I worried. Paced. Drove to his college and cruised the car park looking for his car. Ate lots of Maalox...

But he's safe, has promised always to ring me when plans change, and has been properly contrite. So all's right with the world again, or at the least this little corner of it.

I still may kick his arse, though.

Missing

2009-04-15T10:46:00.004-04:00

That's my son, Gregory. He's missing.

Gregory left home yesterday morning at 9:55, on his way to class. I asked whether he had funds for lunch, petrol, whatever he needed. He nodded and said, "See ya." Then he turned and walked out the door.

The last words I said--to the back of his head--were, "Be careful out there." Same as every morning.

When he didn't come home for supper, or ring to say he'd be late, I was annoyed. When he hadn't come home by the time I went to bed, I was pissed off. When I woke at 4:15 and he still hadn't come home, I began to worry.

It's now approaching 11:00, and Gregory has neither been seen nor heard from. This is entirely out of character for him. He calls when he's going to be late for supper. He lets me know days ahead of time when he has plans for an evening.

I have had the unpleasant task of informing his mother. I've spoken with her three times this morning, more than in the past year otherwise. As expected, this is somehow my fault.

I've spoken with campus security at his college: He was not in class this morning. They will check his afternoon class and let me know if he attends that one. That's about all they can offer.

I've spoken with local LEO's about this. The deputy was very sympathetic, and offered to do all he could--short of listing Gregory as missing. He would have done that, had I so desired, but considering the ramifications I opted to wait until this evening. At the least I know Gregory is not in hospital, jail, or the local psych facility. I'd almost rather he was. It's the not knowing that scares the hell out of me. My mind is running riot with all the what-ifs.

And so I write this post. Catharsis by blog, and in vain: I'm still scared to death. For the first time in my adult life, I don't know which way to turn, or what the bloody hell to do.

Tax Time

2009-04-13T20:19:00.003-04:00

I met with my accountant today, just long enough to sign my tax forms and write four cheques. Four? Yeah: One to the feds, one to the state, another to the feds (quarterly estimated), and the last to my accountant.

And now I am officially broke. Well, to be honest, not quite. I do have $1548.51 in the bank, and a few hundred in my wallet, but that just-short-of two grand is going to have to cover all living expenses for both Gregory and me until about the end of May. Unless, of course, one or more of the many bastards who owe me, (gentle hint) freakin' pay me.

I do have a CD coming due on or about 25 May, so I won't be out in the street. But the time has come to hit the employment office, and pray that someone, somewhere in my vicinity has an opening for a 54 year old with an MSME from Cal, but no recent experience. Or an editor with lots of recent experience, but no relevant degree. Or... hell, I'll do just about anything. I just don't want to end up flipping burgers at Mickey D's.

WTF?!

2009-03-09T09:29:00.002-04:00

In a world gone nucking futs, this takes the Nucking Futs Prize: I just read that Miley Cyrus, daughter of one-hit wonder Billy Ray, star of 'tween crapola and middle school fantasies, is writing an autobiography.

This spoilt brat is 16. What can she possibly have to say that would warrant more than a short interview in Tiger Beat? (Is Tiger Beat still published, btw, or am I really showing my age?) And does anyone believe this uneducated, semi-literate "star" will, in fact, write any of it?

This is the vast cultural wasteland that the once-noble publishing business has become. As they pander to the lowest common denominator in search of profit, literature dies.

Bitchfest '09

2009-02-18T14:40:00.002-05:00

Some days, it's all I can do to haul my fat, decrepit old arse out of bed.

I joke a lot about my health problems--bad back, deteriorating knees, mitral valve prolapse, enlarged left atrium, etc--because if I didn't, I'm afraid I'd start screaming and never stop. Sometimes, I think that wouldn't be such a bad thing. The screaming, I mean, not the never stopping part.

My knees hurt almost all the time, a constant reminder of the foolish things I did in my youth, well past the time a sane man would have said, "Enough." Yesterday, for an hour or so, I found myself in a position where my knees just did not hurt. I almost missed the pain--almost--until I had to move. Then back it came, with a vengeance, as if to say, "So, you thought you could ditch me!"

My back is more forgiving: it only complains when I injure it. If I would lose the extra poundage with which I have burdened it, I would injure it less often. But there's the rub: to lose the weight, I need to become more active. And to be more active, I first must lose the weight, else I'll injure my back and knees. Add to that the aforementioned cardiac insufficiencies, which limit the forms of exercise I even am allowed to pursue, and Joseph Heller would be proud.

And then there's my financial condition. Critical may be an overstatement, but some days--most particularly those on which I pay bills--that's how I see it. After all, there isn't a great deal flowing in, but plenty keeps gushing out. There was a major infusion of cash several months ago, when I sold the Porsche, but I used that (wisely, I think) to help pay off my mortgage. Yes, the house now is unencumbered, and I truly am grateful no longer to have to write that monster cheque. And yet, I still manage to spend somewhere in the mid four-figure range every bloody month.

Lest you get the wrong idea, I'm not complaining about my living expenses. I never have been averse to spending, provided there was value received. But then, I've always enjoyed a substantial income, even when it was intermittent. I do have rainy-day funds--and hurricane-month funds, come to that--but for the first time in my life I'm facing an extended period in which I have had little income, and don't see substantial change any time soon. Sure, I could trim spending in several areas. I already have made a few adjustments, and unless the situation improves--soon--major changes are coming. I suppose everyone is casting a critical gaze upon their spending these days, though, and that probably is for the best.

That seems to be true for businesses, too, which isn't for the best. Or my best, at any rate. All my clients have cut back, some drastically or even entirely, on independent contracts. My best client (who always paid in full and on time) decided to go entirely in-house as of the new year. And forget about finding new contracts: The publishing industry is in such turmoil, some analysts see it as death throes.

Worse, many clients just aren't paying. One company, who owe me over $20,000.00, filed Chapter 7 last December. I received notice this past week of another, who owe me almost as much, filing Chapter 11. A few smaller contracts are more than 90 days in arrears; one is past 180 days. I keep them on the books only because each has promised, and made some effort, to pay. Several other delinquent accounts, totalling well over $40,000.00 and at least a year past due, have been turned over to my attorney for collection. I'm not holding my breath.

Is it any wonder I'm in therapy and on anti-depressants?

Humbug

2008-12-29T12:14:00.005-05:00

This has not been a happy season for me. Christmas always has been my favourite time of year—I go nucking futs with food and gifts and decoration—but this year if it wasn't one thing it was three conspiring against the season. I barely put up a tree, and candles didn't make it to the street-facing windows until the Monday before Christmas—the same day we finally got my mum's (artificial) tree put up.

Speaking of whom, for lo these past several years, my mother's short-term memory has been, at best, a sometime thing. Now her long-term memory is starting to fade. I suppose, at eighty-plus years of age, this is not so unusual. Still, even as her short-term memory began to fade, she could cleave to the simple, comforting truth that her recollection of times past remained razor sharp and spot-on.

Then, a few weeks back, I caught her staring at an envelope she had just addressed.

"What's the matter, Mum? Think you already sent them a card?"

"No. I just can't remember who this is."

It was addressed to my cousin, Mum's niece and namesake. Her godchild. The cousin who, this past June, arranged my mum's eightieth birthday party. When I explained this, she merely looked confused. She seemed to need a moment, but then nodded in assent. To be frank, I still am not certain she was convinced.

Nor am I certain she really knew when it was Christmas Day. Gregory and I turned up at her home to "have Christmas" about noon. She seemed surprised to see us, perhaps all the more so because we bore not only gifts, but the makings of Christmas supper. She needed a moment or two, but soon enough got into the spirit. Whether she recalls any of it today, or ever will, is another question entirely.

And Gregory is off to visit his other grandmother in Florida. He will return Wednesday, and did decide to stay here through Christmas, thank you very much, but the weekend was rather bland without him. Don't misunderstand: I encourage him to stay close to his mother's side of the family. I just miss the little bugger when he's not around.

Worst of all, I've been depressed and self-medicating with my drug of choice: chocolate. Not only does this play hell with my expanding waistline and ballooning weight, it exacerbates the bloody reflux disease. So I've made an appointment with a new shrink for January. I've no doubt I'll be back on tricyclics or something similar by this time next month. And weekly group therapy. And monthly private sessions. And, of course, fighting with my insurance...

Well, at least I have insurance. And money in the bank, a roof over my head, clothes on my back and food in my belly. That leaves me better off than most of the rest of the world, and I am properly thankful. So, to borrow from Dickens, as Tiny Tim observed, "God bless us everyone."

A Christmas Meme

2008-12-08T12:26:00.005-05:00

After reading this over at Cetta's blog, and realising I could comment on every one of her entries, I decided to post my own version here. I know you can't wait to get into my head at Christmas, so here goes:

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? Depends upon the gift, and the recipient. Wine goes in a bag. Most other things get wrapping paper, except what goes to my friend Bob. He has horrible arthritis in his hands, and so has great difficulty unwrapping anything. He usually gets wine, anyway.

2. Real tree or Artificial? Real. Gregory and I have been tramping off to the tree farm and cutting our own since he was six. That said, this year there may be no tree at all. It looks like he's going to Florida for semester break (his other grandmother lives there), and I likely won't do much decorating.

3. When do you put up the tree? The third weekend in December. My family always has put up the tree that weekend, as far back as I can recall. When I was in school, it was on occasion for a great party. My friends, their parents, and my parents' friends all descended upon the house around five in the afternoon. We'd decorate the family room tree, and then pig out on Christmastime favourites.

4. When do you take the tree down? January 7, or as soon after Epiphany as practical. I have been known to take it down sooner, if it dries out and thus presents a fire hazard.

5. Do you like eggnog? Absolutely love it. Again, when I was a child, I helped my dad make his eggnog from a family recipe that dated to the late 18th century. Until I was out of school, I never got more than a wee dram, as it was loaded with brandy. We also made a cooked eggnog from a recipe that his mother developed for those too young to take brandy. But the thick, saccharine stuff you get commercially? Not so much...

6. Favorite gift received as a child? Two spring immediately to mind: my first real guitar, when I was 12, and my Bach Stradivarius trumpet when I was 14.

7. Hardest person to buy for? My mum. What do you get an 80-year old who has everything, and can afford virtually anything she wants?

8. Easiest person to buy for? Gregory. He's happy no matter what, but really loves tee-shirt philosophy. And the more esoteric, the better.

9. Do you have a nativity scene? Half a dozen or so, from the gilded papier-mâché Holy family—with Joseph standing about 7cm tall—to the hand-painted ceramic one I bought in Italy, complete with shepherds, kings, angels, camels, barnyard animals, and a barn. It's huge.

10. Mail or email Christmas cards? Both, actually. I make and send cards via postal mail, but usually find one or more e-cards to send, as well. This year, though, I won't be mailing cards: I can't find the card stock I like.

11. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? I should have taken the hint, in retrospect. We were at my former in-laws' home for Christmas, and I got two polo shirts. That's lower case "p," not Ralph Lauren Polo; the shirts I got were generic polos. My ex got a string of pearls. Her brother got a new set of golf clubs. His fiancée—the wedding was five weeks away—got a suede jacket. Even her daughter (who was 6 at the time) got a ton of goodies. Six months later, give or take, I got dumped.

12. Favorite Christmas Movie? Choosing just one is far too difficult. I really love some of the old films, like A Christmas Carol (the 1938 version, with Reginald Owen as Scrooge), Scrooge (1951, with Alistair Sim in the title role) and The Bishop's Wife. But I also love more recent movies, like Bad(der) Santa, Trapped in Paradise and The Family Stone. Choose only one? Okay, I have to go with The Ref.

13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? I don't really start shopping, I just buy things I know people on my list would like as I see them. But about now, I panic and realise I need six or seven more gifts, and don't have time to mail order or go online and shop and oh-my-god-the-mall-is-going-to-be-mobbed and...

14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? No, never. Anything I can't use goes to charity.

15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Chocolate truffles. I've been making them since I was a teen, and Gregory has been helping since he was old enough to be "quality control."

17. Favorite Christmas song? O Sanctissima, though one could argue that isn't really a Christmas song. So how about Adeste Fideles, preferrably in Latin. Yeah, I'm a traditionalist at Christmas.

18. Travel at Christmas or stay home? Depends. This year, I'll be staying home. I doubt I'll even venture forth to see friends and relatives on Christmas Day, though I might change my mind by then.

19. Can you name all of Santa’s reindeer? I can do better than that: I can recite A Visit from St. Nicholas!

20. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? Christmas morning. Again, that springs from childhood.

21. Most annoying thing about this time of the year? The crass commercialisation of the holiday.

22. Favorite ornament theme or color? Theme? Does hotch-potch count? Seriously, as a child we had two trees: one in the family room that was gang decorated (see #3), and the one in the front hall that was professionally done in red balls and golden bows. I loved the one in the family room.

23. What do you want for Christmas this year? Peace. A little tranquility. Maybe a good book and a bottle of The Macallan.

24. Angel on the tree top or a star? Star.

25. Favorite Christmas dinner? The food doesn't matter as much as who shares it.

And with that, I wish everyone who reads this a Merry Christmas. And, as Tiny Tim observed, "God bless us, everyone!"

Purple

2008-11-05T15:26:00.002-05:00

My red state went purple!

We did vote for Barack Obama, as most polls suggested we would. And we now will be sending two Democrats to the Senate. Sadly, the worthless prick who "represents" this district in the House has been elected to a full term (he was elected last year to finish the term of a deceased Representative who, frankly, wasn't much better).

I have to say, I'm surprised the Republican candidate for senator did as well as he did, garnering just over 1/3 of the vote. Both candidates were former governors of the Commonwealth, but the Republican is widely regarded as being responsible for the fiscal mess we face today (sound familiar?). Still, with some of the die-hard party liners in this state, they'd choose Hitler over Gandhi—depending upon his affiliation, of course.

Speaking of governors, I suppose the campaign for that office starts today. After all, it's only 364 days till that election...

The Magnificent Seven

2008-11-01T19:23:00.002-04:00

Thanks to Cetta, and my inability to think of anything else to write just now, a meme:

Seven Things to Do Before I Kick

1. Publish one or more of my novels.
2. See my son finish university.
3. Visit Machu Picchu and Angkor Wat.
4. Sail around the world.
5. Fish for black marlin off the Great Barrier Reef.
6. I really would like to earn my doctorate.
7. Win the lottery! Though I guess I'd have to play...

Seven Things I Can Do

1. Draw pretty damn well.
2. Play (classical) guitar.
3. Make really good ravioli.
4. Sew. Yes, really. Jeez...
5. Fly a multi-engine airplane (though my heart condition cost me my license).
6. Residential plumbing, but don't call me Joe.
7. Speak three languages, in addition to English.

Seven Things I Cannot Do

1. Get one of my novels published!
2. Pass a Salvation Army kettle without dropping in my spare change.
3. Sit through a movie starring David Spade or Chris Farley.
4. Tolerate poor grammar.
5. Stick to a grocery list.
6. Drive the speed limit.
7. Find the "device or driver conflict" that keeps rebooting my freakin' computer!

Seven Things that Attract Me to Another Person

1. Eyes.
2. Intelligence.
3. A sense of humour, including the ability to laugh at oneself.
4. A social conscience.
5. High self esteem, tempered with humility.
6. Courage, particularly the courage to stand by one's beliefs.
7. Grace under pressure.

Seven Celebrity Crushes

1. Winona Ryder
2. Stevie Nicks
3. Marisa Tomei
4. Natalie Portman (yeah, I know, Lolita syndrome)
5. Tina Fey (she can't help who she looks like!)
6. Christina Applegate
7. Anne Hathaway (yeah, yeah, she's younger than Natalie)

Seven Thing I Say the Most

1. No!
2. What the hell?!
3. It never ceases to amaze me...
4. In my fevered dreams.
5. Dinner!
6. Now, if they'll just pay me (the battle cry of the free lance!).
7. Oh, fuck!

Writing, Health and Online "Romance"

2008-10-26T13:00:00.007-04:00

I've not posted in some time, 'tis true. There are many reasons for my dearth of activity here, but perhaps the greatest is this: I've actually been writing! Yes, I have been paying attention to my Muse, and putting words to paper. Well, okay, I've been putting words into electronic files, but the principle is the same.

And, wonder of wonders, I also have found time to paint! Of course, it has been so long since I held a brush, most of my painting has consisted of re-learning technique. Still, it's wonderful to lose myself in watercolours for a day at a time!

There is a down side to all this creative effort, however. It seems the downturn in the economy is having quite the adverse effect upon free lance editing. I've not had so much as one paying job in almost two months, whereas this time last year I had more than I could do. And here I thought that a slow economy was supposed to be good for the publishing industry. Is it not conventional wisdom that people read more when times are tough?

Ah, well. Everyone is tightening their belts, right?

In health news, I finally have results from all the poking and prodding and sticking with needles suffered in the name of medical science. It seems my heart will last another year, God willing--it's actually in quite good form--and my GERD is under control. And thank goodness for Blue Cross, despite all my carping every time I write them a cheque. If I'd had to pay for all those bloody tests... Well, let's just say I feel for those without health insurance. And I hope the next president (Go Obama!) does something, anything, about universal coverage for this country.

Now, most of you know I've had my share of misadventures in online dating. My share? Mine and three or four other people's shares, I'd say. Anyway, a friend recently convinced me to sign on with a "social networking" site. No, it isn't the one you're thinking. Not the other one, either. Anyway, she got points for getting me to open an account, and I thought I could just ignore it thereafter. I was wrong.

Now I don't know if it's a sign of the times, or what, but there are a lot of lonely people out there. More than a few are online--many on multiple sites--looking for "my other half," or "my soulmate." Had I known what kind of Pandora's box I was opening, I never would have taken those five minutes to sign up for that bloody site!

My inbox has been flooded with "notifications" from that site--ten, 15, sometimes more per day--for the past month. Granted, many (if not most) get ignored. Sometimes, however, one captures my fancy, and I open it. This is almost always a mistake, but actually answering one is just stupid.

Call me stupid...

Hey, first I read the sender's profile. She seemed harmless enough, but I just didn't fit her "looking for" criteria. Still, she had written a polite, friendly, low-key note, so I decided to send her a polite, friendly, low-key "thanks but no thanks" reply. She never responded, and that, I thought, was that. Ha!

This morning, the friend who talked me into signing up for this service emailed to ask what I had done to "xzy123" (not her actual handle, of course). She went on to say I was being more or less eviscerated on some of the message boards. Not that I give a flying burrito, and it certainly hasn't slowed the emails, but it is... well, it's rude. I mean, what did I do? Say no? Has it come to the point that men aren't allowed to decline when women make first contact? Needless to say, I won't be answering any more emails from members of that site.

And on that note, I think I shall close this post. Next time, I'll try to be more coherent.

HarperCollins Sells Out--Again

2008-09-12T13:44:00.003-04:00

This is why good books go unpublished:

LOS ANGELES - Lauren Conrad can add a new position to her resume: author.

The 22-year-old star of MTV's nonfiction series "The Hills" will pen a young adult fiction book series for HarperCollins, the publisher announced Thursday. The three-book series will be titled "L.A. Candy" and will be loosely inspired by Conrad's transformation from teenager to reality TV star and fashion designer.

"I've always loved books that I could lose myself in, ones that would transport me to another place, but had characters I could relate to," Conrad said. "I'm so excited to have this opportunity to write books like that for other readers."

The first book in the series will be published summer 2009.

Yet another talentless cretin whose "work" will be published solely because it will entice the gullible to part with their money. And three worthy books, without a well-known author, will goo looking for a publisher.

Perhaps the time has come to stop yammering about starting a small press, and actually do it.

My Life, So Far

2008-07-14T12:46:00.001-04:00

I've not posted in some time, and with good reason: A more routine life would be difficult, if not impossible, to find. My days consist of work, eat, sleep; or, as the tee-shirt philosopher says, "Get up, survive, go back to bed."

I rise between seven and eight, put on the kettle, and check for overnight faxes and email. Why I bother with the "fax" function, I really don't know. Who uses faxes anymore? Truth be told, it is more about filling a few moments whilst the kettle heats. Still, this bloody kettle needs forever to boil. It never does, until breakfast is near done!

Breakfast is the same every morning. Gregory gets sausages and eggs, or waffles, or pancakes--whatever I'm of a mood to enjoy vicariously--whilst I feast upon high-fibre cereal and a piece of fruit. The menu was my doctor's recommendation, to be observed at the least until I have lost substantial weight. It seems a high-fibre breakfast with natural sugars not only helps regulate blood glucose, it will contribute to safe, long-term weight loss. Who woulda thunk it?

After a bit of tidying up, my tea is ready. I then settle in with a beaker of English Breakfast Blend--milk and one sugar, please--or the occasional Earl Grey with honey, and the morning newspaper. After poring over the local news (and sputtering over the abject ignorance of those writing letters to the editor), I pour a second beaker and settle in to answer email. And then it's on to the day's editing, or Web site updating, or whatever paying task beckons. Yes, it keeps me from my writing, or painting, but it also keeps a roof over our heads.

After a short break for lunch, more often than not right about one o'clock, it's back to the day's labours. Around four, I knock off. If I've put in a good and productive day, I'll reward myself with a cappuccino or iced latte. And then it's time to cook supper. By half seven, the dishes are cleared, the pots and pans washed and put away, and I can take a few minutes to do nothing but sit. It isn't unusual for me to nod off a moment or two, as the laugh track from reruns of "Two and a Half Men" mocks me.

Most evenings, I manage to get in another hour or two of work before frustration sets in. Then it's a few hours of relaxation and indulgence--reading, watching the telly, or perhaps drawing--before I surrender to fatigue, shortly after midnight most nights.

I have become old, and boring.

Perhaps not, but having such an established routine is very foreign to me. Even when in the employ of others, I always have made my own hours, gone my own way. And now, in the autumn of life, I see I have fallen into the comfortable path of the bourgeoisie. Oh, I yet have those bright and shining moments. And I cleave to the hope that once I drop a few stone and return to fighting trim--and help my son get situated on his life's path--I'll return to normal. Normal for me, at any rate. That, in so many words, is my goal and my inspiration. It keeps me going, and that can't be bad--can it?

Short and Sweet

2008-06-19T15:21:00.001-04:00

There’s a load off my mind.

I saw my doctor—my internist, that is—this Monday past. I have been struggling with a number of health issues these recent months, and the symptoms all seemed to point to a worsening of my heart problems. And so my imagination ran riot.

