I just had an idea so horrible that I call on an exorcist to come over and take it out of my head as if it were never there. It doesn't have anything to do with politics, so you are safe to read on if you wish, though it has in fact crossed my mind that there are some members of Hillary's Sisterhood of the Traveling Pantsuits who wouldn't mind if somebody approached John McCain with an exorcist or a jackhammer with the idea of emptying his head of Sarah Palin as if she had never been there.
I was watching the college football scores on the little TV in the kitchen with the sound turned down low yesterday afternoon when I saw that Texas was beating Fla. Int'l, 7-0, in the first quarter. Three or four scores later, I noted that Kansas and Fla. Int'l were scoreless in the first quarter. First thought: it's a typo. Second thought: Fla. Int'l has two football teams.
Horrible! But it was too late. The idea was had, and vibes fanned out from it into the universe. Why it scares me so is that I have had these kinds of ideas about television sports before. In the early 1980s, I realized that television sports producers would think nothing of finding sponsors for time-honored baseball functions like strike one, strike two and strike three, caring not at all how such an idea would aggravate me and, incidentally, trivialize the game and belabor our enjoyment. The only reason the idea has not become reality is because sponsors can't decide which strike would make them look best, a strike being anti-success for half the potential customers. There is no lack of hallowed baseball functions, however, which now are brought to us in behalf of cars and beer. A few seasons ago, there was an attempt to put ads on the bases. It failed, but it was close, and it will come up again.
It did turn out to be a typo. The morning paper shows Texas beating Fla. Atlantic and Kansas vanquishing Fla. Int'l. Ten years from now, I don't know. Like so many other businesses, college football people know they are not in the college football business. They are in the television business, whose commodity is commercial time. If a 154-game baseball season is good, won't a 162-game season be better? How many wild card teams would it take to have three seven-game playoffs before the World Series? How about football games on Monday nights? How about football games on Thursday nights? How about a two-minute warning? How about commercials after the kickoff?
In the television business, the only thing better than one U.S.C. football team is two U.S.C. football teams. Two Notre Dames, two Texas Longhorns, two Fla. Int'l's, etc. When one Texas team is playing at home, the other is playing on the road. Will it work? I don't know. I hope I don't have to find out.
August 31, 2008
August 28, 2008
First lesson of the 60th grade
It’s probably not the best sign that I forgot until today that I started the 60th grade on Monday. With the first day of every school year, which for me was Monday, you go into the next grade. I will learn things in the 60th grade that I don’t know now. I learned things in the 59th that I didn’t know in the 58th. Some are fun, some are hard. So it goes. I hope school never ends.
To find out what grade you are in, go back to the year you started your senior year in high school, which was grade 12. For me, that was 1960. Then you just count up. Some people can do this mathematically. I actually have to do it on a sheet of paper, writing down all the years from ’60 to ’08, then next to each the corresponding grade: 12, 13, 14, etc. It now takes me one whole column and all but nine lines in the second column of an 8x11 Office Max yellow lined pad. I have learned a lot. Not much math, though. I spent grades 8 through 41 trying to figure out why I had to take algebra. Then one night when Jessie was in eighth grade I was helping her with algebra homework and was so proud when she clenched her eyes and said, “I. Can’t. Do. This.” “Just solve for x,” I said helpfully, and realized in a blinding flash of relief, “That’s it!” After eight grades of memorizing stuff, suddenly kids get to solve for x. Solve for an unknown. Algebra never was about math. Algebra is the kindergarten of philosophy.
Many other things take a long time to learn, too. Even after the Olympics, I can’t tell you what day it is today in Beijing. During the Olympics I never did figure out, no matter how many times Bob Costas told me, if I was a day ahead or behind. I would be reading about events in the newspaper before I saw them on television. Isn’t that totally backwards?
The first new lesson for me in 60th grade came this week when I figured out the only correct answer to the question, “Can you tell me what was going through your mind?” As you know, that was the Official Question of the 2008 Olympics. No matter how impossible their feats, the athletes were easily ensnared on their way to the locker room by a TV reporter wielding this question. The only correct answer: “I was thinking about the folks at home wondering what was going through my mind.” Not a single one was able to give the correct answer, not even Michael Phelps, who was asked eight times. Of course he is like only in the 17th or 18th grade. He is so great, but with so much to learn.