Well, there’s good news, and news that may not be so good. But at the very least, I now have some answers—and some relief.

First the good news: The ECG showed good circulation, especially round the heart, with no evidence of a heart attack. My blood pressure was slightly elevated from previous visits, but still in the normal range at 124/78. The blood chemistries showed electrolytes at good levels, and total cholesterol at 140 (the split was 88/52, in case you’re interested).

Now the not so good news: My blood sugar was slightly elevated, I’ve gained almost 20 pounds, and he believes I am suffering from atypical gastroesophageal reflux disease. In essence, I have acid reflux minus the heartburn. What this amounts to is irritation of the oesophageal lining, resulting in the feeling of needing to burp but being unable; spasms in the diaphragm; and a generalised sensation of tightness in the chest. It’s worse when lying down, ergo worse at night.

The other symptoms I have all can be explained by the elevated blood sugar. The good news in this is, believe it or not, is the doc doesn’t think I’m diabetic. The not so good is, I could be heading in that direction.

So, in addition to that 20 pounds I’ve packed on, I now have a great incentive to knock off a couple of stone. And quickly: I have to see the internist again on 21 July. And the cardio on 1 August.

Life Goes On

2008-05-28T12:19:00.002-04:00

Much to my surprise, and delight, I'm still here. Alive. Kicking.

In all honesty, I did not expect to see my birthday this year. About a month prior, my health—already not so good—began deteriorating. I won't bore you with the symptoms, but will say it was serious enough that I executed an Advance Medical Directive and Living Will prohibiting "heroic or extraordinary measures" to prolong my life.

Anyone who snakes a gastronasal tube down my throat to feed and hydrate me can expect to be haunted. Oh, not by me: by the lawyers for my estate. Oh, what the hell... I'll haunt you, too. And not in a good way.

By the way, yes, I am feeling much improved. I have no idea why, beyond the power of positive thought. Many, many friends and family members have told me I am remembered in their prayers. Two friends have had my name added to the prayer circle at their churches. With all that positive energy flowing my way, it has to help.

Brief aside: I don't really pray, in the traditional sense. Oh, I believe in a Supreme Being—God, Jehovah, call it what you will—but not organised religion. I cannot support anyone or anything that claims to be the one and only True Path. Not if I continue to believe in the good and merciful, loving and inclusive God of my experience. That said, whatever you believe, I will defend your right to believe it.

Back to what I was saying. Changing the meds has to have had some effect, of course, but how positive—and whether further adjustments will be made—remains to be seen. The thing is, I had an appointment scheduled with the cardiologist this past week. He took ill, and had to reschedule. Long story short, my appointment now is 1 August. The good news is, that makes me think I'm not "high risk." Or perhaps he's relying upon my internist to apprise him of any changes: I see that doctor 16 June.

But for now, life goes on. And in a year, I hope to look back at this entry and think the same thing.

Ob-la-di, ob-la-da...

Eight-legged Freaks

2008-04-23T10:21:00.004-04:00

Just to set the record right, I understand the fear and loathing reaction some have to spiders. I even will admit to a healthy respect for the critters. For instance, I wear heavy leather gauntlets when fetching firewood from the rear garden, and always make certain there are no hitchhikers: black widows are common hereabouts. Nor have I any desire to tangle with a brown recluse, after seeing a friend lose her left ring finger at the second joint due to a chance encounter with one.

Then there's the "ick" factor: spiders are sneaky, stealthy, however you want to say it, and turn up at the most startling moments, in the most inconvenient places. Thanks to countless horror flicks, we associate cobwebs—and therefore spiders—with dark cellars, creepy caves, haunted houses and other unsavoury locales. And (sorry, arachnophiles) they're bloody ugly.

Speaking of arachnophiles, I've known people who kept these creatures as pets. A girl I dated in high school, for instance, kept a red-knee tarantula in a very large terrarium. In Las Vegas, a neighbour kept several in a terrarium built into a coffee table. Then again, most people who lived in Las Vegas—those I knew, anyway—were a bubble or two off level.

Still, brown recluse bites are rare, and black widows are instantly recognisable. Common house and garden spiders not only are harmless to humans, they feed on those nasty little bugs that bite, sting, nibble plants and otherwise generally piss me off. So, while I have no desire to share my living quarters with arachnids, nor do I fear crunching the odd stray, long as they stay out of my kitchen, pantry and bedroom we can peacefully co-exist.

Scorpions, on the other hand...

Thoughts on a Rainy Sunday Morning

2008-04-20T11:48:00.002-04:00

I had one of those sleepless nights last night. It was hot and sticky, and not a whisper of wind stirred. I could see lightning off in the distance, but never heard the thunder. Perfect tornado weather, eh?

No: The only tornado was in my gut.

Yesterday was my son's nineteenth birthday. Though I'm not sure why, I was more excited about this than he. Anyway, I spent much of the day—and a good part of Friday—on his birthday feast. Hey, he requested barbecue: real barbecue, well-seasoned with a (secret recipe) dry rub and smoked low and slow, for a good 12 hours, then hand pulled. And who uses store-bought sauce on 'cue of that quality?

It's a southern thing. Or a Kansas City thing. The rest of y'all wouldn't understand.

About half two, his grandmother rang to wish him a happy birthday. Not my mum, who was joining us for supper: Trudy's mother. That was nice, and he seemed pleased to hear from her. They chatted a good half hour, and he was more than normally animated afterward.

Not forty minutes later, the doorbell rang. It was Trudy, and some bloke I never had seen. I told Gregory he would have to answer the door, as I didn't feel I could be gracious. To be frank, I'd not have admitted them. She had to ring a second time before he opened the door. They made themselves comfortable in my house, and stayed a solid hour.

I left them alone—didn't so much as say hello—but couldn't help hearing their voices. Trudy, per custom, did almost all the talking. No, I couldn't make out what was said, nor did I try: it was, after all, none of my concern. I could hear Gregory's terse, monosyllabic responses, however. He did not sound happy. When they finally did leave, he plopped down in front of the television and spoke not three words until supper.

Am I wrong to feel this "visit," unannounced and unbidden, was an invasion of my privacy? That it was little more than a thinly veiled attempt to re-exert her influence over Gregory? Why the bloody hell can't she just leave us in peace? Is it so vexatious to her that we enjoy our lives all the more without her? Good Christ, she booted me—and then she booted Gregory!

So, much as I would like to think Trudy is nothing more than a remnant of my past, it is obvious she retains the power to piss me off. Royally. What's worse is I allowed her to spoil a perfectly nice day. Well, part of it: by supper, we were back to normal. It isn't easy to hold onto a bad feeling with a plate of good barbecue in front of you. Not to mention the dark chocolate cake with truffle frosting...

An Accurate Fortune Cookie?

2008-04-17T10:11:00.004-04:00

I had lunch from a Chinese take-away yesterday. In case you can't read the scan above, it says, "You are a lover of words, someday you will write a book." Sure, but will anyone read it?

Maybe I'll risk a dollar on those lucky numbers...

Another Fresh Post!

2008-04-14T10:01:00.004-04:00

Two days in a row! Have I ever managed this before? Well, we've Cetta to thank for this entry: she tagged me. So here we go!

The Rules:

1. When tagged, place the name of the person and URL on your blog

2. Post the rules on your blog

3. Write 7 things about yourself

4. Tag 7 of your favorite bloggers

Seven Little Things About Me

1. I am a voracious reader. Words are to me as crack or crystal meth to an addict. I read Bartlett's Familiar Quotations for entertainment. Looking up a word, any word, in my beloved American Heritage Dictionary can mean half an hour or more of lost time.

2. When I'm not reading or writing, I'm painting or drawing. My watercolours never will hang in a gallery near you, but I take great joy from washing pigment over 640-gram rough paper. And not long ago, I began experimenting with egg tempera.

3. I hate to go to bed, but then I hate getting up. There are so many things I want and need to do, yet I know my days are not long upon this earth. Nevertheless, there is no more delicious an indulgence than silencing the alarm and snuggling back under the comforter.

4. In addition to English, I speak three languages—with varying degrees of proficiency. Spanish is all but my second native tongue. My French may be rusty—un petite peu—but I still claim conversational proficiency. And I have just enough Russian to call myself a beginner.

5. About six months ago, I stopped drinking coffee of a morning. Before you cry "Blasphemy!" let me explain. All through my undergrad years, we were served tea with milk at breakfast, and I loved it. Upon returning to the US, and finding employment, I took up the coffee habit of my co-workers. Tea once again became the iced beverage I drank with supper. Last October, I was out of coffee one morning and so drank hot tea. With milk. And now I cannot start my day without it. Oh, I still indulge in the odd cappuccino of an afternoon, but tea—Twining's English Breakfast, if you please—sees me through the morning.

6. I have neither read a Harry Potter novel nor seen any of the movies, nor have I any desire to. I mean no offence to Ms Rowling nor her fans, but from what I have read of the books and seen of the movies, they just do not appeal to me.

7. If God is willing and the river doesn't rise, I will retire to Provence or Tuscany within seven years. Visitors will be welcome.

Now, here is where I break one of the rules: I'm not going to tag anyone. Most of my favourite blogs have disappeared, and the rest I read but seldom post a comment. That would leave only Cetta, who tagged me, and Lisa. So Lisa, if you want to take up the challenge...

For Sale: 2003 Porsche

2008-04-13T12:36:00.002-04:00

Yes, I'm totally serious: the Porsche has to go. First $68 thou takes her.

No, there's nothing wrong with her. In fact, the car is in perfect condition. Other than the twenty-nine thousand ticks on her clock, she's virtually indistinguishable from new. Not a dent or scratch will you find on this pampered vehicle, not even a stone chip in the paint. She even carries the remainder of the Porsche Certified Pre-owned warranty. Yes, I bought her used a few years back, about six months after selling her predecessor.

This car was driven only for fun, never as a commuter car or the odd shopping run. Yesterday, I drove her to a Board meeting at Old Dominion University, a round trip of some 350 miles. What a great drive! Tortuous back roads and open freeway all the way fairly begged me to unleash all 450 horses. And, for a couple of brief runs, I did. (NB: To any Virginia law enforcement personnel reading this, remember, successful prosecution for a moving violation requires that one be caught in the act.)

When almost home, I decided to take a slight detour. Yes, via yet another twisting, winding back road. I was enjoying myself so much that I failed to notice two things: my speed (probably in excess of twice the limit) and the approaching Sheriff's Crown Vic. Well, I met him rounding a curve, so I've something of an excuse for not noticing.

No, I didn't get stopped, though I've no doubt he tried. I could see the flash of blue lights in my rear-view, but the road was such that he would have had the devil's own time turning round. Though, again, I've no doubt he tried. I wasn't about to sit and wait for him, however. So I pressed onward, quickly but more cautiously, and made it into the garage unscathed.

And in the garage the Porsche will remain, until sold.

At which point I likely will buy another sports car. Something a little less inclined to lead to flinging through curves, or slingshotting down the freeway: a classic, perhaps. Anyone know where I could find a 1971 Series III XK-E OTS?

Why Good Books Go Unpublished

2008-03-01T11:36:00.002-05:00

It Takes a Village (you know who). Propeller One-Way Night Coach (John Travolta). Your Heiress Diaries: Confess It All to Me (Paris Hilton). And now this, from the Associated Press [my comments in brackets]:

NEW YORK -- The Olsen twins [those living troll dolls] are hoping to spread a little "Influence."

Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen are working on a coffee-table book about fashion [translation: a publisher had an idea, needed a celebrity to sell it, and these are the only ones desperate enough for credibilty to agree], titled Influence, that a division of Penguin Group (USA) will release in the fall.

The 21-year-old actresses will be writing [oh yeah, sure they will] about photographers, artists and designers including Bob Colacello, Terry Richardson, Jack Pierson and Christian Louboutin.

"Mary-Kate and I have filled Influence with the most interesting, challenging, creative people we know — the ones who helped pave the way for us and our generation," [paved the way for what? to be shallow, self-absorbed conspicuous consumers?] Ashley Olsen said in a statement [written for her by someone in Penguin's PR department].

"Ashley and I interviewed [read that, "drank cosmopolitans and chain-smoked on the sidelines whilst a competent professional did all the work"] the people who have inspired us, with the hope that they will inspire and teach others," Mary-Kate Olsen said in a statement [see above].

Too snarky? Well, maybe. But the sad thing is, there are people who will shell out the $80.00-plus this drivel surely will cost. And then we wonder why literature is disappearing from booksellers' shelves...

A Few Questions for Senator McCain

2008-02-27T14:28:00.002-05:00

Dear Senator McCain,

Not even nominated, and already you are stooping to vituperative ad hominem assaults. Looks like the Grand Old Party just can't move away from Politics As Usual. Anyway, Senator, answer me this:

One of your favourite attention-getters is to posit, "I think it might be nice for President Bush to get a little credit that there's not been another attack on the United States of America." Remind me again, Mr McCain: Just who was President on 11 September 2001?

Which administration has lied to the American people no fewer than 935 times in an effort to mount and sustain its unlawful invasion of a sovereign nation?

Which president deserves credit for gutting the Constitution of the United States at every opportunity, whining "nine-eleven" when anyone points out his illegal and un-American activities?

Along those lines, which president has chosen to ignore, circumvent and subvert the Constitution, rather than "preserve, protect and defend" it, as he swore in his oath of office?

Oh, and one final thing: Should we continue to call you Senator McCain, or would you prefer Dubya...

I Feel the Need to Ramble

2008-02-12T15:53:00.000-05:00

It’s Potomac Primary Tuesday, and I’ll soon be going out to vote (for Obama), even though I believe Lisa has infected me long-distance. My body aches, my sinuses are dripping and… well, let’s stop before we get far into TMI territory. Anyway, I don’t feel like working, but I do feel like writing.

This Friday afternoon past, a “For Sale” sign sprang up beside a neighbour’s driveway. My first thought was, “In this market?” To be sure, this particular locality seems untouched by the vicissitudes that have of late wrought havoc in our national economy. Still, it is common knowledge even we are in a buyer’s real estate market.

By Saturday morning, something new had been added to that “For Sale” sign: a smaller, hanging sign, screaming (in white letters on red ground), “REDUCED!” So soon? It seemed they were giving in awfully fast. Not necessarily so, says my one remaining friend in the real estate business. It seems this is a common ploy in the current market. Potential buyers want to feel they are getting a bargain, and nothing scratches that itch quite so well as their inference the seller is desperate.

Sunday morning, I checked the local real estate listings. My neighbours are asking $899,950.00 for their house—“price reduced $100,000.00!” and “$10,000.00 help with closing costs for full price sale!”—with “all reasonable offers considered.”

Holy something-or-other! Okay, I was well aware real estate values hereabout were over-inflated, to say the least. And it may be that this neighbourhood is amongst the more desirable—thus spake my real estate guru—in Fredericksburg. But to imagine that these houses even approach one million dollars in value is absurd! These are not mansions, my friends, nor is this a gated community with resort amenities. Rather, it is a simple, quiet neighbourhood of comfortable houses and large gardens, front and rear.

What the hell, if they can get nearly nine hundred grand for their house, I can get it for mine. So more power to them, and you can visit me in Provence!

Gregory’s mother continues her “outreach for control.” Two weeks ago, he closed his savings account at her bank, because they refused to acknowledge his change of address. He had given them ample time to recognise the change—more than three months—and they had ignored his request. So he drove there (some 120 miles round trip) to try resolving the problem in person. They wanted him to open a new account, as that one was tied to his mother’s. To be fair, she had done this to get him a better interest rate. How convenient that it accomplished the same for her, as we learned a few days ago.

Long story short, he closed his account (over loud and acrimonious objections from the bank’s manager), and opened a savings account at one of our local banks. Last Thursday, Trudy rang him—for the second time in 2008—to ream him a new one over this change in his banking relationships. After listening to her rant for a good ten minutes, during which I heard him utter no more than a couple of dozen words, he hung up without saying good-bye. I kept out of it—he is an adult, after all, and must learn to deal with his mother—but I truly wanted to intervene. More than that, really, I wanted to tell her to leave Gregory the hell alone, until she has something positive to say. I can take it. I’m accustomed to her vindictive harangues. Gregory, on the other hand, is a sensitive and caring person, who still can’t comprehend why his mother has turned against him.

I’m just back from voting. My little precinct already has cast more than 1000 ballots. I’m hopeful this bodes well for overall turnout—and for Obama.

I’ve not written about my misadventures in dating for quite some time. This is not for lack of anecdotes, I assure you. After a time, though, it seems they all run the same course. Could it be I am attracted only to women who won’t be interested in me? Is this my subconscious trying to protect me? Am I overanalysing…?

The truth is, I just don’t think I’m ready to enter into another serious relationship. I may never again be ready for that. I would like to meet someone to just date, however. You know, go to cinema, theatre, the opera. Take day trips to local wineries. Go back to some of my favourite restaurants, perhaps try a few new. But every eligible woman I meet is looking for commitment—even though all want to be “friends first”—and labels me “phobic” when I honestly describe what I want in a relationship.

So what’s my point? Just that I have a date Saturday. The timing could be better, I know, this being Valentine’s Day weekend. But there’s the rub: she already knows what I seek from a relationship, and she is after the same. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll hit it off. Maybe I won’t muck it up. Maybe it won’t matter that she’s more than twenty years younger…

Okay, I’ve managed to fritter away a whole day. I still feel like what the cat dragged in, and am having fond thoughts of a good book and a hot toddy before a roaring fire. So cheers, everyone, and don't forget to vote.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

2007-11-17T06:52:00.000-05:00

I have a broken rib.

I'd like to say I got it playing Rugby (as with my first broken rib), or when I crashed a C-production Jaguar at Sears Point (as with my second). But the truth is, I fell.

Yes, I've gotten more clumsy--and, it would appear, more fragile--in my dotage. I was walking into a restauant with my son this Tuesday past, slipped on a rain-slicked kerb, and went base over apex onto the pavement. I managed to stand and reclaim enough of my shattered dignity to continue into the restaurant. I even managed to wolf down lunch and drive home before my left side began throbbing.

Well, given my history of heart disease, the dull pain in my left arm and the sharp pain on the left side of my chest, I went straight to the ER. And if one could be admitted to hospital over fright, my son would have been right alongside.

(I hate my local ER, but that's another story. In fact, I've written that other story before--check the archives!)

Back on track: I walked into the ER, ashen-faced I'm sure, clutching my left arm to my chest. Next I knew, two doctors and a gaggle of nurses were attending me. So, long story shortened: my ECG was normal, blood oxygen level excellent, etc. We needed x-rays to reveal the source of my pain.

Ever had a broken rib? No? Well, guess what: there is no treatment. Unlike most other bones in the body, broken ribs cannot be set. All one can do is rest, abstain from any activity likely to aggravate the condition, and take lots of prescription-strength painkillers. Tylenol-IV, anyone?

Now the good news: A broken rib requires five to eight weeks to heal, though most experience relief from the more intense pain within two to three weeks. Thanksgiving is Thursday. Christmas is but five weeks away. Thank God Gregory lives here now, or I don't know what the bloody Hell I'd do!

Oh, one thing more: one must avoid sneezing and coughing at all costs. Unless, of course, one enjoys searing pain in the chest from the deep inhale and sharp exhale. Did I mention I have a headcold...

Never

2007-10-10T22:03:00.000-04:00

Today I present a short list of “nevers”: situations, circumstances and conditions that have occurred so rarely in my life that contending with them now leaves me…

…amazed. Never in my life has my garage been so organised. The workbench remains somewhat cluttered, and my various toolboxes could do with a bit of tidying, but the garage itself is a model of order. Fishing rods hang from appropriate wall mounts, whilst tackle boxes are stored away on newly assembled steel shelves. Power tools share that shelf space, as do oversize, seldom-used kitchen appliances. Electrical extension cords, now blessedly kink-free, have been coiled and hung upon purpose-designed hangers. It is a wonder to be able to step into my garage and lay hands upon whatever I may need without so much as a moment’s hesitation. And, miracle of miracles, both bays can be used to park cars!

…frustrated. Never have I had such difficulty collecting from clients. Oh, there always was that one—or two—who were slow to pay, though they always came through. Of course, that was back when I was dealing with established corporations, many of which were prime DoD contractors. Now I also must contend with individuals: writers and wannabe writers (most fall into the latter category) who have little to no concept of responsibility. They seem to feel no obligation to pay for my editing their work until it is published. One has even so stated, declaring that until his work sees publication, I have not fulfilled our contract! Well, I have learnt my lesson, leading to another never: Never again will I undertake an independent editing job unless at least fifty per cent of agreed payment is rendered in advance.

…wary. I now am certain the new neighbours are doing something illegal, though what that might be eludes me. Perhaps I shouldn’t say certain, as it is more a very strong suspicion; however, it is suspicion based upon observation and casual conversation with other neighbours. This from a man who famously goes to great lengths to avoid sticking his nose into other people’s business… Still, never have I felt so insecure in my own home. Yes, I have a sophisticated alarm system, but only to satisfy my insurance company. Never, until the past several weeks, did I activate it during daylight hours, save when I would be away for extended periods. Now I arm it whenever I leave the house, and every night about eight o’clock. I’m beginning to feel a virtual prisoner. Or, at very least, that we live in a halfway house—minus, of course, random drug and alcohol testing.

…confused. Gregory has been living with me about five weeks, and his mother has made the effort to contact him only once. That was via email, four weeks past, to arrange a time for him to collect the remainder of his belongings from her house. HER bloody house! Yes, it seems she already has excised him from her life. And even though he has rung her a time or two, she’s not returned his calls. Well, he’s settling in and quite happy here. We’ll mark this her loss.

…angry. Two months before Gregory was born, we set up a trust fund “for the college education of any issue of the Parties.” That may not be the precise wording of the instrument, but the gist is there. Now Her Highness, Princess Pain-in-the-ass, is making an effort to amend the terms and conditions of the trust. Yes, her control freak side rears its ugly head yet again. Princes P-i-t-a is insisting Gregory enrol full-time in a programme that meets her approval before she will agree to withdrawals from the fund. And she insists he maintain a minimum “B” average for her to agree to continued payments. No, she doesn’t have that right; yes, she can prevent dipping into the trust fund—for a while. What it means is, it’s back to court we go.

Or is it? No, I don’t think so. I’ll not let her exert even that degree of control, nor will I sink to the level of fighting with her over dollars. Anyway, the wording of the trust is such that the fund cannot be used for any other purpose—ever—without consent of both Parties. So to hell with it: I’ll pay for Gregory’s college, and then he can inherit the trust after we’re both dead and gone.

I’m feeling better already.

Splash

2007-09-15T12:15:00.000-04:00

The landscape architect and his crew finished my new pond a few weeks ago, and I have to say it looks far better than the gaping hole left by that dead oak tree. That reads as though I'm not pleased, and that just is not true. However, I still long for that outdoor kitchen, and this just cannot compare.

The area is much larger than I envisioned, due to the pergola-covered dining area. You see, I retained one element from my outdoor kitchen dream. Perhaps that was a mistake, but it's done now. And it's actually quite nice, with a native stone fireplace and low wall--42 inches--at one end, the pond at the other.

The dining area and about half the circumference of the pond are paved in flagstones, while the rest is "naturalised." That means boulders and soil have been piled round it, and a seriously out of place waterfall circulates and aerates the pond water. Oh, I did give in and stock the pond with a few goldfish--but only after I was assured they would have hiding places, in the form of rock overhangs and such. That Cooper's hawk continues to frequent my yard, though to be fair I doubt he--she?--would be interested in such tiny fish.

And now for something completely different:

I'm convinced one of my neighbours is a drug dealer. Across the street and three houses down, the house has fallen into... well, not disrepair exactly, but serious neglect. When compared to the rest of the houses nearby--mine included, of course--it looks shabby. You know how a vacant house looks? The grass allowed to grow far too high, shades always drawn? If not for the frequent visitors, you would swear this house was unoccupied.

The thing is, those frequent visitors always seem to be the same lot. And they keep quite to themselves, bothering no one. Also, I've not one shred of proof the new owners (they moved in this past June) are doing anything illegal. It's just a bad feeling I have: something not quite right is going on in that house.

Or perhaps it simply is a sign of the times: the current administration has me so paranoid, I see perfectly innocent behaviour as suspicious. Sad commentary on the state of this nation, eh?

A Pond It Is

2007-07-24T20:32:00.000-04:00

So, all estimates for my outdoor dream kitchen are in. Oh... my God. Looks like I won't have hearth-baked bread anytime soon. Can you imagine four thousand dollars plus for a bloody wood-burning oven?! Sure, it's a "masterpiece of Tuscan craftsmanship." For that price, I would expect nothing less!

I won't bore you with detail, but not one estimate--even for the compromise version, sans wood-burning oven and running water--came in under $30,000.00. The most outrageous of the lot was double that. So, after careful consideration, I have decided a small pond isn't such a bad compromise.

Of course, it won't be a koi pond: there's a Cooper's hawk who frequents my neighbourhood. I can just imagine him (or her) looking down into a little pond full of colourful fishies and thinking, "Ah, lunch!" If anything, I might toss in a few generic goldfish. And I'll make certain they've overhanging ledges for hiding.

Actually, a pond isn't such a bad idea. It was my initial idea for dealing with this gaping hole, after all. And the hole is already dug, more or less. It could do with some enlargement, perhaps a bit of shaping. A pond will afford the chance for a little creative landscaping, as well. I can build a little terrace, perhaps with a pergola and fireplace, overlooking the pond. I could even build in a waterfall, or a fountain... And once again, I'm pushing up the cost to OMG range.

Maybe it's best I simply fill in the bloody hole!

Seven Wonders

2007-07-08T12:34:00.000-04:00

So I'm looking at the newly declared "Seven Wonders of the World." And what made the cut? A monument to human sacrifice (Chichen Itza); a religious icon (Christ the Redeemer); monuments to xenophobia (Great Wall), a lost civilisation (Machu Picchu), a lost culture (Petra), and bloodsport (Colosseum); and a mausoleum (Taj Mahal).

Granted, these are all spectacular examples of architecture, engineering, and innovation. And they're just plain beautiful. But let's compare a few contemporary equivalents in the good ol' USA:

1. A mounment to human sacrifice: Your friendly neighbourhood Armed Forces Recruitment office. But, some would argue, at Chichen Itza sacrifice was practised for purposes of religious worship. True enough. However, the fervour with which Messrs Bush, Cheney, et al, have prosecuted their "War on Terror" (or, as it is known outside the Beltway, "War on Common Sense") certainly qualifies as religious.

2. A religious icon: What could be more appropriate than that ugly slab of granite resembling nothing so much as an elaborate tombstone and carved with the King James version of the Ten Commandments, placed in the rotunda of Alabama's state judicial building by Chief Justice Roy Moore in 2001? Almost anything, really: this was not about free exercise of religion. Rather, it was a transparent attempt to (further) unravel the very thread of the Constitution. And, secure in the knowledge this bid would fail, to provide a convenient rallying point for all Fundamentalists in the Bible Belt. Amen, (former) Judge Roy!

3. A monument to xenophobia: This is far too easy. Let's look to our own "Great Wall," on the Mexican border. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, and I'll PNG their asses and ship 'em right back to you. Unless, of course, they're part of a large voting bloc in south Florida...

4. A monument to lost civilisation: The United States Supreme Court, arbiter of the Constitution.

5. A monument to lost culture: Your local library. Okay, this may be a stretch--but I don't think so. Our libraries are the repository of our culture. Once upon a time, this meant literature, philosophy, history, science, et cetera. Now it's more et cetera.

6. A monument to bloodsport: There are many, with names like Talladega, Indianapolis and Daytona. On any given weekend from early spring to late autumn, one can find these latter-day Roman circuses teeming with spectators just aching to witness the spectacle of destruction and sacrifice. Of course, when blood is spilt, there is much wringing of hands and shedding of bitter tears--and tickets for the next NASCAR race sell out!

7. A mausoleum: The United States Archives, home of the Constitution. Requiescat in pace.

Pardon my jaded outlook, but living under the Bush regime will do that to you.

Renewed for Another Season

2007-07-03T18:30:00.000-04:00

Today was my (more or less) annual visit to the cardiologist. Dr R---- is nice enough, but he's one of those skinny blokes. You know, he could imitate a zipper by turning sideways and sticking out his tongue. His only advice to me: lose fifteen pounds, and get more exercise.

Aaarrrgggghhhh!

I swear, I could look like Matthew McConaughey (from the neck, down) and he'd still tell me to lose 15 pounds! Not that I couldn't stand to lose a couple stone, but it's never enough for Dr R. Yes, I know, he's looking out for my best interests. That doesn't make it any less annoying, however.

So: my BP is 116 over 80, my EKG is normal, and the leaky valve doesn't sound like it's leaking any worse than it was. In short, I've been renewed for another season. Well, at least until we get results from the echocardiogram in October.

That's when 'we' decide whether I need a new heart valve. Scalpels, chest spreaders, anesthesia... could be my cancellation notice. If it is, what the hell: I've had a good run! I've done more in my life than most people ever dream. Whatever comes, I'm ready. I'd say, "Bring it on!" but Dubya kind of ruined that for everybody.

My New Kitchen

2007-06-23T21:35:00.000-04:00

I have wanted to remodel my kitchen almost since the day I moved into this house. It isn't that my kitchen is so bloody incompetent; rather, I have very specific ideas as to how a kitchen should be arranged, what appliances it must have, and so forth. Still, despite brochures from half a dozen remodelers, catalogues from Wolf and Viking, and more sketches than I can count, my kitchen today looks very much as it did the day I moved in.

Money is an issue, of course. The range I'd like to install, for example, carries a price tag that might be more appropriate on a small car. But with my son's recent high school graduation (way to go, Gregory!), I no longer pay child support. With a trust fund that is certain to pay for college--should he ever decide to matriculate--several thousand dollars a year now can be redirected to other expenditures. A new kitchen, perhaps?

Not bloody likely. The other great obstacle is even more formidable: I haven't the room to remodel as I would like, and enlarging the kitchen is not an option. First of all, it would take months. Second, it would cost far too much. Buying a new house would be easier. Hell, building the house of my dreams would be far more practical.

I had, in fact, all but given up the idea of a new kitchen. Until this past Monday: I ventured out to my friendly neighbourhood Lowe's in search of advice and supplies for installing a pond in my back garden. The gaping hole left by the removal of an ancient white oak has been mocking me since mid-April, and I could stand it no longer.

I never made it into the garden department.

Just inside the front door stood an array of high-end gas grills. I've always used charcoal for grilling, so I've never considered one of these beasts. Until this past Monday: A light came on, and I envisioned an outdoor kitchen complete with gas grill, charcoal smoker, gas range, refrigerator--my imagination ran riot!--filling the gaping hole left by the old oak.

By Tuesday afternoon, thanks to CAD software left over from my naval architect days, I had made sketches of three variations on the theme. The most basic includes a cooking area with built-in gas grill and charcoal smoker, and a covered dining area. The most elaborate adds electric lighting, hot and cold running water, a refrigerator and icemaker, a wood-fired bread and pizza oven, and a fireplace in the dining area. Dare to dream, I say.

The compromise version, the one most likely to be realised, eliminates the bread and pizza oven, the running water and, therefore, the icemaker. Instead of a fireplace, there is space for a chiminea. Yes, they're a bit passé, but much less dear than constructing a fireplace.

Anyway, Monday I meet with contractors. Within a few weeks, I should have firm estimates. And maybe, just maybe, I'll get my new kitchen. More or less...

Mothers' Day

2007-05-14T11:43:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was the day we celebrate motherhood in the good ol' US of A. Sometimes it seems this country has an obsession with deifying mothers. It's as if by repeating the mantra of maternal sanctity enough, we can expunge the uncaring, the thoughtless, the abusive and the otherwise undeserving or unfit from our collective conscious.

Sad to say, it isn't that easy.

I love my mother, as I'm sure--despite the many reasons not to--my son loves his. He wanted to go home early yesterday, just so he could make her a nice celebratory dinner. My ex-wife knew he was planning this. She even rang him on his cell as we were driving home Friday, to remind him to remind me of his plans.

On the way home yesterday, Gregory was unusually animated. Well, he's always pretty full of himself, but usually quiets when we get near Trudy's house. Yesterday, he seemed genuinely excited about making the meal he had planned; the kid has become a regular foodie. As we approached her house, he suddenly shut down: her car was nowhere in sight.

I don't know when, or even if, she turned up for dinner. I do know she hadn't been home since at the very least Saturday night, as Sunday's newspaper still lay on the front stoop: it's delivered about six o'clock, and she never rises that early. Whatever her social or professional commitments, one would think this particular weekend they could be assigned a lower priority. It would have been kinder simply to say she really wasn't interested in his making a fuss--wouldn't it?

In just over four weeks--good Lord willin' and the creek don't rise--he graduates from high school. He knows he has the option of moving in with me at that time. Now I wonder if this isn't part of some twisted ploy to get him to stay, and conform to her idea of what his life should be. It would be very much in character.

My Roomie, Once Again

2007-04-11T14:14:00.000-04:00

At last, spring has arrived: crocuses are in bloom, azaleas are in bud, and the last vestiges of two snow storms that passed this way over the weekend have disappeared with the return of warmer days. The sad news is, the oldest tree in my garden--counting the rings, it had to have been 150 years old, at a minimum--died over the winter.

It was a majestic white oak, quite tall with a substantial trunk. The tree service needed a full day to take it down and cut it into fireplace lengths, then another half-day to pull the stump. It left quite a hole, both in the ground and the landscape, that I'm thinking would be perfect for a little pond. But I'm moving away from the point of this entry.

Last Tuesday, the crew arrived bright and early (very early) to cut down the tree. I spent the day in my study, for the most part, where I would have no view of the proceedings. They left shortly after four, promising to return next morning to remove the stump and split fireplace lengths into firewood.

Tuesday evening, I found what appeared to be scuff marks on the kitchen floor, in front of the sink. But these were not from any shoe: they had a texture like sandpaper, and would not clean up until sprayed with Simple Green. It was curious, but I thought nothing more of it until the next morning: the marks were back, nearly identical, when I went to make coffee. I say nearly identical because I cannot swear to an absolute. However, the marks were in approximately the same place and took the same shape. More important, they had the same sandpaper texture, and once again were difficult to clean.

I ran off to meet a friend for lunch (in future, must remember to stay away from China Jade at lunch hour), and upon return found the tree crew just pulling out of my driveway. The stump and surface roots of the oak protruded from the dump bed of their truck, along with branches too small to be fireplace fuel. Round in the rear garden was that gaping hole I mentioned earlier, along with a substantial mound of split wood (that still wants proper stacking). And in my kitchen, the marks on the floor had returned.

As I was cleaning the marks, I said, "Look, friend, if you and I are going to get along, this has to stop. Now." By this time, I had deduced the only possible source was my ethereal room mate. Granted, I tend to blame him whenever anything goes awry--even when I know he had no hand in the matter--but this seemed truly to have no other possible source.

Two days passed without repeat of the incident. Friday, my son and I removed three dead Virginia juniper trees (what the locals call red cedar) from the back garden. These were not even remotely as large as the oak, and we were finished by lunch time. As we entered the kitchen, I expected to see marks on the floor in front of the sink, though I'm not sure why. I sighed audibly upon seeing there were none, and my son asked, "Tired?" Yes, I was.

We both were. We slept in Saturday morning, though I rose well before he did. And found a fresh set of those bloody marks on the floor. This time, they had the faint but distinct odour of newly cut cedar wood--precisely the odour of Virginia juniper.

"All right, enough," I said. "All those trees were dead. The junipers may not have been any kind of threat, but that oak posed substantial risk to this house." I believe I half expected an argument, or at the least a reply, but the kitchen remained quiet while I cleaned the floor.

There has been no repeat of the floor markings since. However, I noticed the dwarf Alberta spruce at both ends of the driveway are dying. I can't wait to see what happens when they come up.

Here We Go Again...

2007-04-01T16:37:00.001-04:00

Okay, I have a little perspective now. No longer do I want to see my ex-wife hanged, drawn and quartered. Simply hanged will suffice.

March 10—her birthday, oddly enough—she rang me to complain our son had bought a car. To be more precise, she wanted to yell about the “piece of junk” behind her house.

“It’s falling apart! It has bullet holes in the trunk! It’s at least 15 years old!”

I said nothing.

“Well, I told him to get rid of it. I told him if he didn’t, I’d have it towed away!”

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

“Why not? It’s a piece of junk! And it’ll teach him a hard lesson.” I could almost see that smug, self-satisfied half smile that still makes my… well, part of my anatomy pucker.

“Do you want to see him Tuesday?”

No reply.

“Well, do you?”

“I don’t really care.”

I didn’t now what to say, so for a long moment I said nothing. To tell the truth, I was a little afraid to say what I was thinking. Eventually, however, I managed to convince her to have a rational discussion with Gregory, even give him the opportunity to sell the car rather than having it towed. In the course of that conversation, however, she revealed what I long have suspected: she has told Gregory he will have to move out after graduation.

No wonder the kid has been on edge lately.

A few days later, I emailed the ex to ask whether she was serious about Gregory having to leave her house. Here’s her reply:

“Yes, I have told Gregory that he will have to move out after graduation; however, I plan to sit down with him in the near future and give him three options. The options are: be in school (college) full time getting all ‘A’s and ‘B’s; have a full time job and pay rent, or move out. If he does not pick one of the options, I will insist that he move out. Please do not share this info with Gregory; I would like to present it to him myself.

“Hope this answers your question.”

I lost it. It’s good that was an email exchange, or I’d be in jail. Never have I wanted to smack some sense into—or the living shit out of—anyone the way I wanted to smack my ex-wife just then. In a moment of lucidity, I waited a day to reply, thus:

“Per your request, I won't discuss your plan to offer Gregory ‘options,’ however unrealistic. And yes, this has answered my question: I now see I will have to abandon my plans, as I have no intent of abandoning Gregory to an unknown fate.

“Three options? Don't try to kid a kidder: you've drawn up an unrealistic ultimatum that can have only one outcome. All A's and B's? (I seem to recall your GPA at Smith left a hefty margin between it and 3.5.) Full time job and pay rent? Move out? All Gregory will see is an attempt to control him—and he'll be absolutely right. But when Gregory walks out, at least you get to tell yourself, hey, you gave him a choice.

“Well, I'm sorry, but I'll be giving him another choice: He can live here. As I said, I won't tell him of your plans. But I am going to let him know he has viable options.”

Did I go too far with that middle paragraph? Maybe; I don’t think so. Anyway, it’s better than physically pummelling her—right?

So now we live with an uneasy peace. I’ve told Gregory he has alternatives to living in the back of his “junker.” It isn’t a junker, by the way: it’s a 1995 Cadillac Eldorado, in pretty decent shape. I don’t believe my ex has issued her ultimatum: what effect could she possibly expect it to have, anyway? And she is not communicating with me at all. If that isn’t proof of every dark cloud’s silver lining, I don’t know what is.

Update: The ex mailed Friday to ask whether Gregory and I have plans for his spring break—this coming week. I replied we had none until Thursday, so I won't be picking him up until then, and asked whether this meshed with her plans. I'll let you know if she ever responds.

All I have to do is

2007-03-06T17:35:00.000-05:00

I have a dream–more to the point, a nightmare–that recurs from time to time. There is no discernable pattern, no obvious trigger that brings back this dream, nor does it recur at anything approaching a regular interval. This dream has interrupted my sleep for well more than two decades, changing but little over that span. In truth, only the degree of detail changes; the dream itself, insofar as I can remember, remains the same.

And that scares the hell out of me. To understand why, you have to know the dream:

I’m pacing the platform of a train station. The platform is all but deserted: just me, an older woman and a younger man. The train is nowhere in sight, but I can hear its whistle in the distance. People begin arriving at the depot, but the platform remains uncrowded. I stop pacing and stand near one corner of the platform. It’s oddly quiet, even with about 20 people milling about the platform.

An old-fashioned steam locomotive rounds a bend and rumbles into view. I can’t take my eyes off of it. I feel it is heading straight toward me, as if I were standing on the tracks. It doesn’t slow; rather, it picks up speed as it approaches. I’m terror stricken: I can’t move, speak or breathe.

Someone touches my shoulder, and the train’s spell is broken. I turn and look into the eyes of the most exquisite woman I have ever seen. She puts her hands on my chest and leans in, tilting her head slightly to one side, as though expecting a kiss. As I lean toward her, she shoves–hard. I fall from the platform into the path of the train in slow motion, my hands grabbing at the air. Between them, I see that exquisite woman smiling sweetly and waving. Everyone on the platform is smiling and waving. And then they're gone.

That’s usually when I wake–just before the train hits me.

So what’s the big deal? Seems a typical, garden-variety nightmare. Right? Consider this: Over twenty-odd years, not one remembered detail has changed. Yet it has progressed from vaporous perception to crystalline imagery. When first I had this dream, I couldn’t even remember how many people were on the platform. Now, I can tell gender, age and manner of dress of every person there. I can describe the locomotive down to the colour of the cowcatcher. And I could pick the woman, the instrument of my destruction, out of the crowd at the Kentucky Derby. It is almost as though my subconscious is working to complete a picture every time I revisit this place.

Big fat hairy deal, you say? Last night, I didn’t awaken until the train hit me. Is it possible to be scared to death by a dream? When I did wake, my heart was pounding, the sheets were sweat-soaked, and my ears were ringing like I’d just left a heavy metal concert.

So what’s next? Frankly, I don’t want to find out.

Random Rants

2007-02-15T22:13:00.000-05:00

It's been quite a while since my last update, I know. Mostly I've been procrastinating: I didn't want to "upgrade" to the new, improved Google version. Actually, I just didn't want to open yet another Internet "account." Now that I have--feh. What's the bloody difference between the old Blogger and the new, except Google controls the bloody thing?

Now it can be told: I am the father of Anna Nicole Smith's daughter. What the hell, it seems every other man on the planet wants to claim paternity. Why not me? I mean aside from the fact I wouldn't have touched that skank with a ten foot pole--if I had a ten foot pole ba-dum-bum.

Yeah, I said it: Skank. Let's face some facts here, people. Anna Nicole Smith was a semi-literate high school dropout with only three things going for her: two were in her sweater, and the third was her willingness to lose that sweater any time, anywhere. This bimbo was the punch line to every dumb blonde and gold digger joke for the better part of the last fifteen years. Then she drops dead, possibly of a drug overdose, and suddenly she's the darling of the celebrity media. Poor Anna Nicole, she died too soon...

Well, except perhaps in the view of the family of J. Howard Marshall, if you believe the tabloid I saw at the market this morning. Yes, it's another conspiracy theory. It seems the deaths of Anna Nicole and her son, Daniel, are the first two steps in a plot to recover some $440 million. And her newborn daughter is next in the crosshairs.

By the way, am I the only heterosexual male on the planet who isn't interested in the photos of Britney Spears' naked nether regions? Who doesn't wish to know where, or whether, Lindsay Lohan is in rehab? Who couldn't care less about Paris Hilton's latest "nipple slip"? From the spam getting past my (obviously set too low) filters, it certainly seems so.

The cult of celebrity in this country has gone septic. And it is spreading round the world.

Speaking of contagious disease, it seems peanut butter is being blamed for an outbreak of salmonella. Nothing surprises me any more, except that people can't seem to pronounce salmonella correctly. It is named for the person who first described the symptoms, a veterinary pathologist named Daniel Salmon. That's a silent "l," folks. Like the fish.

Wow. I am so disappointed in The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language. It indicates the "l" in salmonella is pronounced. I suppose, when enough people mispronounce (or misuse) a word, the error becomes correct. Sad, isn't it? We've already replaced the true meaning of "factoid"--a piece of misinformation repeated so often and with such authority that it becomes accepted as truth--with the pop culture meaning: a small fact. And "reactionaries" now are called "neo-cons." What will be next? Of course, language is a living thing: It grows and changes. But should it be bastardised solely for the sake of convenience, or to make ignorance more palatable?

Let me just say I love The American Heritage Dictionary. My son gave me the Fourth Edition for Christmas, to replace my worn-out First Edition. Oh, I'll keep the old book. It has been a part of my life for some 34 years. In recent years, it has become my reference of first resort, supplanting both The Chicago Manual of Style, and Strunk and White. And it is more than beginning to betray its age and frequency of use. Now it will be retired to an easier life, on a bookshelf farther from my desk. I will visit on occasion, but the youngster--the great grandchild, so to speak--already has become my new reference of choice.

I was going to close here, but just heard that a drill sergeant who posed for Playboy has been relieved of active duty and, in her words, honourably discharged. So here's a thought: Let's get every American soldier in Iraq to pose for Playboy--Hef, are you listening?--and after the brass gets through relieving them from active duty, there will be no one left to fight Bush's war!

Dream on, dream large...

Christmas

2006-12-23T15:17:00.000-05:00

Christmas Eve is upon us, and I am not ready! What a surprise!

I do have a reprieve, of sorts: my son is in Florida until Wednesday. We won't celebrate--read that "open gifts"--until Thursday, but Sunday evening and Monday morning will see certain traditions observed. I will, for instance, prepare an elaborate meal for Christmas Eve. And I will have a Christmas morning (afternoon, actually) brunch. Family and friends far away will be rung up, or will ring me, and those nearby will be visited.

But much of Sunday--and, I suspect, all of Tuesday and Wednesday--will be spent "getting ready" for Christmas. Last year, I was ready far in advance of The Day, and it passed without a hitch. It was, per consensus, the easiest, most pleasant Christmas in years. I should have learned from that, but I'm an old dog: reluctant, you see, to learn new tricks.

I did get Christmas cards mailed--Thursday. And my tree has been up and decorated for a week. However, the garland for the mantle sits in a box in the garage, under the wreath for the front door. The electric candles have made it as far as the rooms with street-facing windows. And the ceramic tree that served as my office decoration (political correctness be damned!) for many Christmases, and more recently has adorned the sideboard in my dining room, has yet to be taken from the closet where it resides the other 48 weeks.

Perhaps worst of all--and truly indicative of the kind of season this has been--the illumination I was making for my mum is far from complete. A few days ago, after putting in some twenty hours, I noticed I had left out an entire word. And this after I had completed the calligraphy and applied most of the gold leaf, and was painting line endings. So now I have finished the calligraphy, and applied gesso where I plan to gild. With luck--and only a little loss of sleep--I'll have this ready for her by Thursday. It certainly won't be framed, and may not even be wrapped, but...

Looking back, I've made this read as though the season is a chore. In many ways, I suppose it is. We--I, anyway--try to do too much, with too little time, and wind up seeming frustrated and angry. But I do love this time of year, and it is only my mania, my search for the perfect Norman Rockwell/Hallmark holiday that spoils it.

That said, I wish you all a very sane and happy Christmas!

Pain

2006-12-05T05:12:00.000-05:00

It is almost 5 in the a-bloody-m, and I am unable to go to bed. Note I did not say I am unable to sleep: I could sleep just fine, if only I could coax my body into a reclining posture. Believe me, I have tried.

I am in pain, the kind of pain that is beyond tears or screaming. The kind of pain that literally takes your breath. The kind of pain that you know can’t possibly get worse—and then it gets worse. No, it isn’t childbirth, but it’s bloody close.

I’m talking about lower back pain. An injured disk, it would seem, is encroaching upon my sciatic nerve. Now, in past I have twisted my back, strained it lifting or moving heavy objects, and done god-knows-what simply by reaching for something on a high shelf. None of that is even remotely akin to this.

My right leg goes numb if I stay in one position too long. If I move—and especially if I move too quickly—a sharp, electric pain shoots up my spine and down my right leg. If my leg goes numb, any movement causes shockwaves to shoot up my spine. And then comes that needles-and-pins sensation.

Any sudden movement give new meaning to “excruciating.” A sharp noise caused me to jump moments ago; I nearly passed out. Trying to get into bed was a new experience in both pain and patience. You see, I got into a position halfway between up and down, and couldn’t move. There was no going back, but moving forward was agony. I needed some fifteen minutes to get fully into bed—which bloody hurt!—and another fifteen to get back on my feet. I wasn’t exactly timing, but the grandfather’s clock chimes the quarter hour. Bloody nuisance…

Oddly enough, seated in this chair is the only place I’ve been remotely comfortable. It’s almost as if I’m being compelled to take some time to catch up on my writing. But if this is a blessing in disguise, I’d just as soon not be blessed.

Now I'm going to post this and try once more to situate myself into a posture conducive to sleep. I am awfully bloody tired, and the rest can only help the back, eh?

I just can't stand it!

2006-12-04T11:18:00.000-05:00

I'm working on a more substantial entry--have been, for more than a week--but for now...

Call me Charlie Brown, because I just can't stand it: Today's mail brought a solicitation from the Commonwealth Public Broadcasting Corporation. Their address? 23 Sesame Street, Richmond. No, I am not making this up.

Can't you just see some poor schmuck, new to Richmond and looking for their offices? Imagine this exchange:

"Excuse me, Officer. I'm looking for Sesame Street."

"Come again? What are you looking for?"

"The Commonwealth Public Broadcasting Corporation."

"Uh-huh..."

"So, can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street?"

"All right, smartass, outta the car."

I'm a Tarot Card

2006-11-14T16:45:00.000-05:00

I saw this over at Cetta's blog, and had to give it a try:

You are The High Priestess

Science, Wisdom, Knowledge, Education.

The High Priestess is the card of knowledge, instinctual, supernatural, secret knowledge. She holds scrolls of arcane information that she might, or might not reveal to you. The moon crown on her head as well as the crescent by her foot indicates her willingness to illuminate what you otherwise might not see, reveal the secrets you need to know. The High Priestess is also associated with the moon however and can also indicate change or fluxuation, particularily when it comes to your moods.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

2006-10-06T14:14:00.000-04:00

Tonight I will venture back to my favourite local watering hole–which, to keep my backside safe from litigation, shall remain nameless–for the first time since September 23rd. That evening, a foreign substance was introduced into my second Smithwick’s ale. It must have been the second, as I never left the bar whilst quaffing the first. But I had to divest myself of it shortly after ordering the second.

Too much information? Sorry.

Well, about halfway through that second brew, I began feeling... odd. I thought little of it, as I’ve not drunk nearly as much, nor as frequently of late as in my youth. But when I started to climb off my stool, and realised I wasn’t sitting, I knew it was time to leave. I also knew it was time to summon a taxi. The bartender obliged.

Whilst awaiting the taxi, I began to hallucinate. At first it was simple movement illusion: objects in motion that should have been static. Then shapes began melding. Dark colours grew deeper, bright objects glowed with painful intensity. I had the taxi take me to the ER. Much as I hate the local hospital, I had little choice.

Saturday night in a crowded, more or less urban emergency room is an experience, a test of will. But I was taken straightaway to an exam room, soon as I said I felt my drink had been drugged. They wanted to pump my stomach, but decided against it–I still don’t know why. All this time, I was staring about me, taking in all the strange shapes and bizarre colours.

Then the doctor–maybe the nurse; it was just some bloke in scrubs–was talking to another chap in uniform. I remember thinking it was a security guard. He–the guard–tried to talk to me, but I couldn’t make out his words. I remember laughing, and reaching out to touch him. But by then, he wasn’t there.

And then I remember waking up in the same exam room, with an IV in my left hand and a bandage on my right arm. I pushed the call button and in strode a nurse, almost at once. I asked when I could leave.

“I’ll get the doctor.”

Thirty minutes later, in strode HRH, The Duty Doctor. I repeated my question.

“We’re admitting you for observation.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You have been drugged, sir, and I recommend in strongest possible terms that you allow us to observe you for 24 hours.”

“I’m fine now. And I know how to ring nine-one-one. Now discharge me.”

“I cannot recommend your dis...”

“Fine. Discharge me AMA. But discharge me now, or regret it later.” I think punctuating my demand with a slight smile convinced him.

Forty-five minutes later, I was climbing back into the same bloody taxi that had brought me to hospital. The driver recognised me, of course. I asked to be taken back to the tavern, so I could pick up my car.

“Sure you’re all right to drive?”

“No worries.”

“So what was it?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t say.” And I still don’t know, though I have my suspicions (see this entry’s title). But I do know the “security guard” turned out to be a city cop. And the detective they sent round for my statement was none too pleased at having to drive “all the way out here”–I live about five miles outside of town–on a Sunday afternoon. Life’s tough, mate: suck it up.

Anyway, tonight I venture back to that tavern, to hear the same Irish folk group from that lovely night two weeks ago. Likely it will be more or less the same crowd. And you can be bloody certain I won’t let my drink out of my sight.

Things That Go Bump

2006-09-19T16:10:00.000-04:00

If you have read earlier entries, you know I host an ethereal house mate. Believe and agree with me or don’t, there is something here. Call it a ghost, a spirit, a wraith, an alternative reality, or whatever you will, it is here. And now I’m not the only person known to have seen him.

Oh, yes: I have seen him on several occasions. He is shaped like a primate, more or less, about five and a half feet tall. After dark he is dove gray, whereas in daylight he tends more toward butternut brown–but that could be the quality of light. When he appears, it is as a steady, semi-opaque, three dimensional form: he does not pulsate, glow, fade in and out, or change his basic figure. He neither hovers nor emits eerie noises–nor any noise at all, come to that. He does not float, glide or oscillate. In fact, he moves as though walking. And he seems quite shy: He makes his presence known in other ways, as I have related previously, but I only see him once or twice a month. He was uncharacteristically active toward the end of April–a significant date for him, perhaps?–but since then has made himself scarce.

Until this past week. One week ago this very night, in fact.

I have been working as a free lance editor for many months now. Though I do the odd bit of work for various periodicals, most of what comes my way is from hopeful (read that “wannabe”) authors of fiction. And most of that, I regret to say, is beyond reasonable hope. Once in a while, however, one catches the glint of crystalline carbon amongst the detritus. Despite having been largely unsuccessful getting my own fiction published, perhaps I yet can help polish these rough stones enough to attract proper attention.

I was coaching the creator of one such potential gem Tuesday past. It was our third session, the first at my home, and we accomplished rather a lot. Time passed virtually unnoticed, and at what must have been the first lull of the evening, the clock chimed the half hour: half past nine. My budding novelist and I grinned at one another in silent congratulations for all we had achieved. He then announced a need to relieve himself, and I pointed him toward the loo.

When he had not returned by time the clock chimed the third quarter hour, I went looking for him. I hadn’t far to look: he was perhaps five steps from where I had left him, and yet another two from the bathroom, stock-still in mid-stride and facing the far end of the hall. I placed a hand upon his shoulder, and the poor bastard’s knees buckled. I caught him under the arms before he hit the floor, and helped him back to his feet. He was soaked in sweat, and began to shiver. All colour had drained from his face, and his eyes stared at nothing.

“What’s the matter, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” And before the words were out of my mouth, I knew.

“What the hell was that?”

“What do you mean?” I felt trying to explain my house mate would be futile. How could I say to a relative stranger, “Oh yes, I live with a spectre. He can be a prankster, though he’s really quite harmless.” Sure.

“It was like... Smoke. It was like heavy smoke. But it had a shape.”

“Right. Okay.” At very least I didn’t lie to him, or try to deny what he saw. “Look, we’ve been working really, really hard tonight.” Also true, even if I did sound a bit patronising. “Hey, didn’t you need to go to the head?”

“No! No, I’ll just... I think I should just go home.”

He collected his belongings in some haste, and made for the front door. There his load slipped from his grasp, and he scooped it up in a jumble of loose papers, pens and notepads. As I reached for the doorknob, I noticed he was trembling.

“Are you sure you’re all right to drive?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.” I’m still not certain whether he was trying to convince me, or himself.

He was out the door almost before it was open. I followed to his car, and asked, “When do you want to get together again? We still have lots to do.”

“I’ll call you.” I couldn’t tell whether that growl in his voice was fear or menace.

His foot slipped off the clutch–or so it appeared–and the car lurched and died. Right on cue, a cliché from a bad horror flick, his car refused to restart. After several fruitless tries, he screamed, “What’s going on here?”

“Your carburettor’s flooded. I can smell the gas.”

He wouldn’t even look at me. Two more tries and the engine in his ancient Mustang sputtered to life. Without so much as another syllable, he sped from my driveway, leaving several hundred miles of tread at its junction with the street.

Perhaps I should have offered explanation, though I doubt the poor bloke would have fared much better with that knowledge than he did in ignorance. And I doubt the ultimate outcome would have been any different: today I received payment in full, for all agreed work, with a letter absolving me of any further obligation to edit his writing–or return his materials.

I must say, I have revised my opinion of this chap’s future as a novelist. No real storyteller would allow himself to be spooked (excuse the pun) by such an experience.

Catharsis

2006-07-19T20:46:00.000-04:00

I haven’t updated for a while, I know. Truth be told, I’ve plenty to say, but have been distracted. My son is pissing away his future. My mother is slowly losing her mind. And there seems to be nothing I can do in either instance. As for me, I’ve been cauterising my liver in single malt whiskey. It’s cheaper than therapy and safer than illicit drugs, but physically more deleterious in the long term. I’ve been told.

My son has turned from an honours student into the poster child for slackerdom. First, he decided to blow off his honours English class last autumn, in favour of the mainstream class. “English is your thing, not mine,” he explained. Then, realising he already had fulfilled the foreign language requirement, he dropped Spanish. “Language is your thing, not mine,” he maintained. Finally, he decided to skate by the rest of his classes–except, of course, his beloved computer tech class–with as little effort as required to pass. “Grades aren’t my thing,” he rationalised.

Do you see a pattern?

My mother has no short term memory. Granted, this is due in part to her age–she is 78–and in part to incipient Alzheimer’s disease. The Aricept® helps, but not enough. Example: Recently, leaving her house, I said goodbye, got in my car, and realised I had left my cell phone in her kitchen. I went back for it, said goodbye–again–and returned to the car. As I started the engine, she came running out the front door to ask if I was going to tell her goodbye.

I can cope with the big problems. It’s the little things like this that are making me crazy.

Like my refrigerator dying. Fine, one expects appliances to have a limited useful life. And it didn’t so much die as require repairs so costly as to make replacement more practical. Or so I thought. Hey, fifteen minutes at Lowe’s, and they’ll deliver and install the unit of my choice next day. Right? So I measured the space and set off to buy a new refrigerator.

How long has it been since you looked in the major appliance section of any large retailer? I had no concept of the choices I would be presented. Double-door side-by-side. Freezer to the left. Freezer to the right. Double-door over-and-under. Freezer up. Freezer down. French doors. Ice in the door. Filtered water in the door. One model even had a flat-panel television in the door! Stainless steel. Painted steel. Diamond plate, looking for all the world like industrial flooring–or the running boards of an 18-wheeler. I listened to the “sales associate” extol the virtues of each. Then I handed her my table of dimensions and told her I wanted whatever they had that would fit, and could be delivered and installed–with ice-maker–the next day. For $800.00 or less, all inclusive.

I don’t think she was accustomed to dealing with customers quite so abrupt. Still, she managed to write an order for a refrigerator–with ice-maker–that came within $1.00 of my limit. And it was delivered and installed next day. It fits rather well, too.

Anyway, it’s the little distractions such as this that are driving me, well, to distraction. Keeping me from working on my novels, or painting.

Of course, instead of doing this, I could be working on my novels, or painting…

Home Improvement

2006-04-11T23:29:00.000-04:00

My next door neighbour is building an addition onto his house. In the normal course of events, this would elicit from me not so much as an observation of the facts. However, owing to the time of year (and still somewhat denuded trees) and my own general malaise, it has provided a much needed diversion.

The first crew to arrive, some two weeks ago, consisted of five men. Their job was to build the foundation–though to watch, one never would have guessed. They brought with them a small piece of earth moving equipment which proved of little use: the bucket was far too large to dig a proper foundation. Further, in manoeuvring the machine, they managed to stave in the side of the heat pump unit. Needless to say, all digging after this incident was by pick and shovel. They needed a full day and a half to finish the job.

Next day, early, the cement mixer arrived to pour the foundation. Were the forms in place? You forget, this is the Keystone Konstruction Kompany. And so the mixer churned its load whilst the crew of five hastened to build the wooden moulds. Perhaps I should say crew of four: It seems one gentleman was there solely to bark orders and upbraid the rest for working at such sloth-like speed. All ended well, however, as the foundations were poured without further incident.

I was awakened about half seven the next morning by a delivery from the local building supply. Sorry, you have the wrong address. No, I didn’t order 144 cinder blocks, ten dozen two-by-fours, 40 sheets of plywood, two rolls of Tyvek, etc.

“But... but... we’ve already unloaded it!”

“Not my problem.”

“B-but...”

“I repeat: Not. My. Problem.” Whereupon I closed the door and rang my neighbour. Outside, soon enough, voices raised in anger could be heard above the sound of my coffee maker merrily gurgling away. It would seem a resolution was reached in short order, as the construction materials were gone from my driveway before I went to fetch the newspaper.

By time I reached my study–had I mentioned the project was visible from my study?–Keystone Konstruction had arrived. Notice I did not say they had started work, for they had not. The four worker-blokes milled about, hands in pockets, seemingly all at sea without their order-barker. As it happened, they were in fact awaiting his arrival, for it was he whose truck towed their mortar mixer.

Oddly enough, these same four chaps who seemed so incompetent in days before proved to be quite accomplished masons. I was startled at the speed and precision with which the cinder blocks were laid. Shortly thereafter, another cement truck arrived to pour the floor. Thus ended Keystone Konstruction’s bit in this project. And there, at that level of completion, it remained until this Thursday past.

Bright and far too bloody early last Thursday, the carpenters arrived. By noon, framing was up for both stories. The upper storey floor was in place, the walls up and the roof on by quitting time. Friday, they shingled the roof and installed a number of windows. By one pm, the carpenters had vanished. I assumed they would return this week to finish the job. I was wrong.

My neighbour, it seems, wants to put up the siding himself. I’m beginning to think my neighbour is none too bright. My only hope is the trees don’t bud out too quickly: this should be entertaining, at the very least...

What's Your Muppet Personality?

2006-04-10T21:50:00.000-04:00

The only times I ever watched Sesame Street was with my son. A dozen or more years ago. But what the heck, this was fun. Now all I need know is: Is this a good thing, or a bad thing?

You Are Gonzo the Great

"Is something burning in here? Oh, it's just me."
You're a total nutball who will do anything for attention.
The first to take a dare, you'll pull almost any stunt.
You're one weird looking creature, but your chickens don't mind!

The Muppet Personality Test

Gimme a break, Elliot

2006-02-22T23:57:00.000-05:00

Today’s weather has been wet and gloomy. Winter rain is so dispiriting: when trees are bare, all precipitation should be fluffy and frozen. Snow, much as I hate to drive in it, lends a cheer to winter’s chill.

Should not winter be over here in the South? Buds are breaking on the dogwood and azalea. In my garden, crocus–little cups of brilliant gamboge and ultramarine so deep it almost goes black–are in bloom. Hyacinths have set delicate clusters of buds that soon will be deep lavender trumpets. Even the lily of the valley and bearded iris have broken surface. Winter should be gone.

But not even the advent of spring can cheer me. Now is the winter of my discontent...

After a particularly enervating day yesterday, I spent the evening contemplating my life, my future, and a bottle of The Glenlivet. Actually, I “contemplated” but a few ounces of single malt. My thoughts demanded absolute lucidity.

In a few short weeks, I shall be fifty-one years old. I have accomplished little of note in that time, and almost nothing of what goals I had set. Nevertheless, I enjoy a comfortable lifestyle, free of want and most turmoil, for which I am thankful. Despite ongoing concerns over the condition of my heart, I am in good general health. Though I could stand to lose a couple stone.

So where do I go from here? I don’t have the hunger, the drive, whatever one might call it, to go forth and accomplish all those lofty goals I set for myself so many years ago. Certainly, I will continue to write, for I cannot imagine doing otherwise. I hope I shall continue to publish. But how do I rekindle the fire that one burned within? What sun–of York or otherwise–do I need to make it glorious summer once again?

Damned if I know. And it’s depressing the hell out of me.

The title of this entry? I read in the newspaper that Drew Barrymore is 31 today–think about it–and it made me feel old. Older. More unaccomplished. More deeply mired in this winter of discontent.

Once More into the Breach, Dear Friends

2006-01-30T14:18:00.000-05:00

Against better judgment, I reactivated my personal ad on Yeehaw! (true name of service cleverly disguised) the Wednesday after Christmas. I fully expected my listing to be ignored with great enthusiasm. In the weeks since, and to my utter amazement, I have received no fewer than 57 emails expressing interest. More than a third—21, to be precise—of these arrived within 72 hours of my reactivating the ad. Is it the time of year, or is it truly that lonely out there?

NB: From this point forward, all names have been changed to protect the innocent—and to make certain no one can sue my arse!

The first reply I received was from Janice, a “young 63 year old” who sought a “friend and travel partner, with benefits.” Trying to keep an open mind, I checked her profile. After all, I reasoned, if I’m willing to consider seeing someone substantially younger, should I not likewise be willing to consider seeing someone substantially older?

I should have known better. Upon closing Janice’s profile, I resolved to drop a couple stone, tone up the ol’ bod, and stop dreaming of nubile twenty-somethings. And I sent Janice my standard thanks-but-no-thanks reply. Mistake. Big mistake.

Janice immediately went on the aggressive, sending email every hour or so, demanding to know why I wasn’t interested. Exasperated, I replied that I was under no obligation to explain my decision but, as she seemed determined to know at all cost, I simply did not find her attractive. Mistake. Big, giant, huge mistake…

Over the next few days, I received more than 30 emails, all directing me to a personal Web page. Each inviting me to “come see what you’re missing.” Curiosity prevailed, in the end: I visited her Web page, much to my regret. The site was a poorly designed, horribly written travelogue illustrated with photographs of “Places I’ve Been”—Paris, Venice and Rome predominated—and “Places I Want To Go,” with London, Sydney and Giza tops on that list. Worst by a hefty margin was the “Beaches” section. Seeing Janice in a two-piece bathing suit (by no stretch could it be called a bikini) was bad enough. Seeing her topless in Cancún was the equivalent of a 27-car pile-up on I-95: you want to look away, but morbid fascination prevents. Oh, the humanity!

I sent Janice a very polite email asking that she accept my dearth of interest and leave me alone. Then I blocked her address.

Another of those initial 21 responses came from Martha. A quick look at her profile set red flags flying. First, she listed her marital status as separated: not promising, but not entirely a red flag. Then I read her essay. The first line read something like, “I was with my ex for 17 years, ever since high school.” A bit further on, she writes, “My ex was the only love I’ve ever known, so I need someone patient and gentle.” And finally, she concedes, “I still see my ex from time to time, because of the kids.”

Right: you see your ex “because of the kids.” And I read Playboy for the insightful interviews and engrossing fiction.

Needless to say, Martha received my standard thanks-but-no-thanks reply. And that, I’m pleased to report, was the end of that.

When reading Amanda’s reply, I should have kept in mind one great caveat: Yeehaw! does not screen the personals. Anyone can post anything in a personal advert. It falls to the user to separate wheat from chaff. And (note to myself) the user should remember the online mantra: If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is too good to be true.

At 22, Amanda seemed far too young, but otherwise a good fit. We shared many common interests: reading, jazz, wine, cooking, day hiking, travel, and so on. Her essay was well written, and her photographs simply charming. And so, in a fit of self-delusion, I replied, saying I’d like to get to know her. After exchanging a few emails through the personals page, we exchanged private email addresses. And therein lay my mistake.

Immediately Amanda confessed the photographs in her profile were not she, but her flat mate. She was embarrassed, you see, to be using the personals. “Plus, I don’t want my ex to find me again. He was very possessive.”

“No problem,” wrote I, “though I would like to know what you look like.” She emailed me a close-up of her face. What followed next email was a shot of Amanda from the waist up, wearing a lace bra. In the next email, she no longer was wearing the lace bra, but did have her arm round the waist of her flat mate, who was similarly clothed. Or rather, similarly unclothed. In the final email, the flatmates were kissing and… oh, use your bloody imagination. I was invited to “see all their pix” by joining their private pages for only $19.95 per month.

Do I have ‘sucker’ scrawled across my forehead? Oh, right, you can’t see. Well, needless to say, I reported dear Amanda to Yeehaw! That profile has been pulled, but I’d wager one could find her current listing easily enough.

In fairness, I must say the majority of replies have been from rational, reasonable women. Some I’ve even found interesting, though I’ve yet to find Ms Right. Still, the whack jobs seem drawn to me like bugs to the porch lamp. Take, for instance, the rather persistent woman who has written four of the past seven days. Yesterday I received yet another email from her. I had responded to her first email with my standard thanks-but-no-thanks note. Then I simply ignored her, until yesterday: I replied saying I had met someone and wanted to see where it might lead—a tiny white lie I hoped would cause interest to wane. She returned, “Bet I could get you there faster.”

Perhaps time has come to hide the profile yet again.

Tour de Tacky

2005-12-26T22:20:00.000-05:00

I’ve just returned from taking Gregory home. This is, of course, the worst part of Christmas. And this has been an especially nice Christmas. Odd that, as it is the first since my father passed away. That subtle nuance became this year’s elephant in the living room, and hovered over Christmas Eve dinner like a storm cloud about to burst. Somehow, we remained dry through the meal.

Christmas morning was another story entirely. With each gift, mum would tear up just a bit more, until finally she could contain herself no longer. But she recovered quickly, and seemed to enjoy the rest of our time with her.

After a rather formidable Christmas dinner–turkey (brined a full 24 hours), herb stuffing, fresh cranberry sauce, broccoli and cauliflower, sweet potatoes and fresh rolls–Gregory and I set out on our annual Tour de Tacky. Gregory’s mother thinks this merely an excuse to rip on my neighbours for their lawn “decorations.” She could not be more wrong. Every year, we seek out the tackiest, most inappropriately over-decorated house and lawn in a ten-mile radius.

Consider the neighbour a few houses down who has strung green, white and red lights from every foot of roof line. And has an arched arbor surrounding his front door, strung with white chaser lights. And has, for some unfathomable reason, several saguaro-shaped cutouts around the yard, all adorned with twinkling coloured lights.

It looks like a taco stand. The kind the health department closes for multiple violations, and it reopens two doors down...

Or consider the house on the postage stamp-size lot with eleven inflatables in the front yard. Two of these were Santas: one traditional, the other Homer Simpson. Another was a penguin on top of an igloo. And of course, there was Snoopy on his Sopwith Camel–er, dog house.

This sort of flamboyance once was limited to what we then called “the wrong side of the tracks.” No longer. Tacky can be found in working class neighbourhoods, middle class enclaves, even upper middle class strongholds. The main differences seem to be organised versus random, religious versus secular, and homemade versus “store-bought.” In more affluent neighbourhoods, the displays tend to be more organised, more secular, and to rely heavily upon what can be found at Home Depot. Motorised Santas rise from inflatable chimneys. Snowmen smile and wave. Rudolph’s nose glows bright red, disappears, and glows red again.

In working class neighbourhoods, the feeling is more “we had a weekend to do this, and this is what we did.” Flashing coloured lights dominate, there are fewer inflatables–motorised snow globes seemed this year’s most popular–and the theme is decidedly religious. Nativity scenes dominate the yards, and Santa–if present at all–usually is on the roof.

By the way, the winner of the 2005 Tour de Tacky was found on one of those upper middle class streets. Try to picture a large suburban front yard, at least 250 feet wide, completely covered with inflatable figures, motorised lighted cutouts, Merry Christmas! spelled out in red and green chaser lights, and (here’s the topper) a snowman who danced in rhythm to Christmas tunes played over a loudspeaker. No fewer than three Santas (one a Grinch) shared lawn space, and the one on the roof (animated) drove a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer. Add to that three crosses outlined in blue chaser lights, and a sign proclaiming, Happy Birthday, Jesus! No, wait, there’s more: the house itself was lighted by three powerful floodlights. Each window had a wreath surrounding an electric candle, and the front door had an enormous red bow on it.

For the record, their neighbour across the street won last year’s Tour, and placed third this year.

All in good fun, folks. Merry Christmas to all!

’Tis the Season, Reprise

2005-12-15T21:50:00.000-05:00

Bah! Humbug!

No, not really. Actually, I’m quite in the Christmas spirit, sitting beside a roaring fire and watching snow fall outside my study window. However, if ever there was an activity destined to remove all trace of the Christmas spirit, it is Christmas shopping in a mall. And if there is anything worse, it would have to be shopping on a “retail campus.” For those fortunate enough to have missed this phenomenon, it is a grouping of so-called big box stores, occasionally anchoring short strip centres, in an office park environment. You know: no two centres close enough to walk between them, with ample parking a mere two hundred yards distant from the door. But off I went, determined to keep to my rules, and confident these two destinations would inspire me to do so.

Out amidst the thronging bargain-seekers, I clung to my lists and itinerary. First stop: JC Penney, in the mall. The Mall: Lord, how I do loathe that place! On an average day, it is the Third Ring of Hell. Every day between Thanksgiving and Christmas, however, it becomes the Fifth Ring. Nevertheless, I was in for one pleasant surprise after another. First, I found a parking space after a scant two-minute search. Second, it was just beyond the handicap spaces, mere yards from JC Penney’s door. As fateful chance would have it, this door happened to be right beside the very department I needed. Then–O Miracle of Miracles!–Penney’s did, indeed, have the article I sought! Finally, as though to dispel all my sour notions of Christmas shopping at the Mall, it was priced half off!

I returned to my car, clutching my oversize parcel. As I opened the boot, I noticed another car creeping down the aisle toward me. I know I disappointed the driver when I tossed in my purchase, slammed the boot shut and returned to the Mall: his squealing tyres were clear and ample testimony thereof.

Back in the Mall, I must confess to experiencing less than the immediate success of my first purchase. Nevertheless, I persevered, and after visiting several second- and third-choice stores–as well as one I’d not even considered–I managed to finish my Mall shopping in but one day. More impressive still, I had gotten everything on my Mall list, and for less than budgeted! Spirits buoyed by these successes, I returned home tired but happy, and almost eager for the next day’s foray onto the local shopping campus. Almost…

First stop in Central Park–which is “central” only to lining the developers’ pockets, and “park” refers only to what can be done on the acres of tarmac now covering what once was a rather nice golf course–was Total Wine. It’s a horrid name for a shop with a nice, if unremarkable, selection of wine and beer. I forced myself past the imports, and made straightway for the California wines. I counted myself fortunate indeed to find an ’04 Stag’s Leap Chardonnay for under $20.00, but this one (oh, very well, two bottles, and a Happy Christmas to me) gets cellared for a year or more. I resisted the ’03 Iron Horse Chardonnay, opting instead for an ’03 Rodney Strong Chalk Hill Chardonnay at less than half the cost. A bottle of Mumm Cuvée Napa to enjoy with dessert Christmas eve, a sixer of Guinness to relax with after finishing my shopping, and I was out the door under budget still–although not by much.

The balance of my swing through Central Park went very much as planned, though Border’s was, as always, a true test of will. After a very late lunch at Five Guys (exceptional burgers), and quick calls at the liquor store, Sports Authority and Hollywood Video, I made my final stop: Circuit City. I won’t say what was on the list, as my son may check in, but I was surprised to be advised–by a Circuit City employee–not to buy it. Why? There was an “online only” special sale, with this particular item reduced some 40 percent. So home I went, when about halfway there I realised this purchase would mean breaking the rules: I’d have to use a credit card. Well, I rationalised, I’m not doing it to delay payment; rather, it’s to save money. Still, as I logged onto the Circuit City site, my self-imposed rules gave me pause. As I hesitated, a thought occurred. I whipped out my cheque card, and–salvation!–I was able to keep to the rules! The topper was free shipping: I don’t even have to return to the bloody store.

And now I’m done. Well, all but: I’ve a few odds and ends–stocking stuffers and such–to pick up, but that can be done as opportunities present themselves. I kept to my lists, surrendering only once to impulse–and that not exactly a Christmas purchase–and finished well under budget. My one regret is that I couldn’t find the cardstock needed to print my Christmas cards. Even art supply megastores couldn’t get it to me until after the first of the year. So this year, I’ll be sending no cards. Instead, I’m donating that money, and what’s left of the Christmas budget, to the Salvos. Perhaps it will help make someone else’s Christmas as good, and happy, as mine certainly will be.

’Tis The Season

2005-12-09T11:55:00.000-05:00

Every year about this time, I get the urge to rage against the commercialisation of Christmas. I recall with fondness the Christmases of my youth: before the advent of Kwanzaa; when Chanukah was yet a minor holiday; when schools held Christmas pageants–not nondescript “holiday celebrations.” And, though Christmas morning avarice was even then the norm, we yet remembered what we were celebrating and why we exchanged gifts.

Then I realise I am as guilty as anyone. Christmas has become an excuse for excess, one in which I freely indulge. I spend too much on gifts, food, libation and decoration. Why must I have a garland of fresh-cut holly on the mantle? Would it not still be Christmas without white pine boughs framing my front door, and a boxwood wreath covering the house number? Do we truly need a Louis Jadot Puligny-Montrachet with the roast goose? Do we really need roast goose, come to that…

Every year, I vow to change. Every year, I break that vow–along with the previous year’s spending record. Not this year.

Decoration will be simple: an electric candle in each street-facing window, a pine wreath on the front door, magnolia leaves (gathered from the yard) on the mantle, and stockings “hung by the chimney with care.” And a real tree, of course. That’s one tradition I never will abandon. Though my parents put up an artificial tree for years after I left home, I continue to cut my own at a nearby farm.

The menu will centre on turkey, or perhaps ham. And we will have wine from Virginia, or California. I will do my Christmas baking–cookies, cakes, candies and such–but I will not try to supply the entire neighbourhood with plate after plate of these goodies. I will take as many to the homeless shelter as in years past, however.

The true challenge will come when I do my Christmas shopping. That will be today–after the roads are cleared–and the rest of the weekend, until my lists are filled, my wallet emptied, or my nerves frayed. I have sworn not to go over budget, not to surrender to impulse, and not to use credit cards. Check back in a few days to see how well (ahem) I managed.

Justice?

2005-11-23T10:33:00.000-05:00

In the Great State of Florida, a child rapist has just been sentenced to three years of house arrest and seven years of probation. That’s in lieu of jail time, folks.

The victim told investigators they had sex in a middle school classroom, at the teacher’s house, and in a moving vehicle driven by the victim’s 15 year old cousin.

The teacher was allowed to plead guilty to two counts of lewd and lascivious battery, to cover all charges. The prosecutor stated this agreement was reached because the victim’s family wanted an end to the case, due to the “intense public and media scrutiny.”

The teacher is a 25 year old woman. The victim is a 14 year old boy. If the genders were reversed–25 year old male teacher, 14 year old female student–does anyone believe this sweet a deal would have been cut? Hell, no! That teacher would be rotting in prison for the next 30 years, if he was damn lucky. As should this 25 year old woman. Oh, she has to register as a sexual predator, and she loses her teaching certificate for life, so I guess that’s punishment enough. Right? That’s equal treatment, right?

Have we gotten so far from the Constitution that we have forgotten the Equal Protection clause, the Fourteenth Goddamn Amendment? And don’t give me that double standard crap about a 14 year old boy enjoying such a ‘rite of passage.’ That’s total bullshit. Take it from someone who was sexually active at 14: it changes you, and not for the better. You may be hot shit with the guys for a few weeks, but the long term psychological effects just aren’t worth it. And I have the therapy notes to prove it.

By the way, this sweetheart deal was reached in part because, in the words of the rapist’s attorney, “Prison time would be just too dangerous for someone as attractive as (the rapist).”

If that isn’t the height of arrogance, I don’t know what is.

Random Rants

2005-11-12T12:30:00.000-05:00

Okay, I admit: I read celebrity gossip. Better than half seems nothing more than petty jealousy. Much of it is redundant nonsense. The odd meltdown (think Tom Cruise on Oprah) or train wreck (Tommy Lee, or Kate Moss) fascinate–briefly. Once in a while, a celeb will say something that seems innocent enough, but upon closer examination is self-serving, sly, and destined to backfire. Witnesseth:

Jessica Alba has been quoted in the British magazine, Zoo, as saying, "The scripts I get are always for the whore, or the motorcycle chick in leather, or the horny maid. I get all those screenplays that start, 'Tawnya is in the shower. The water streams down her naked, perky breasts.' Somehow, I don't think this is happening to Natalie Portman."

At first blush, this seems simply to be an ambitious starlet decrying the quality of material available to her. Frankly, given the 'films' I've seen in recent months, this would seem an industry-wide shortcoming; but I digress. However, the last ten words tell the tale. Ms Alba's complaint is legitimate. The details pique our (prurient) interest. And then she compares herself in an offhand way to Natalie Portman. Backfire! Sorry to point this out, Jessica, but you're not Natalie Portman. Ms Portman is a talented actor with depth, breadth and promise. Her career is just beginning. You, on the other hand, are a starlet with a face and a body. Your career has plateaued: enjoy it while it lasts, as it's all downhill after this.

Oh, speaking of Tom Cruise (yes I was, back in the first graph): Are you familiar with the expression "jumping the shark"? Just in case you aren't, it refers to the point in a television series at which quality and viewer interest begin to wane. Specifically, it refers to an episode of Happy Days, in which a character literally ski-jumped over a shark in an enclosure. Anyway, the latest variation on that expression is "jumping the couch." It describes the point in a celeb's career when s/he begins to act ridiculous, insane, unstable–your choice–as did ol' Tom on Oprah's couch. Ouch.

And then there's my favourite Republican: Dubya. In a Veterans' Day address in Pennsylvania, Dubya resorted to his tactic of labelling as unpatriotic all who would question his policies in Iraq. This time, he took it one step further, accusing his detractors of trying to "rewrite history." Huh?

Pot? This is the kettle...

Of course, this was a carefully orchestrated, transparent attempt to bolster Dubya's approval rating. And it backfired. Even top congressional Republicans are distancing themselves from this latest fiasco. In fact, only the West Wing staffers appear to remain loyal bootlicks. One can but wonder how long until they jump ship...

Finally–and it must be said–I am so thankful the recent elections are behind us. Here in Virginia, it was the most expensive, most negative, most hate-filled campaign in our history. In the end, I have to believe Tim Kaine won the governorship because his was the less acrimonious approach. And we still have no Attorney General-elect, as fewer than 2000 (out of almost two million) votes separate the candidates. God save the Commonwealth, indeed.

Bumps in the Night

2005-11-01T01:28:00.000-05:00

I have thus far resisted the temptation to write about my housemate. Until quite recently, he was a benign presence with a puckish sense of humour. Perhaps overfond of practical jokes, he nevertheless has been tolerated, humoured, even welcomed. Not at first, I must admit. Realising and admitting his presence–and status–was, to say the least, unsettling. It is, for want of a better word, eerie to share my house with such as he.

I specify “he” because I happen to know the history of my humble abode. It’s a late twentieth century ranch, with no history of violent occurrences. For at least three centuries prior, the acreage upon which it sits was more or less virgin wood, passing through several owners who apparently did nothing whatsoever to “improve” the land. Then, in the 1980's, it was sold to a real estate developer. He put in roads and utilities, and sold building lots of two to six acres. I’m the second owner since. The first built the house, then put it on the market after only a few years. That should have been my first clue, but–perhaps because they moved to a nearby golf course community–I failed to recognise the significance. And disclosure laws don’t address suspicions of paranormal activity.

My home also happens to be quite near the scenes of three of the more fierce battles of the War Between the States: Chancellorsville, Spotsylvania Courthouse, and the Wilderness. I can’t begin to tell you how many Minié balls I’ve dug out of my garden. Well, actually I can: two certain, and half a dozen or so flattened, crushed and otherwise barely recognisable possibles. A bit earlier on, this vicinity was a crossroads for both armies in the American Revolution. Before that, who can say how many native peoples may have camped, hunted or warred here, though no artifacts have been found to support the occurrence of such. Therefore, I think of my housemate as a soldier who expired on this spot. He isn’t likely buried here, as excavating the foundation surely would have uncovered any remains. It is just possible, however, that the poor soul expired here and never was buried, his mortal remains abandoned, forgotten or simply lost and left to the elements–and local fauna. That would explain his determined presence.

At first, to be frank, his presence didn’t seem so determined. It was, in fact, more of a suggestion. I would awaken in the middle of the night with the uncomfortable impression I was being watched. Or I’d get out of bed and start to the bathroom, but sense something in my path. I imagine this happens to everyone: you’re not quite awake, and stumble around something you don’t really see–but know it’s there, nevertheless. And walking through the house just about any time of day or night, I might sense imminent threat. You know what I mean: the fight or flight response, though to what I couldn’t then say. For quite a while, I attributed these occurrences more to my writer’s imagination and impaired vision than to any paranormal phenomena.

Then he made his presence unmistakable.

Things started moving. Not that I saw them move; rather, they wouldn’t be where I left them. My favourite pen, for example, which always is in my brief case suddenly went missing. It turned up in the dining room several days later. In the precise centre of the table, laid parallel to the long edges. I had passed that table many times over the course of those few days. Another time, my appointment book, without which I cannot function (or so I thought), disappeared from my desk. I found it about a week later, in the waste basket in my study. Could it have fallen in? Absolutely not: the basket is far from my desk, for just that reason. And I empty it almost every day. Most curious of all was the remote for the stereo in my study. Again, that’s always on my desk. It went missing and was found a few days later, on the guest room night table. I had not been in that room for at least a week–nor had any other living soul.

Long story shortened: for months, small things would go missing only to be found in unlikely places hours or days later. Then nothing unusual would happen for weeks, even months. Rather, I wouldn’t notice anything unusual. But near the first of the year, lights in my house started turning on and off by themselves when I wasn’t home. According to my neighbours, anyway. And no, I wasn’t being burglarised: I’ve a rather sophisticated alarm system, and there has not been any report of unusual activity in or around the house at those times.

So how did those books get stacked in the middle of my desk? What books, you ask? Upon my return home one evening, I found four titles I hadn’t pulled from the shelves in months, on four completely unrelated subjects, stacked neatly in the centre of my desk. The rest of the desk–the entire study, come to that–was in complete disarray. And the rest of the house was just as I had left it.

In recent weeks, his manifestations have become more palpable. Not that he has been destructive or menacing; rather, it’s more as if he is trying to make himself visible. I catch glimpses out the corner of my eye of distinctly human shapes. I see fleeting shadows cast against the direction of the light. And while I don’t feel areas of intense cold, or even noticeable dips in temperature, there are two rooms–my study and the guest room–that are consistently two or three degrees warmer than the rest of the house.

So I expect to meet him any day now, this housemate of mine. Then perhaps we’ll know whether he’s Johnny Reb or Billy Yank; redcoat or revolutionary; or whether my trolley has, in fact, gone round the bend.

Best Friends

2005-10-26T22:08:00.000-04:00

A few days ago, an on-line acquaintance forwarded one of those “get to know your cyberpals” quizzes. Honestly, I thought those had all but disappeared. When was the last time you saw one? I’m sure you’ll recall the type of question: “What time is it (as you start)?” “Chocolate or vanilla?” “What do you have on the walls in your bedroom?” “Have you ever been arrested?” And so on.

This new variant slipped in some pretty personal queries but, as I like the sender, I answered such questions as, “Do you still talk to the person you lost your virginity to?” (No, she died in an automobile accident many years ago.) “Have you ever spent a night in jail?” (Sort of, but I paid $175.00 to do it—the place had long since been converted into a B&B.) “Ever go skinny dipping with someone of the opposite sex?” (Sure, but in my case it’s more like chunky dunking.)

Question 43 (of 50!) stopped me: “Have you ever seen your best friend naked?” I erased my immediate, smart-ass reply, and answered simply, “No.” Every attempt to amplify resulted in lots of backspacing, so I finally let it go unadorned. And promptly lost all interest in returning, or even finishing, the quiz.

You see, the truth is, I don’t really have a best friend. There are many people I hold dear, and more than a few I count as close friends. I even have a few long-time cyber buddies for whom I’d do damn near anything—legal or otherwise. All they need do is ask. And therein lies the difference: a best friend doesn’t need to ask. When your best friend needs you, you know it. You act, and your best friend accepts what you do in the spirit intended. Motives are not questioned, feelings are not hurt, and all are satisfied with the purpose—if not the outcome.

As the tee-shirt philosopher says, “A good friend will bail you out. Your best friend will be sitting in the cell beside you saying, ‘Damn, that was fun!’”

I miss having a best friend. But in my line of work, you don't meet a lot of people. Even more rare is meeting someone you want to make a friend, never mind a best friend. Oh, I did finish and return that quiz. Hey, maybe it's a start.

The Battle Hymn of the Republic(ans)

2005-10-24T20:03:00.000-04:00

With gratitude to a friend (who prefers to remain anonymous), and apologies to Julia Ward Howe, herewith our new national anthem:

Mine Eyes have seen the bungling of that stumbling moron Bush;
He has blathered all the drivel that the neo-cons can push;
He has lost sight of all reason 'cause his head is up his tush;
The Doofus marches on!

Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
The Doofus marches on!

I have heard him butcher syntax like a kindergarten fool;
There is warranted suspicion that he never went to school;
Should we fault him for the policies - or is he just their tool?
The lies keep piling on!

Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
The lies keep piling on!

I have seen him cut the taxes of the billionaires' lone heir;
As he spends another zillion on an aircraft carrier;
Let the smokestacks keep polluting - do we really need clean air?
The surplus is now gone!

Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
Your safety net is gone!

Now he's got a mighty hankerin' to bomb a prostrate state;
Though the whole world knows its crazy - and the U.N. says to wait;
When he doesn't have the evidence, "We must prevaricate."
Diplomacy is done!

Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
Diplomacy is done!

Oh, a trumped-up war is excellent; we have no moral bounds;
Should the reasons be disputed, we'll just make up other grounds;
Enraging several billions - to his brainlessness redounds;
The Doofus marches on!

Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
Glory! Glory! How he'll Screw Ya'!
THIS... DOOOO... FUSS... MAR...CHES... ON!

Have a Heart

2005-10-13T15:30:00.000-04:00

Short entry today: I saw the cardiologist this morning, and the news is good. It seems the drug regimen is controlling my heart problems nicely. Mitral regurgitation is minimal, meaning the prolapse is under control–more or less. The enlargement and resultant weakening of the atrium wall seems to have reversed, to a point where it no longer is of primary concern. So what else is there?

“See if you can eliminate a few of your stressors. Find more time to relax."

What? Is he encouraging matricide?

“And you still need to lose about 15 pounds.”

I could have the body of Matthew McConaughey, and still he would tell me to lose 15 pounds. Not that I couldn’t stand to lose a bit, but this has become his mantra.

"And get a little aerobic exercise a couple of times a week. Maybe go for a brisk half-hour walk every other day.”

Sure. In my spare time...

He’s right, though. I do need to set aside time to get outdoors, walk about, enjoy the quiet majesty of Virginia in autumn. I do work out a bit with free weights, but only a couple of times a week, half an hour or so at a time. That’s barely enough to maintain muscle tone, and does nothing for endurance.

I also need to catch up on my reading. I’ve five untouched issues of “The New Yorker” on my night table, and the “Debut Fiction Issue”–June 13 & 20–remains about half read. My newest acquisition in art books–Acrylics: The Watercolour Alternative–rests on my desk, spine uncracked, gathering dust. Worst, I’ve a fresh Michael Connelly mystery for which I just can’t seem to find time.

Speaking of art, I need to take time to draw, and paint, and carve the linoleum block for this year’s Christmas card. I have an illumination project (Psalm 23) all laid out, but have yet to apply the first bit of gilder’s gesso, never mind a stroke of the brush or pen.

Poor planning? Certainly. Trying to do too much? Absolutely. Will I slow down, stop and smell the roses? To quote that famous leporid philosopher, Bugs Bunny, “He don’t know me vewwy well, do he?”

Canned Spam

2005-10-12T20:17:00.000-04:00

I don’t know whether to be flattered or infuriated: spammers have found my blog. Henceforth, posting a comment will require word verification. You’ll soon discover what that means, if you don’t already know. The good news is, one no longer need be a registered user to comment.

This won’t eliminate spam from my comments pages, of course. Some folks, it seems, have nothing better to do than prowl such sites as this, looking for opportunities to promote their product or service. Anything and everything from ‘natural male enhancement’ to dating bureaus for registered sex offenders seems to be fair game for this lot. Funny, isn’t it, that they never seem to advertise anything mainstream.

To all who may wish to post legitimate comments, I sincerely hope this small additional step will not dissuade you. And to all you spammers, may your in-boxes be filled with nothing but the same drivel you send forth.

Misery Loves Company

2005-10-01T15:42:00.000-04:00

No, that isn’t a sequel to a Stephen King novel. Well, I suppose it could be. King has just that twisted a sense of humour, and I like that in a writer. Anyway, as you will recall (or can read below), last Saturday I suffered a mildly disastrous lunch date. Writing about it was catharsis, after a fashion. Yet somehow that cleansing conjured the Ghost of Dating Past. She recited a litany of dates gone bad, all seeming to have occurred since my wife decided to become my ex.

It must be obvious to even the most casual observer that I have not found “The One.” I’m as unattached now as I was a dozen years ago last month when the final divorce decree was entered. True, there have been periods of attachment–albeit brief periods–and the occasional successful date. Far more common, or at the least more memorable, are my dating disasters. From the mildly disastrous to the cataclysmic, I thought I had experienced them all. And then I checked the ’Net.

NB: I love the Internet. It is the Great Equaliser, the one truly democratic medium of communication, and a boundless wellspring of information. Sadly, it also is an unremitting fount of unadulterated bullshit. Therefore, any and all stories referenced or quoted hereinafter should be taken with a grain of salt. I won’t even promise that my own recollections are unembellished. Also realise that stories quoted have been subjected to editing for length, grammar, spelling, and in one instance, to protect the innocent.

The Internet never ceases to amaze with its content. Googling “date from hell” returned well over 40,000 hits. Although more than a few referred to some movie, it soon became apparent there are more than a few people with dating histories as exasperating as my own. For example, there was the young woman who told the story of her Junior Prom:

“The only reason he wanted to go out with me was so he could borrow his sister's brand new convertible. Not once did he say I looked pretty, or even nice. His idea of a corsage was a trio of dried-up roses. He ditched me literally two minutes after we arrived. Really–we had just walked through the door when he vanished. Less than an hour later, he found me and said he was ready to leave. I said I wasn’t ready. He left anyway. I had to call my mom to pick me up.”

Okay, that’s pretty bad. At least my Disastrous Dating History didn’t begin until I was well into my thirties. I have no high school dating tragedies colouring my perspective. But is it really any worse than my first blind date? Read on:

Shortly after my divorce was final, a friend arranged a date for me with her neighbour. The neighbour was attractive, pleasant, the mother of two–and recently widowed. My friend had volunteered to baby sit, so we went to a nice little restaurant for supper. And for the next three long hours, I was treated to a discourse on the saint who was her late husband. Three very long hours... Several days later, my friend stopped round to ask why I’d not rung her neighbour. It seems I was just what she needed–a great listener–and she was anxious to go out again.

Was it wrong of me never to ring her? Don’t answer. But consider this poor schmuck’s story:

“I was in my first year at [large state university]. There was this very cute girl in my English class, who happened to sit in front of me. After many weeks, I finally had to ask her out. She said yes! The days preceding the big date my stomach was in knots: nerves brought on diarrhea. I nearly cancelled the date, but decided the show must go on! When I got to her house (she lived with her parents), she was not ready. While waiting, talking with her parents, the nervous stomach made a comeback. I had to get to a toilet, and quick! I felt a little awkward, but asked to use their bathroom. I was relieved... but not for long! They were out of toilet paper, tissues, everything! I had to use something. I improvised and used my sock.”

You don’t want to know the rest. Suffice to say it was a genuine mess. True, this mess was of the poor bastard’s own doing, but a disaster it was nonetheless. And it put me in mind of a date I had some years ago, after adopting vegetarianism. The short version is I hadn’t yet discovered Beano. Well, at least I wasn’t cluelessly rude:

“So I sit down, and he pulls out a book called 100 Questions to Ask on Your First Date. He begins reading the questions to me–not even actually asking them–and I cautiously answer them. Finally I say, ‘Okay, no more questions.’ He whips out a travel version of Connect Four on the table at the restaurant!”

You have to wonder if that chap ever had a second date. Still, he did get the first date, which is better than this bloke managed:

“One night there was a knock on my door, and I answered it to find my cute neighbour standing there smiling at me. ‘Would you like to go to a play tonight?’ She explained that her boyfriend stood her up, and she now had these tickets with no date. ‘I would love to go!’ I answered, feeling my ego inflate tenfold at the thought of getting asked out by this desirable lady. ‘Great! Here are the tickets... have fun!’ She then handed me the tickets, said goodbye, and took off down the hall.”

She had a boyfriend, Waldo, you should have seen that one coming! Pot, kettle... But I swear, I didn’t know she was married! Yes, here I must confess to a one-night stand with a married woman. It was not planned as a one-nighter, nor (as I said) did I know she was married when I asked her out. All I knew was she was pretty, and pleasant, and the mother of adorable twin girls. We met for drinks at a dark, isolated tavern (clue number one, had I been paying attention) and sat in a corner booth (clue number two). We then went to a movie, taking both cars (clue number three). After making out through a film I don’t recall–not since high school!–I followed her home. She asked me not to park in her driveway, and went inside whilst I moved my car (clue number four). Once inside, there was no pretence: we went straight to her bedroom. Shortly before one o’clock, she sat up in bed and told me it was time to leave. Her husband’s shift ended at one...

Despite all, I continue to look. I’m certain there is someone, somewhere, who will want to share my life. Though, to be honest, I’ve begun to feel a certain kinship with the bloke who posted this personal ad:

“Bitter, unsuccessful middle-aged loser wallowing in an unending sea of inert, drooping loneliness looking for 24 year old needy leech-like hanger-on to abuse with dull stories, tired sex and Herb Alpert albums.”

He’s quite the catch, wouldn’t you agree?

The Backbone of Our Legal System

2005-09-28T20:15:00.000-04:00

So Tuesday was The Day.

I was called for jury duty, and ordered to appear by 9.30 in Room XXX of the United States Courthouse in Richmond, Virginia. Which meant leaving my house around 7.30. Which, in turn, meant getting out of bed no later than 6.30. In the a-bloody-m! And not to go fishing! Sacrilege!

Long story short, I arrived at Room XXX some 15 minutes early. I was given a handbook and directed to the Jury Room, where it appeared many of my fellow jurors already had finished their reading. Of course, the handbook was approximately 11 standard typewritten pages–not exactly a Tolstoy novel–so this I readily accepted.

I finished the pages in short order and began a discrete assessment of the other potential jurors in the pool. One gentleman, who had to be mid-seventies, was sitting quietly and leering at Tara. I nicknamed this young woman Tara because she greatly resembled Tara Reid, and was about that age. Further, her shirt was too tight, her bra conspicuously absent, and her blond hair an omen.

A few seats down from Old Lecher sat Cuba. Young, black and good-looking, he reminded me of Cuba Gooding, Jr. He, too, was enjoying Tara’s too-tight shirt. So was I, come to that, but just now I’m reporting on the actions of others. Unlike Old Lecher, however, Cuba didn’t avert his eyes when Tara would glance in his direction. He would in fact make eye contact and smile. She seemed to appreciate his attention, returning his smile and batting her eyelashes. Yes, I rather envied ol’ Cuba.

Directly across the room from me sat Joanna. Joanna was so nicknamed because of her physical resemblance to a Joanna I once knew. Anyway, Joanna was quite nervous. She fidgeted, talked too much and too loud, and seemed eager to agree with whatever anyone said. Something told me she would not be impaneled.

In the corner of the room sat Old Dude. Not that he was particularly old–I’d venture he was 30 to 35–but he was the quintessential overage frat boy. Here I must digress: The summons notice specifically states, “Appropriate attire for jurors is clothing which would be worn for an important personal business meeting.” Old Dude was dressed in khaki shorts, a short sleeve Henley tee shirt, and deck shoes. Unless one conducts important personal business at a fraternity beer bash or whilst gunk-holing round Chesapeake Bay, this is not appropriate attire. I could only imagine what the judge would have to say about this.

But I didn’t have long to ponder. The Jury Clerk came into the Jury Room and asked, “Have all of you checked in? I seem to be missing a few names.” Tara replied, “Sure, we all had to check in with the guards to get in the front door.”

The Jury Clerk was quite patient. “If any of you have not been down the hall to Room XXX, please follow me now. I need to check your name off the list, and give you a copy of the Jurors’ Handbook.” Tara, Joanna and Old Dude immediately rose and followed the clerk. Soon thereafter, another woman entered the Jury Room. Old Lecher thought to ask if she had reported to Room XXX. “No. Where’s that?”

At this juncture, I must emphasise that the summons, the recorded (telephone access) reporting instructions, and the Web site all direct potential jurors to report to Room XXX. Further, the Jurors’ Handbook clearly states, “Jurors must be men and women possessed of sound judgment...” Fortunately, we were 18, and a jury requires but 12.

Shortly before 10, the Jury Security Officer (not to be confused with the Courtroom Deputy) arrived at the Jury Room and announced, “Strangely enough, it seems we’ll be starting on time today. Please follow me.” We followed, queued up where directed in preparation for entering the courtroom–and there we stood. After a moment, the Courtroom Deputy appeared with a brief announcement. “His Honour would like you to know that a matter of law is being decided, and you are to return to the Jury Room. Thank you for your patience.”

And so the Jury Security Officer returned us to the Jury Room. At this point, we all were growing somewhat restless. Perhaps the Jury Clerk sensed this, as she brought Coke, ginger ale and bottled water enough for all. It was a kind gesture, and much appreciated. By the time these refreshments were consumed, the Jury Security Officer once again appeared at the Jury Room door. My only thought: Have I time to go to the loo?

“You all should stop and buy lottery tickets on your way home,” he grinned. No one moved. “It’s your lucky day. The matter has been resolved, and you’re all dismissed.”

As we filed out, the Jury Clerk reminded everyone to check reporting instructions through the remainder of their summons period. “It is possible you could be called again.” And you know, I wouldn’t really mind. The fact is, I rather regret that we didn’t get to hear the case. I’ve sat through various court proceedings as witness, defendant–driving offences, thank you very much–and dispassionate spectator, but never as member of the jury. This experience would have afforded an interesting and important perspective. I exited the courthouse feeling strangely unsatisfied, as though I had lost a great opportunity.

Old Lecher caught up with me at the corner of 10th and Main Streets. He walked with me to the parking structure, chatting amiably along the way. Much of his palaver centred on Tara, in particular on her most prominent assets. As we reached the garage, he said, “Well, I’ll be a sonofabitch. Will you look at that?” Down the sidewalk, arm in arm, came Tara and Cuba. Lucky day, indeed.

On the way home, I did stop to buy a lottery ticket. Didn’t win anything...

Civic and Other Doody

2005-09-24T21:41:00.000-04:00

I have escaped the first six days of my ten-day jury duty summons unscathed. Yes, it is Saturday and I still am not “summoned to report”–at least through Monday. I’m hoping not to be called at all–though Cetta surely will be disappointed–but I have this uncomfortable premonition Thursday will be my day. And that I’ll get on some long, drawn-out Homeland Security case, for which I’ll be sequestered until the Rev Al Sharpton is appointed to the Supreme Court. By Dubya.

This simply is not the best time for me to be locked away with 11 other “good citizens and true.” Why, you ask? (Whaddaya mean, ya didn’t ask? Why the hell are you reading, then?) As I write this, my uncle is in hospital in North Carolina. He’s recovering quite nicely from surgery to repair an aneurysm in his brain (I still haven’t been told which lobe). There is little, if anything, I could do to help. I should, however, be there for moral support. Both he and my aunt were invaluable, an indescribable comfort simply by their presence, when my father passed away. Besides which, I just love the man. But until this summons period ends next Friday, I can’t risk being that far away.

Civic doody.

Another doody: Realtors. Now, lest I offend anyone (yeah, like I give a rat’s ass), let me state for the record that I have friends in real estate. I accept that Realtors perform a valuable service, and begrudge them not one sou of their fees. And I agree that they perform their services honestly, ethically and with the best interests of their clients at heart.

Most of them, anyway. Much like ambulance-chasing attorneys, it is the obnoxious and overzealous few who sully the reputation of an entire profession. Without venturing too much into detail–for this is, after all, a quite public document–may I simply say: “No, thank you,” means “I’m not interested”; “No!” means, “I’m not interested, and you’re beginning to get on my nerves”; and “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?!” followed by the slamming of the telephone into its cradle means, “I’m not interested, goddamn it, and don’t ever ring me again!” It does not mean, “Please ring me again after you think I’ve had time to reconsider.” Neither is it an invitation to show up on my doorstep spouting the same crapola that got the telephone slammed in your ear the first time you bloody rang.

Inconsiderate doody.

One doody more and then you can stick a fork in me: chalk up another fuckup to Internet dating. Despite my recent tirade against a certain Internet dating service, I have an ad on Yeehaw! (cleverly disguised site name) Personals. Have had, for quite some time. I never expected to find the love of my life there, but being a writer–quite a solitary occupation, you know–I just don’t meet that many people, in particular not of the datable variety. This seemed a safe enough means to that end.

Safe it was/is. But thus far, certainly not a means to that end.

That Yeehaw! ad will, on occasion, elicit a response. Yes, of course I sometimes take the initiative, but we’re not discussing that just now. To continue: more often than not, such contact will be from someone in her late fifties to mid-sixties, recently divorced and looking for “a friend first.” Translated, that means, “I need a socially acceptable escort whilst I look for my very own Asshole Kisser.” Sorry, that should read “Ashton Kutcher.” Reality check: None of you, thus far, have exactly been Demi Moore. Nor remotely Demi, come to that.

Next most frequent responses come from impossibly gorgeous young women from (fill in the eastern European nation of your choice), who have seen my profile and fallen instantly, madly, hopelessly in love. Each wants to fly to America right away to be with me, and fulfil all my worldly desires. Of course, she needs money for airfare, a visa, bribing corrupt officials, and possibly surgery to save her poor dying mother. Right, I’ll wire those funds straightaway...

Though it is quite rare, there have been occasions when a respondent seems sincere, interesting and of an appropriate age. By “appropriate age,” I mean, “I have a mother, thank you, and please don’t be young enough to date my 16 year old son.” Anyway, this past July, I received one of those rare replies.

We emailed for weeks. We chatted via AIM. Finally, I emailed her my telephone number and asked her to ring me, “when she felt ready.” The bloody ’phone rang almost immediately. After several long conversations, we agreed to meet for lunch. Today. At a fairly nice restaurant I knew would be busy but not overcrowded.

We recognised one another immediately, and I could tell by her expression she was not pleased.

“You never said you have long hair.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know it mattered.” What hair I have is long, but always tied back in a ponytail.

“Well.” (long pause) “Maybe it won’t.” And we went steadily downhill from there.

Finally, after 90 minutes or so of strained small talk over good food and a decent bottle of Riesling, she stood and said, “This isn’t going to work out. I’m sorry.” And simply walked away. Needless to say, I was just a bit dumbfounded. Soon thereafter the waiter brought the cheque, and I realised lunch was on me. Now, don’t misunderstand: I had intended to pay for lunch all along. But, given the circumstances, the mere offer to split the bill would have been appreciated–and appropriate. Don’t you think?

Doody all over me.

I will return to Yeehaw! Personals someday, but for now... Maybe I’ll get a cocker spaniel.

E Harmony? Dot’s Bull

2005-09-12T16:36:00.000-04:00

Am I the only one fed up with this smirking pitchman? It seems every time I turn on the bloody telly–which, frankly, is far too often of late–Doctor Whosit is hawking his 29 essential areas of compatibility. Twenty-freaking-nine? What, did he sit up all night, every night for six months deciding between 26 and 32? Did he perhaps settle upon 29 because an odd number of syllables is more pleasing to the ear than an even number–as in, say, 30?

And what about his condescending sales pitch? In essence, he’s saying “I know better than you what’s good for you.” Right. Complete a “personality profile” questionnaire–no one ever tries to make himself sound just a little better on those–and Doctor Whosit’s programme will analyse you, classify you, categorise you, and spit out your perfect match.

In a pig’s eye.

Here I must admit, I’ve actually tried online dating services. All seem more a means of separating one from $20.00 or so each month than of finding one’s true love. Most, however, are sincere in their stated purpose: introductions. And on that level, they can work. I have in fact met several women with whom I continue to correspond–though not via the site where we met.

But finding the love of one’s life through a computer programme? How is this possible? Even a programme that categorises 29 critical areas of compatibility cannot possibly measure sexual attraction, for this is after all the most innate of human instincts. And it is entirely subjective. Of course, Doctor Whosit’s Web site carries a disclaimer to the effect that the programme can only measure compatibility and introduce you to your best matches. The rest, it seems, is up to you.

Too bloody right.

You know, Doctor Whosit, you’re taking all the mystery and romance out of dating. To be sure, I’d like to find someone with whom I’m compatible, who shares my interests, who fulfils my desires–and whose desires I can, in turn, fulfil. But these things I want to discover as a relationship progresses, not have them set before me as a checklist prior to so much as an introduction.

To be fair, I do have something of a list of essential areas of compatibility. Call these my four prerequisites for pursuing romance, if you wish: human, female, heterosexual, and over 21. And if she just happens to look like Winona Ryder or Natalie Portman…

Perspective

2005-08-20T20:03:00.000-04:00

Today I received an email from an online friend. Though I've never met Scott IRL—and we disagree on most things political—I value his friendship. I can't imagine what he's going through, after reading this:

My Daughter, Madelaine, died today.

She was 3.

I am distraught.

Through a mutual friend, I learned that Madelaine somehow locked herself in the family car and appears to have suffered heat stroke. Scott tried to administer CPR, but to no avail.

Rather puts my petty concerns into perspective.

Scott, my thoughts are with you. Please, don't allow this tragedy to evolve into something worse.

How many...?

2005-08-08T12:14:00.000-04:00

Upon reading this and my previous post, some will accuse me of Bush bashing. To them I say, "Your point is?"

Question: How many members of the Bush administration are needed to change a light bulb?

Answer: Ten.

One to deny that a light bulb needs to be changed.

One to attack the patriotism of anyone who says the light bulb needs to be changed.

One to blame Clinton for burning out the light bulb.

One to mount the invasion of a country rumored to have a secret stockpile of light bulbs.

One to award a billion-dollar no-bid contract to Halliburton for the new light bulb.

One to arrange for a photograph of Bush, dressed as a janitor, standing on a step ladder under the banner: Light Bulb Change Accomplished.

One administration insider to resign and write a book documenting in detail how Bush was literally in the dark.

One to viciously smear the author of that book.

One surrogate to speak on Fox News and at rallies regarding how George Bush has had strong light-bulb-changing policy all along.

And finally, one to confuse Americans about the difference between screwing a light bulb and screwing the country.

The Bush Psalm

2005-08-03T21:04:00.000-04:00

Received from a friend (and slightly edited) who obviously loves George Bush as much as I:

Bush is my shepherd; I dwell in want.
He maketh trees to be cut down in National Forests.
He leadeth trucks into the still wilderness.
He restoreth my fears.
He leadeth me in the paths of international disgrace
for his ego's sake.
Yea though I walk through the valley of pollution and war,
I will find no exit, for thou art in office.
Thy tax cuts for the rich and thy media control,
they discomfort me.
Thou preparest an agenda of deception
in the presence of thy religion.
Thou anointest my head with OPEC oil.
My health insurance runneth out.
Surely megalomania and jingoism shall follow me
all the days of thy term,
And my jobless child shall dwell in my basement
forever.

An Unpopular Position

2005-07-26T12:15:00.000-04:00

I just read that a 40-year old woman in Colorado has pled guilty to two counts of misdemeanor sexual assault in a case involving several high school boys. It seems this self-professed "cool mom" provided her party partners with alcohol and methamphetamine, as well. However, as part of the plea agreement, charges of distribution of meth were dropped. Oh, but she did plead guilty to nine counts of contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

Big fat hairy-ass deal.

Even if she is handed maximum consecutive terms--almost certain not to happen in a plea bargain--she would be sentenced to 49 years in prison. Odds are, she'll get probation.

Can anyone else smell the hypocrisy?

Turn it around: Forty year old man wants to be a "cool dad," so he provides booze and speed to high school girls. He has consensual sex with several of them. But they're not old enough to give consent. He's caught when one of the girls spills to her mother. Anyone believe he's going to get anything like this sweetheart plea bargain? Hell, no! He's going to rot in prison for the rest of his life. With a short-eyes (prison speak for child molester) label, that might not be very long.

It couldn't happen to a better candidate.

And it should happen to all the self-professed "cool moms" who want to make up for their dearth of high school popularity.

Time, time, time

2005-07-22T14:17:00.000-04:00

See what's become of me!

All of a sudden, I'm old. Bloody old. And I never even saw it coming. Oh, I recognised the passing of years, the disappearing hairline, the rain-gutter hips and so forth. But I never felt old. Until yesterday.

I was in my local grocery, picking up a few items–no, not Geritol, Metamucil and Maalox, damn you–and caught myself humming along with the background music. Sacre merde!

Years ago, I found it oddly amusing when Muzak piped in instrumental covers of Beatles hits. I chuckled to myself when Top 40 tunes from my high school years became the staple of the oldies station—and began to get air time on country and western stations. This, however, stopped me in my tracks:

Harry Nilsson's "Without You" as background music in the grocery. Not a cover. Not a Muzak instrumental. Harry bloody Nilsson singing "Without You." I simply stood in disbelief, wondering if my parents felt that way the first time they heard Sinatra in an elevator.

The coup de grâce arrived by today's post: my semi-annual auto insurance bill. Since last I paid it, I've turned fifty. The Big Five-oh. Reached that magic age when suddenly I'm a good insurance risk. Yeah, right! Whatever. My auto insurance now costs half what it did six months ago.

I'm not that old, damn it!

I must stop now. My back hurts, I need to use the loo, and it's time for my pills...

G-8 Grumblings

2005-07-07T14:46:00.000-04:00

In light of the terrorist bombings in London, I thought twice about publishing this. I decided to publish regardless, for allowing terrorist acts to seriously alter one's plans is tantamount to surrender. And saddened as I am by this latest display of zealotry, I refuse to let the bastards defeat me.

Representatives from the G-8 nations–the United States, Canada, Britain, France, Germany, Italy, Japan and Russia, for those who don't know–have gathered at a very posh golf resort in Scotland for three days of "discussions." In other words: drinking, feasting, posturing and tsk-tsking over the state of affairs in the rest of the world.

At least Tony Blair made an effort to address two universal concerns: African poverty and global warming. His plan was ambitious, calling for G-8 nations to double relief to Africa by 2010–increasing all foreign aid to 0.7% of national revenue by 2015–and kerb emissions of carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gasses per the Kyoto Protocol of 1997.

Can you guess who opposed both initiatives?

A week ago, Mr Bush surprised more than a few critics when he agreed to seek to double US foreign aid, to $8.6 billion. However, he opposed the 0.7% target, meaning (say analysts) a $6 billion shortfall in Blair's initiative. Then, on a stopover in Denmark, Dubya made clear he would tie US aid to African nations' commitment to good governance:

"I don't know how we can look our taxpayers in the eye and say, this is a good deal to give money to countries that are corrupt. What were interested in... is helping people and, therefore, we have said that we'll give aid, absolutely, we'll cancel debt, you bet. But we want to make sure that the governments invest in their people, invest in the health of their people, the education of their people, and fight corruption."

Yo, Pot! This is the Kettle: You're black!

Hubris: it's the only word that fits, yet it doesn't begin to plumb the depths of Dubya's arrogance. He is the titular head of the richest and most powerful nation in history, yet hundreds of thousands of his people have neither health insurance nor regular medical care. They must subsist (for it cannot be called 'living') on minimum wage, a wage that has not seen increase in seven years. (NB: The Republican-controlled Congress just granted themselves a $3100.00 annual raise–only to protect their purchasing power–yet they refuse to address the minimum wage issue. Ironic?)

Oh, by the way, Mr Bush: Investing in the education of your people doesn't mean spewing catch phrases like, "No child left behind," then abandoning localities to their own devices. Nor does it mean threatening to withhold federal funding from those localities that fail to meet arbitrary standards, for those are the very localities most desperately in need of funding.

I won't begin to address corruption in the Bush administration, for it already is well documented just how morally bankrupt this president is. But I will mention that Haliburton recently was awarded another $5 billion in Iraq-related defence contracts. And yes, it now seems all but certain Dubya will nominate Alberto Gonzales (aka, The Architect of American Torture Policy) to the Supreme Court.

Yo, Pot...

Surprising absolutely no one, Dubya's representatives lobbied to prevent any mention in G-8 communiques of specific targets for reduction of greenhouse gases, particularly as called for in the Kyoto Protocol. The US is the only G-8 nation that has steadfastly refused to ratify the treaty, as Dubya claims doing so would have been disastrous for the US economy.

Meaning, of course, the US would have to reduce its dependence upon fossil fuels. Meaning Dubya's oil buddies would see a reduction in their profits. We can't bloody have that! Mr Bush's alternative: share technology with developing nations–particularly China, the second largest producer of greenhouse gasses–and clean up their act. That way the US, the largest producer of greenhouse gasses, can continue to spew tons of pollutants into the atmosphere every minute of every day, for decades to come. And Dubya's buddies keep reaping huge profits, until the oil reserves run dry! It's the perfect solution for... well, practically no one. Except Dubya and the Bushy Boys.

I've said it before: we are well and truly screwed.

Random Thoughts

2005-07-03T23:45:00.000-04:00

So I don't update regularly. If you love me, you'll check back occasaionally, just to see what I've been up to. Or you could go read Cetta's blog, if regular updates are your thing. Reading it, you'll wonder (as I do) how the bloody hell she has time to blog.

If you do visit Cetta, you'll notice her dislike of Tom Cruise has ripened into full-on hatred. Now I must agree, Tom couldn't act hurt if you dropped a bowling ball on his big toe. But he is in full self-destruct mode, and soon (please God) will be nothing but hey-weren't-you-the-kid-in-risky-business. Come on, folks, he's in Stage IV.

What do you mean, what do I mean? Don't you know The Five Stages? Take notes, there will be a quiz:

Stage I — Who the hell is Tom Cruise?
Stage II — Get me Tom Cruise!
Stage III — Get me a Tom Cruise type!
Stage IV — Get me a young Tom Cruise!
Stage V — Who the hell is Tom Cruise?

Stage IV, we can but pray. Late Stage IV…

Of course, not all actors get all five stages. Some, thank everything sweet and merciful, go straight from Stage II to Stage V. May this fate befall that living dumb blonde joke, Paris Hilton. Fat bloody chance: long as she steps out of SUV's in short dresses and no panties, or has sex on camera, she'll be all over the gossip rags.

Perhaps she'll marry and disappear.

Perhaps not: Paris wants to be a Princess. She's quoted in Hello magazine as saying, "I've always wanted to be a princess on my big day and only a wedding in England could make that happen." Am I the only one who can taste the bile?

Onward.

Tell me how, in a supposedly educated society, anyone could cling to the fantasy of creationism. I realise the religious right/wrong has flexed a bit of political muscle recently, and managed to have natural selection labelled "one possible theory" in science texts. Science texts.

Science texts!

In our society, one is free to believe as one chooses. That freedom even extends to proselytizing, far as I'm concerned—but not in authoritative texts. And exactly how does that work? "This is 'Lucy,' one of the oldest known ancestors of modern man, who lived more than 3 million years ago. Her remains have provided clues as to when man first walked upright, and began to develop larger, more complex brains. But this is just one theory. Another states man was created as the being we know today, a bit over eight thousand years ago. So just ignore this irrefutable evidence to the contrary, if you prefer."

Believe in God. Believe in a planned universe. Believe whatever makes you comfortable with your mortality. But for crying out loud, recognise that Judeo-Christian mythology is no more real than its Greek or Roman counterpart. And try to remember, science also is one of God's creations.

Last rant for this edition, I promise: email scams. As of today, I have received nine different offers purporting to be from "personal assistants" and "confidential secretaries" to deposed and/or murdered African politicians. Each has offered ten percent of the spoils if I will but help import vast fortunes ranging from 18 to 35 million dollars. All I need do is provide account and routing numbers for my bank accounts, and the funds will be wired immediately. Easy, yes?

Be original, folks: this scam has been going round the 'Net since 1200 baud was blazing.

What's that bit of folk wisdom, be careful what you wish? Today I received a plaintive e-plea from a gentleman claiming to be personal secretary to Mikhail Khordorkovsky (see my entry of 1 June, if you don't know who he is). For the mere act of arranging to give him signature access to my account, I will receive 20 per cent of 180 million dollars!

Yes, I'm going to be rich. Either that, or a victim of identity theft. What do you think?

Not what I had in mind...

2005-06-18T13:30:00.000-04:00

Today, for what may be the only time, I post a meme. For this, you can thank Cetta.

Three things you like about yourself:
1) sense of fair play
2) sense of humor
3) curiosity

Three physical things you don’t like about yourself:
1) my belly
2) my hair (what's left of it!)
3) my aching knees

Three things that scare you:
1) George W Bush
2) George W Bush supporters
3) America's culture of celebrity

Three of your everyday essentials:
1) coffee, in the morning
2) tea, after 2 pm
3) email

Three things you are wearing now:
1) computer prescription spectacles
2) black boxers
3) a t-shirt that reads, "I'm A Drunk: Alcoholics Go To Meetings"

Three of your favorite bands or musical artists:
1) Loreena McKennitt
2) Bruce Springsteen
3) 3 Doors Down

Three things you want in a relationship:
1) passion
2) compassion
3) trust

Two truths and a lie:
1) I drive too fast, too often
2) I’m a Republican
3) I spend too much time on the Internet

Three physical things that turn you on:
1) hazel eyes
2) auburn hair
3) a shapely derrière

Three of your favorite hobbies:
1) reading
2) watercolour
3) gardening

Three things you want to do really badly right now:
1) get back to my own home
2) get the hell out of Fredericksburg
3) mix a huge batch of piña coladas

Three careers you’d consider:
1) teaching (university level)
2) editor
3) winemaker

Three places you want to go on vacation:
1) France
2) Italy
3) England

Three things you want to do before you die:
1) finish--and publish--both novels currently in progress
2) attend my son's graduations
3) meet my cyberfriends IRL

Three people you’re throwing this meme to:

1) Lisa
2) Matt
3) Angela, whom I've never met, but who likes the comments I've posted on another blog

About Damn Time

2005-06-01T23:30:00.000-04:00

So I haven’t updated in quite a while. I could say I’ve been too busy, or I’ve had nothing to say (though no one would believe the latter!), but the plain truth is, nothing has moved me to write.

Until yesterday. And today, I’m still reeling from what has to be the most arrogant White House news conference of all time.

Last week, moderate Republicans regrew their cojones and refused to toe the Bushy line. This has stalled the reactionary agenda and confounded Fearless Leader. And so he opened his press conference with a call to “set aside partisan differences” and work together. Or, as translated from Dubyaspeak, “Advance my agenda, no matter how distasteful or ultimately deleterious for the nation.”

Fearless Leader also addressed embryonic stem cell research, declaring extra embryos created during infertility treatment–some 400,000–should be adopted. His explanation: “There’s an alternative to the destruction of life. But the stem cell issue is really one of federal funding, that’s the issue before us, and that is whether or not we use taxpayers’ money to destroy life.”

No, Mr Bush, the issue is whether we use taxpayers’ money to prolong life, ease suffering and cure disease–money you doubtless would prefer we pour down another Iraqi or Afghani rathole. Unless, of course, Haliburton gets into the medical research field.

Dubya went on to explain his concerns over the conviction and sentencing (which some claim was politically motivated) of Mikhail Khodorkovsky, a Russian oil tycoon: “Here, you’re innocent until proven guilty and it appeared to us, at least people in my administration, that it looked like he had been judged guilty prior to having a fair trial. We’re watching the ongoing case.” Translation from Dubyaspeak: “He’s an oil man. We stick together.”

Regarding the escalating situation in North Korea, Fearless Leader said, “If diplomacy is the wrong approach, I guess that means military. That’s how I view it as either diplomacy or military. I am for the diplomacy approach. And for those who say we ought to be using our military to stop a problem, I would say that while all options are on the table, we’ve still got a ways to go to solve this diplomatically.” Translation from Dubyaspeak: “There is no oil in North Korea.”

By the way, isn’t it regrettable he didn’t feel this strongly about a diplomatic solution before embarking upon what surely will go down in history as Dubya’s War–the (unlawful, ill-advised) invasion of Iraq?

But the apogee of arrogance, the pinnacle of presumption had to be his assessment of the Amnesty International report that compared the Guantanamo Bay terrorist detention centre to a Soviet-era gulag. “It’s an absurd allegation,” made by detainees “who hate America.”

Naïveté? Arrogance? Stupidity? Short term memory failure perhaps due to cocaine and alcohol abuse? You make the call. But before you do, consider this: if the little texican’s (lower case ‘t’ intentional) dismissal is valid, what does this say about thousands of American POW’s and their experiences in the Bataan death march? North Korean prison camps? The Hanoi Hilton? Are their complaints also to be rejected merely as the grumbling of prisoners who despised their captors?

As I said, my head still reels. This is the convoluted “thinking” of the most powerful man in the world? My friends, we are well and truly screwed.

Dimanche après-midi

2005-05-15T14:40:00.000-04:00

Well, I suppose it was bound to happen. The full impact of my father's death finally reached me. Not today: last Friday.

Exactly one month had passed since his nurse rang with the warning we get there quickly if we wanted to say good-bye. We didn't make it in time. I think that has weighed heaviest on my mind ever since, but what could I have done? The laws of physics simply cannot be broken—not yet, anyway.

I never really let all the emotions flow. I didn't allow myself to recognise everything my mind–and heart–were trying to express. I had to maintain a stoic façade for my mother and son. Or so I thought.

Friday, all I had been suppressing boiled over. I had difficulty sleeping Thursday night, as I had the night before Dad passed away. Friday, I was irritable, irrational and obnoxious. I fought with my mother over absolute nonsense. I yelled at a store clerk for returning the wrong change—a whole dime. I shouted an obscenity, punctuated with a single-digit salute, at another driver who just happend to get in the wrong lane.

That's not like me. A harried store clerk making the wrong change is not exactly unusual. And sure, I hate traffic. But I never lose my temper over someone else's honest mistake. Life's too short, right?

Fortunately, I realised what was going on. So I took the time to consider all that had gone down the past month, and let everything sink in. I took the time to grieve. I started, anyway.

Now, I know neither of you will ever read this, but— To the clerk at the Hallmark store: I'm deeply sorry I yelled. You certainly didn't deserve that reaction over a simple mistake. And to the young lady driving that silver sedan, I apologise for my disparaging comment and gesture. I should have extended you an act of courtesy instead of my middle finger.

Not Even Coffee

2005-05-07T11:38:00.000-04:00

Nothing has any taste this morning–hence the title.

I have a bug: some kind of respiratory ailment that is plugging my nose, giving me the cold sweats, and generally making me a grumpy, nasty old man. I've been fighting it off since Thursday night, but today it got the upper hand. Or perhaps it has the lower hand, as it now has invaded my lungs.

For most people this is no big thing: you take an expectorant, and keep Kleenex close at hand. For me, however, it means prophylactic antibiotics, and daily trips to the doctor (beginning Monday). Why? In a word, pericarditis.

Several years ago, I had what I assumed was flu: tight chest, productive cough, fever, headache, runny nose, the works. Then one morning, I coughed up coagulated blood. Not just a few streaks, as one might expect after several days of heavy coughing, but lots of dark, thick blood.

Good job I was in the bathroom: it literally scared the shit out of me.

Short version: I managed to get in to see my doctor the next morning, where an x-ray showed my pericardium to be roughly twice normal size. I was sent to a cardiologist, who immediately admitted me to hospital. And there I lay, for the next six days.

Anyway, at the first sign of any sort of chest ailment, I now go on prophylactic antibiotics. Too bad they don't do a bloody bit of good for the stuffy nose, watery eyes, sneezing and coughing. But I can live with that.

If only I could taste my coffee...

Chocolate Ice Cream

2005-04-26T20:58:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting here before my monitor, enjoying an oversize serving of chocolate ice cream. It's the last bowl of ice cream, of any flavour, that I'll be having for quite some time. It seems I've managed to put on enough weight the past two or three weeks that my clothes no longer fit. Oh, it's diet time again...

What is it about funerals that causes us to eat so bloody much? Or is this a purely southern phenomenon? Yes, here in the south, we carry food to our neighbours when someone dies. I can't say I found that true in California, Nevada or New York. And yes, while living in each of those places, I knew someone who died.

In California, it was my Aunt Jo. I lived in Berkeley; yeah, I was a student. Her son and daughter in law–I've never thought of them as my cousins, as we weren't close–lived on the other side of the Hills, in Moraga. After the funeral (in Oakland, oddly enough), I was invited to their house. We shared a drink, and memories of Aunt Jo. And I went home.

In Las Vegas, it was one of my neighbours. Actually, he was one of the two with whom I'd actually developed a friendship, albeit a tenuous one. I attended the funeral–the first cremation I ever witnessed–and returned home. In anticipation of some sort of reception, I had baked a ham. I watched her house all afternoon, expecting to see people arrive. Though the widow returned home shortly after I did, no one even dropped by. Should I have taken the initiative? Perhaps, but I didn't. And we–my roommates and I–ate ham for a week.

In New York, it was my cousin George. Now, in fairness, George was the north end of a southbound horse. Not very many people could tolerate him, and fewer still called him friend. But his wife and children were well liked, so when he fell off the roof whilst adjusting the TV antenna, and broke his bloody neck–yes, he was loaded–I anticipated a large turnout in support of the family. And the funeral was well attended. The wake, however, consisted of several dozen people drinking and telling raucous stories of George's exploits (not all of them appropriate, or even legal). And after the funeral? The family (including your faithful blogger) went back to the house and, after a couple of beers, ordered pizza.

But here in Dixie, when someone dies, we carry food. Cakes, hams, fried chicken, pot roast, biscuits, that horrid green bean and mushroom soup casserole (why do that to green beans?): in short, comfort food. The whole family, as well as the whole neighbourhood, drops by to "pay respects" and "have a bite to eat." It's expected. It's part of the grieving process. And it does bring comfort to both family and friends.

It also means tons of leftovers, and they're just too good to throw away (except that god-awful casserole). So I've been eating far too much, of food far to rich. And now I'm paying the price.

And lest we forget, last week was Gregory's 16th birthday. No cake, but I did make him a tiramisu...

Happy Birthday, Gregory!

2005-04-19T14:47:00.000-04:00

With all that has transpired in the past week or so, I almost forgot my son's sixteenth birthday. Of course, I have the news staff of every major network to remind me: Gregory's birthday happens to fall on the anniversaries of the Branch Davidian fiasco in Waco, and the Murrah Building bombing in Oklahoma City. Yes, April 19 is a popular day.

So what does one give a sixteen year old? Beats me. He loves to read, but I already keep him well supplied with books. He likes music, but buys CD's and downloads his favourites to his MP3 player before I've even heard of the band. He wants a new laptop, but I can't justify that when the one he has is more than adequate. Besides, who wants to get something that practical as a birthday gift?

So I gave in, and asked what he'd like.

"A car."

"You can't even drive yet." NB: In Virginia, one must be 16 years and three months to qualify for a license.

"But I can soon."

"Well, when you get the license, we'll talk about it. So, what do you want for your birthday?"

"A car."

"But you can't even drive yet!"

"I know. But it's all I can think of that I want."

This focused on something he can't yet use, and doesn't know how he will afford, makes me wonder: am I raising a Republican? Well, even if that turns out to be true, I'll still love him.

But I won't give him a car.

Good-bye, Dad

2005-04-13T13:11:00.000-04:00

The sun shall no longer be your light by day,
nor the moon shine on you when evening falls;
the Lord shall be your everlasting light,
your God shall be your glory.

Never again shall your sun set
nor your moon withdraw her light;
but the Lord shall be your everlasting light
and the days of your mourning shall be ended.

~ Isaiah 60:19-20 ~

Howard Guy Mitchell
May 20, 1919 – April 13, 2005
Requiescat in Pace

End Game

2005-04-08T22:09:00.000-04:00

As I type this, my father is in Mary Washington Hospital suffering from aspiration pneumonia. Perhaps suffering isn't quite the right word here: he is being kept quite comfortable, with Tylenol and morphine. But his breathing is laboured—he's on pure oxygen—and it now is only a matter of time.

At least there is no dispute as to his wishes. He has an Advance Medical Directive, prohibiting extraordinary means to prolong his life, and a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) order that prevents heroic measures to revive him. No one—no Bush Boy, US Senator, or other self-appointed saviour—is going to rush in at the last moment and shove a feeding tube down his nasal passage or slice open his trachea to insert an airway.

No one is going to turn his decision into a media circus. No one will be making "political capital" off his wish to die in peace. There will be no controversy, no squabbles. No one, outside his family and a small circle of friends, will even note his passing. But my father will pass with dignity. Parkinson's Disease had robbed him of a large portion of that in recent years. Despite the effects of the advancing disease, however, he always managed to laugh at a joke, enjoy his grandson, and receive visitors with grace. It would be a travesty to rob him of his final moment of personal nobility.

I had much more to say—most of it ranting against the meddling in Terry Schiavo's death—but I will not tarnish my father's memory. Another time, perhaps.

I love you, Dad. Go in peace.

And then...

2005-03-31T21:27:00.000-05:00

Just when I think I've reconciled to my father never getting any better--he gets a little better. What a total shock to walk into his room and find him sitting up in a wheelchair! I honestly don't think he has gotten out of that bed twice since he arrived at the facility. And those instances were to be taken to the shower.

But this morning, he was completely lucid and intelligible. We actually had a nice chat, and I even got the idea he could have beaten me at Casino. It's a card game we used to play after dinner when I was growning up. And then whenever I happened to be home. Yes, it's really a game: check out Hoyle if you don't believe me.

As I was leaving, however, the nurse told me this was unusual. He sleeps most of the time, and the CNA's have to strain to understand when he speaks. Tell me about it.

Still, I hold out hope for him. It would be nice if he could return home--I know he'd be happier--though how that would affect Mum, I've no idea. I'll give her this, however: she has looked into hiring home care assistance, so she's thinking the same as I.

More soon: I've a bit to say about living wills, advance medical directives, DNR orders, etc, in light of the Schiavo case. But that will have to wait.

Sugar Mountain High

2005-03-21T22:45:00.000-05:00

So it's spring break, and my son is here for a few extra days. I know the day is approaching when my mere presence will embarrass and exasperate him beyond words, and so I treasure every one of these "lagniappes." How much? Consider Saturday:

Five in the a-bloody-m, and I was standing in the shower. Must be going fishing—right? I mean, what else could get me out of a nice, warm bed at that hour? Well, as hundreds of my fellow writers (and, I hope, thousands of readers) prepared to descend upon the Virginia Festival of the Book, my son and I were preparing to drive to Highland County for the Maple Festival.

What self-respecting 16-year-old would want to be seen with his father, all day, at a blatantly cornball festival? So corny it's actually a designated "Local Legacy" celebration by the Library of Congress, and is listed on the Southeast Tourism Socitey's Top 20 Events? Mine, fortunately. Yes, we still enjoy a pretty damned close relationship, for which I am truly thankful.

I know you just can't wait to hear what we did all day—after driving 150 miles—so I'll keep you in suspense no longer.

By 10 am, we were chowing down on sausage and buckwheat cakes, slathered in (what else?) pure Virginia maple syrup. If I ate like that all the time, I'd be fatter than I am now! Anyway, after forcing ourselves to leave the crap… uh, craft show, we trundled off to the first of four sugar camps. Have you ever seen maple sap being turned into syrup? They boil it, for hours on end, until somewhere between 40 and 55 gallons of "sugar water" have reduced to one gallon of syrup. Most places have modernised with propane or oil fired boilers. But at our first stop—Rexrode's Sugar Orchard—they still use open-pan evapration and wood-fired boilers. Most people can't taste the difference, but there is a subtle wood smoke taste to their finished product. It's far superior to the stuff you buy at your local grocery, you can be sure.

The rest of the day was spent travelling between sugar camps—we criss-crossed that county half a dozen times—and looking for a year-round trout fishing camp. Yeah, okay, fishing was involved after all. But we never found the bloody place, until it was too late in the day! The gate was closed, and not a soul in sight. So we trundled off to the Highland Centre for lamb dinner. Raising sheep, by the way, is another major local industry. Cetta, Lisa, had I thought of it before just now, I'd have gotten you some of the gorgeous local wool. Anyway, the dinner was great, and I repeat: if I ate like that all the time, yadda, yadda, yadda…

It was a wonderful day, and I really needed the time away from the 'rents. Especially considering my Dad's condition when we visited him Sunday. But that's another entry, for another time.

Man Plans, God Laughs

2005-03-17T23:23:00.000-05:00

I had hopes, high hopes, that my life would be back to normal by now. True, I had to renege on my vow to keep Dad out of a nursing home—excuse me, skilled nursing facility—and Mum's surgery was much less than successful. But Dad is in a much better facility than before: he's content (comfortable, anyway), well cared for, and receiveing physical and speech therapy. And Mum has just today been evaluated for physical therapy and pain management. Prognosis is hopeful, but progress will take time.

Yes, I still am chauffeur, cook, personal shopper, assistant, counsellor, etc. And I expect this won't change for some time to come. However, I do now have more time for my needs, wants and desires. In fact, just today I met a friend for a quick lunch—sushi at a local cafe—and actually managed a hour or so of sketching. I would dearly love a few hours with my watercolours, though. And I have to get some writing done. I've two assignments pending (neither that pays worth a damn, but the exposure will be helpful), and have done nothing toward either.

So, happy St Paddy's! I'm going for another stout, and then to bed.

No, wait! Happy Birthday to Cetta's daughter, Cailey!

And now, good night!

Bloody Microsomething

2005-03-08T22:54:00.000-05:00

So, a little icon pops up to announce "A Windows update is ready for download," yadda, yadda. This one purportedly removes malicious software. Naturally, I download it. And install it. All whilst using Netscape 7.2, my preferred browser.

The install completes—a little information window tells me so—and Netscape suddenly stops responding. Fine, think I: time to reboot.

Mother of all things dark and nefarious! Netscape has disappeared!

All right, I can laugh about it now. After reinstalling Netscape 7.2, I found that all my bookmarks and passwords were intact. No settings had changed. And the nasty letter I was all prepared to fire off to that Gates chap, and his minions, will never be anything more than a delicious fantasy.

And I still have time to break out the watercolours. For a little while.

Blustery Day

2005-03-08T12:15:00.000-05:00

Today is a mental health day: I don't need to go see Dad in hospital—he rang this morning and asked that we not come today—my appointment with the lawyer was rescheduled to next week, and a neighbour is bringing supper. I have an entire unplanned day!

So why am I spending 'me' time on the 'Net? Well, yesterday was sunny, windy and 68° F. Today, we have snow. Nothing to keep one indoors, mind, except that it is a wet, blustery storm. Once precipitation subsides, I'll be out and about. May ring up a friend or two and meet for coffee at Hyperion Expresso. Certainly will drop by the library, as I've an overdue book. Too, I've not seen the reference staff in some time; must not let them forget me!

I do have one more goal for today, likely this evening: I'd like to spend a few hours painting. I've not so much as seen my watercolours in so bloody long… Well, we all must have priorities.

Well, short entry this time. After all, mental health days are few and far between for me. Lately, anyway.

Best Laid Schemes

2005-03-04T21:56:00.000-05:00

Yesterday—only one day later than planned—Dad was moved to a "skilled nursing facility" (that's Medicare-speak for "nursing home"). This morning, he was returned to hospital, suffering from pneumonia. So much for physical therapy, and hopes that he might soon be well enough to return home.

Bastards. Insufferably arrogant, supercilious bastards. I refer, of course, to doctors. A week ago, I tried to tell the ER staff my father had pneumonia.

"No," said Doctor Number One. "His chest sounds are clear, and his oxygen level good."

Bollocks, thought I. You've not been holding him up in bed so he can expel mounds of gray-green phlegm. And can't you bloody hear how he wheezes when he breathes?

"No," said Doctor Number Two. "His chest x-ray is negative."

Double bollocks, thought I. Either the radiologist is misreading the x-ray, or the complaint has been dismissed out-of-hand as a family member on a zebra hunt. Most likely the latter: after all, I'm not a medical professional.

"No," said his Duty Nurse. "His chart does not indicate a respiratory problem."

Cretins, thought I. First, anyone not bat blind and stone deaf can both see and hear he has a "respiratory problem." When he coughs, his entire body shakes. He rises at the waist and tries to turn on his side, in an obvious attempt to clear his lungs. The cough itself is thick and wet, like a well-soaked sponge smacking a marble floor.

Second, he suffers from Parkinson's Disease. Amongst the leading causes of death in Parkinson's patients is respiratory distress. One loses the ability to clear the lungs, fluids collect, and, in essence, one drowns.

Of course, this isn't the first time my opinion has gone unheeded. Fifteen years ago, I had Mum tell their doctor I suspected Dad had Parkinson's. After a brief examination, the doctor disagreed: "Nothing to worry about." Less than three years later, the same doctor referred Dad to a neurologist for treatment of Parkinson's. Had I not been so angry, it would have been funny.

About six years ago, Mum—who has lost some 30% of her bone mass to osteoporosis—complained of a dull pain in her left side, just below her breast. Heart attack, thought she. A trip to the ER (yes, the same ER) proved that wrong. When I was informed, I suggested she might have a broken rib. You know, ribs break easily enough as it is, and with her osteoporosis... Long story short, the ER doctor ordered x-rays (mostly to shut me up, I think). Then he announced Mum had a broken rib. I suggested he be grateful we had no intent to sue for malpractice.

I could go on, but the sum of it is: doctors play at god. And do a damned poor job of it. Not all doctors, of course, and not all the time. But even the best are susceptible to that deity persona.

And Mum slowly goes insane. Between the emotional stress of watching the physical and mental deterioration of the man she has loved more than 58 years, and the physical stress of her own health problems, I'm frankly amazed she hasn't totally collapsed.

Me? Someone has to remember to bring in groceries, pay bills, take out the garbage. I'll have my nervous breakdown when it's more convenient.

Never Say Never

2005-03-01T22:06:00.000-05:00

My father has been in hospital since Saturday morning. He was in serious distress, with an obstructed bowel—he had not defecated in ten days—yet refused to seek medical attention. Saturday morning, Mum could take it no longer. She rang for the rescue squad about 11. Even then, with his family and two paramedics telling him he needed help, Dad resisted. Finally, I simply gave him a choice: hospital or nursing home. He agreed to have the squad take him to hospital.

We were in the ER until 6 Saturday evening. Yes, the good folk at our (only) local hospital emergency room needed very nearly seven hours to decide an 85 year old man with an obstructed bowel, fever, productive cough, etc, needed to be admitted.

What was the bloody alternative?

Tomorrow, Dad is being transferred to a nursing home. Not quite two weeks, and already I'm reneging on my vow to keep my father at home. This time, however, he is going to a rehab facility, where he will get physical and nutritional therapy. With a bit of luck, he will recover enough of his old self that he can return home. For however long he has left. And I can keep my promise.

Hallucination, or observation?

2005-02-24T16:44:00.000-05:00

Whilst at the "assisted living" facility, I don't believe my father was given his anti-hallucinatory drugs. As a consequence, the hallucinations have returned—not only in full complement, but with reinforcements.

As before, there is a small, naked child running round the house. (Every time he mentions this, I flash on the dancing baby from Ally McBeal.) The little buggar pees everywhere, most especially on Dad's bedroom walls and bathroom floor. No, this isn't Dad rationalising accidents: there never is any urine.

Another old favourite—the strings I've tied all round the furniture to trip him—has a new twist: as Dad can't stand on his own, never mind walk, it seems I now use those strings to tie him to his bloody wheelchair. I'm such a vicious, vindictive little prick, you know.

There are little people—gnomes, leprechauns, what have you—darting all about the house. It seems most are benign, a few are benevolent, and a very few are wicked. The wicked ones move Dad's specs, take the coins from his dressing tray, and hide the TV remote. The benevolent ones try to stop the mischief, but generally fail. And the rest just run about poking their noses into his business.

A small black dog wanders the house at all hours, stopping to sit and stare at Dad. This, of course, he finds infuriating. I usually learn the dog (I have named him Mephisto) has returned by having to pick up whatever Dad throws at the poor beast. At the very least I've learnt now to keep breakables out of his reach. NB: no matter what Dad throws, Mephisto appears unfazed. He simply sits and stares, pissing off Dad all the more.

Dad's siblings—most often his brother Bill—visit regularly. The last of them passed away a bit more than four years ago. Bill passed away almost seven years ago. I've asked him to curtail his visits—yes, really: it seems to mollify Dad—as they seem always to deteriorate into shouting matches. Still, Uncle Bill seems to pop in almost every night.

Perhaps most disturbing is the pig with no eyes. The pig talks to Dad, feeding him all manner of nonsense. The predominant theme is, Mum and I are trying to kill him. I worry that this is the beginning stage of schizophrenia, or similar psychosis. I hope it is just another manifestation of the Parkinson's dementia.

These are only the recurring visions—and only the ones I've witnessed, come to that. I can't even begin to list the dozens of hallucinations that manifest once or twice, the incomprehensible visual misperceptions, the noises only Dad hears. Watching him try to pick up something that isn't there is heartbreaking. And seeing the effect all this has upon my mum only makes it worse.

I do see light at the end of the tunnel: it is just possible the meds will again be fully efficacious once they have built up in his system. Tonight will be a full week back on, so we soon shall see.

A thought occurs to me: what if these hallucinations are a separate reality? They are, after all, quite real to Dad. Could it be our so-called rational minds simply refuse to acknowledge what we cannot comprehend? Perhaps dementia, schizophrenia and similar psychoses are nothing more than heightened powers of observation, coupled with the inability to filter visual "noise."

And ain't that a scary thought…

Homecoming

2005-02-23T23:51:00.000-05:00

Last Thursday, my father came home from that "assisted living" hell-hole. In two weeks—exactly two weeks, to the hour—he lost at least 25 pounds, the ability to stand, and, it seems, the will to live.

He no longer eats a decent meal. Last Thursday, on the way home, he requested a Philly cheese steak from a favourite diner. He ate a bit more than half of it. That evening, he ate a large portion of barbecued chicken, cole slaw and a dinner roll (also his request). It was the last substantial meal to pass his lips. He continues to lose weight, in the form of muscle mass. The skin hangs from his arms. I can make out every bone in both legs.

He spends most of the day in bed, rising only take a few bites of breakfast, lunch or supper. And, of course, for the occasional fruitless trip to the loo. Well, sometimes it isn't exactly fruitless, just too late: he tends to lose control of his bladder. I've washed sheets almost every day since bringing him home. Thank JC Penny for rubber mattress pads...

"Rising" may be a bit misleading: in truth, he yells for me and I lift him from the bed. Or the w-c. Or the wheelchair. And take him wherever he wants to go. My back aches. My shoulders hurt. My bad knee is about to quit. My good knee—good being relative—is about to go bad. Soon, I'm not going to be able to do all the lifting and moving. Then, I suppose, we'll have to hire someone. The thought frightens my mother: doubtless, she still remembers the nurse who stole her parents blind as my grandfather lay dying.

But what can I do? I refuse to take him back to that snake pit, and he has made it clear he would not go willingly. In fact, that is the one thing he says quite clearly. Did I mention his speech is now slurred almost to incoherence, as though he had suffered a small stroke? I have begun looking at other assisted living facilities, but all three I've investigated thus far appear to have the same shortcomings: inadequate staffing, inedible food, and an aura of death.

I'm at loose ends. Do I scratch the clock, or wind my butt?

Zero, one, zero, two, star

2005-02-13T12:42:00.000-05:00

The place looks innocuous enough, neither foreboding nor welcoming. Come to that, it resembles a modern apartment complex: bland and characterless, but functional. The first clue to its purpose is the front door that opens itself at the merest tug, and closes only after some 20 seconds pass.

The second clue is olfactory: the scent of pine-oil disinfectant lingers, even at meal-time, alongside an undertone of mentholated arthritis rub.

Even this is not the worst. Pass through the electronically locked doors--by punching in the title of this entry--into the "Special Care Unit," and the overwhelming odour is of despair and human decay. Frequently this is underscored by the smell of urine, faeces or vomitus. Lysol and Listerine cannot disguise these odours, though the staff seem not to notice.

Not that I'm accusing staff of neglect! Quite the reverse: they seem competent and efficient, if a bit detached. One must detach, I suppose, in order to work there. The "Special Care Unit," you see, is for residents suffering from Alzheimer's and similar disorders. And it's where my father now resides--temporarily, please God.

My mother is scheduled for an MRI--and possibly surgery--tomorrow morning. I cannot care for my father without her help, so he agreed to this arrangement. Originially, the thought was this also might serve as a trial run of sorts. This assisted living facility reputedly is the best in the area, and mum was hopeful they both might take up residence--though not in the "Special Care Unit."

Not half a bloody chance. I won't allow it, not so long as I've breath in my body, strength in my back and money in the bank. I will do whatever it takes to keep them in their own home, even if it means I must live with them the rest of their lives. It's the least I can do for them.

But I won't lie to you: keeping them at home is also for me. I cannot bring myself to visit that place more than a few minutes at a time, nor more often than every other day. I cannot erase the image of my father, sitting alone in his wheelchair and reading when I arrive. Neither can I forget his brave, "It's only a few more days," each time I leave.

No, damn it, I want him home, where he's comfortable and happy. I'll change the bloody sheets, clean his arse, talk him through his hallucinations, do whatever it takes to get him out of that... place.

And I pray I never need that degree of care. Parkinson's, I'm told, can be hereditary.

Unbelievably stupid(?) Web pages

2005-02-08T16:10:00.000-05:00

My father suffers from Parkinson's disease. Within the past six months, it has deteriorated into Parkinson's Disease Dementia. Every day, it gets worse. This afternoon, for example, he thought he was in court, and I his attorney. I never convinced him otherwise, though he did accept the case had been continued. I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.

And my mother: two recent compression fractures of vertebrae have left her in constant, excruciating pain. Today, her doctor gave her enough hydrocodone to get her through to Monday, when--creek don't rise, etc--she will have an MRI to determine whether vertebraplasty (sp?) will give her any relief. Fingers crossed...

So, with everything going so swimmingly, I decided I needed a laugh. Truth be told, I decided if I didn't laugh I would start screaming, possibly never to stop. Herewith, then, a selection from 505 Unbelievably Stupid Web P@ges, by Dan Crowley (a Christmas gift from my son):

"How to Drive Like a Moron," at http://www.doggiesnot.com/ -- Reads very much like the Official DMV (Demented Motorists Version) Driving Manual. Bloody 'ell, most of the people round here drive this way!

"The Stupid People Pages," at http://www.geocities.com/SouthBeach/sands/7085/ -- Read all about the idiotic behaviour of your fellow man.

And finally, "The Bunny Survival Tests," at http://www.keypad.org/bunnies/ -- Easter being near, I know you're just dying to see how those marshmallow bunnies survived such tests as "Laser Exposure Endurance" and "Slow Application of Heat."

Well, it's time I tried to accomplish something productive. Until next time, then.

Viagra?!

2005-01-26T12:28:00.000-05:00

Just got off the telephone with my cardiologist. That has to be the most unusual conversation I've ever had with a doctor.

First, some background: Several years ago, I suffered a serious bout of pericarditis. According to my first cardio, it should have killed me. You see, my blood pressure hit the stratosphere--220 over 130, as I recall--so I should have stroked out. At the very least, he said, my kidneys should have failed. I think he was trying to impress upon me just how fortunate I was only to have an enlarged heart and mitral valve prolapse to deal with.

Anyway, moving forward to last spring, my left atrium had weakened and enlarged even further. My cardio offered three courses of treatment, but strongly recommended the surgical alternative. I balked. Anything involving scalpels and rib spreaders makes me do that... So I sought another opinion, and found the current cardio. He put me on an aggressive course of drugs, told me to lose forty pounds (actually, he told me to get off my fat arse and exercise--and lose forty pounds), and said we'd keep close watch on my progress.

Fast forward again, to today. I've lost thirty pounds, I exercise once in a while, and my cardio is pleased with how my heart is responding. But here's the rub: I've been offered a chance to join in a clinical study of Viagra. The conversation went something like this:

Cardio (after identifying himself) -- How would you like to join a clinical study of Viagra?
Me -- I've never had a problem with that. And right now, um... I don't have anyone to test it with.
Cardio -- That's not what it's about. Wait. You don't have any problems with that?
Me -- Nope. Lots of lead in the ol' pencil, just no one to write to.
Cardio -- Really? No problems getting an erection?
Me -- No. None. Should there be?
Cardio -- Well, the meds you're on frequently have that effect.
Me -- Not this time.
Cardio -- Good. Good. That's a very positive sign.
Me -- Yeah, I think so.
Cardio -- Okay, then. So do you want to join in this trial?
Me -- Umm, Doc...
Cardio -- That's not what it's for. There's a study forming to determine the efficacy of Viagra in treating the very condition you have.
Me -- Huh?
Cardio -- The enlarged heart. Viagra has proved successful treating it in mice.
Me -- What? Really? How?
Cardio -- Yes, really. Are you interested?
Me -- I'll have to think about it.
Cardio -- I need to know soon.
Me -- Okay, I'll, uh... I'll call you in a day or two.

Maybe it's just me, but that seemed a very strange conversation. And who would have thought Viagra--implicated in quite a few coronaries when it first came out, as I recall--could actually help one's heart?

And just in time for Valentine's Day...

Bread, milk and toilet paper

2005-01-21T11:37:00.000-05:00

That's not my shopping list: it's a cliché. The weekend forecast calls for five inches or more of snow, and my neighbours now will descend upon all the local markets to stock up on (you guessed it) bread, milk and toilet paper. No, I'm not joking.

Come on! It's only snow! It'll be ploughed off the road in a few hours, and gone in a day or two. We're in the South, people! As Mark Twain noted, "If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes"!

Of all the places I've ever lived, this is the worst for snow. Not that we get much, but when we do... Panic is not too extreme a description. Half an inch guarantees half a dozen vehicles off the road every five miles. Drivers will slow to a crawl, even though most of the white stuff will have been blown off the road by all the trffic heading to the bloody market!

Worse than the overly cautious are the morons who see weather as a challenge. You know the type. They're the ones driving full-size pick-up trucks with enormous tires, or sub-compacts with "aerodynamic" body modifications. The same ones who insist upon weaving in and out of rush hour traffic with no regard for other drivers solely to improve their lot by approximately three car lengths. Is it wrong of me to feel satisfaction when these become (unwilling) off-road vehicles?

I could go on but will end here as I've a few errands to run. Don't laugh, but amongst my stops wil be the grocery. Believe it or not, when shopping yesterday I forgot to buy bread...

Forty Million Dollars

2005-01-20T21:30:00.000-05:00

Am I the only one thoroughly disgusted at this $40 million spectacle in DC?

Okay, all funds are coming from ticket sales, and corporate and private contributions. What do you think those "contributors" expect in return? In a word: access--and you can be certain they'll get it. The key to the Oval Office for sale to the deepest pockets. To borrow from the first Republican president, it's government of the people, by the wealthy, for those who can afford it.

And what about the costs to the District? Already financially strapped, DC has had to divert $12 million to pay for the security measures required for this shindig. Has the Bush Inaugural Committee offered to reimburse the city, as is traditional? Dream on. With only $40 million to play with, where would they economise?

But the worst, most distasteful aspect of that hoe-down is simply this: as Bush & Company party hearty, there are men and women in the line of fire 10,000 miles to the east. What kind of a Commander in Chief has such an ostentatious celebration of himself while those he purports to lead remain in harm's way?

Easy: the same kind who would send them in harm's way under false pretenses to begin with.

It's gonna be a long four years...