To find out what grade you are in, go back to the year you started your senior year in high school, which was grade 12. For me, that was 1960. Then you just count up. Some people can do this mathematically. I actually have to do it on a sheet of paper, writing down all the years from ’60 to ’08, then next to each the corresponding grade: 12, 13, 14, etc. It now takes me one whole column and all but nine lines in the second column of an 8x11 Office Max yellow lined pad. I have learned a lot. Not much math, though. I spent grades 8 through 41 trying to figure out why I had to take algebra. Then one night when Jessie was in eighth grade I was helping her with algebra homework and was so proud when she clenched her eyes and said, “I. Can’t. Do. This.” “Just solve for x,” I said helpfully, and realized in a blinding flash of relief, “That’s it!” After eight grades of memorizing stuff, suddenly kids get to solve for x. Solve for an unknown. Algebra never was about math. Algebra is the kindergarten of philosophy.
Many other things take a long time to learn, too. Even after the Olympics, I can’t tell you what day it is today in Beijing. During the Olympics I never did figure out, no matter how many times Bob Costas told me, if I was a day ahead or behind. I would be reading about events in the newspaper before I saw them on television. Isn’t that totally backwards?
The first new lesson for me in 60th grade came this week when I figured out the only correct answer to the question, “Can you tell me what was going through your mind?” As you know, that was the Official Question of the 2008 Olympics. No matter how impossible their feats, the athletes were easily ensnared on their way to the locker room by a TV reporter wielding this question. The only correct answer: “I was thinking about the folks at home wondering what was going through my mind.” Not a single one was able to give the correct answer, not even Michael Phelps, who was asked eight times. Of course he is like only in the 17th or 18th grade. He is so great, but with so much to learn.
August 26, 2008
Just do it your way
Karen and I got some good exercise over the weekend. She went six miles on Saturday and four miles on Sunday. I went a mile and a quarter on Saturday and took out the trash on Sunday.
Karen is ramping up serious training for the Komen Foundation 3-Day Breast Cancer Walk at the end of November during which she will walk 20 miles for three days in a row. She has my total admiration for doing this. She did the six miles on Saturday in an hour and 45 minutes, faster than I could drink two cups of coffee and read The Times editorial page.
My pace was 27 minutes for the mile and a quarter. A bit slow for me, but I am coming off hip replacement surgery, which made me a quarter-inch taller, and the height made me dizzy. We were walking at Miramar Lake in San Diego, which is circled by a five-mile paved path. There were many other people (and a lot of dogs) there on a pleasant Saturday morning, each put there at that moment in time with a specific purpose, no two alike. It quickly seemed to me that my purpose was to reassure everyone there that there was at least one person they could pass.
Then I settled in behind an Asian couple, very old. I was actually gaining on them. I cut in the afterburners and eased out to pass. “Good morning,” I said to the woman, who was in fact quite old, possibly late Ming Dynasty. Her husband, or perhaps son, was a couple of steps ahead and doing arm calesthentics as he walked. I forged a few yards ahead and throttled down to slowest-human-being-besides-them pace.
It wasn’t two minutes before the husband-son strode briskly past me and back into the lead. I glanced over my shoulder, thinking, “God, no, please, not slower than the Ming Dynasty.” But she was still back there and losing ground. Karen was long gone into the distance. Runners, joggers, skaters, bikers and walkers sped past me in both directions. There was a group of two moms, a dad, two young daughters each riding in black nylon strollers the size of small tents, and two retriever-sized dogs on leashes. The moms, each with a stroller and a dog, spread out across the path with the apparent remarkable intent to prove they were the only ones on the path this fine morning. A biker came up at speed behind them and yelled, “Left!” The woman on the left steered right, reeled in her dog, and exclaimed, “Oh! Sorry!” as if she were completely surprised, or perhaps just to annoy me.
The traffic was like Milan. The pros and the innocent. The bold and the meek. The fast and the slow. The dumb, the dumber, and the brain-dead. Somebody let a tiny girl on a tiny pink bike with handlebar streamers and training wheels out there. She was wearing a tiny pink helmet which would not have saved her if she happened into the path of the fastest man I have ever seen up-close. Two guys on bicycles sped by, doing I swear 20 mph, and directly behind the second bike, right on his fender, was this fastest guy, lean and black and glistening and hauling. I thought the bikers were pacing him, but Karen said they passed her on the other side and the guys on the bikes didn’t even know he was there. That reminds me of an old joke about a Cadillac and a bicycle that I can’t remember right now.
I checked the local news the next morning, and there were no Miramar Lake path accidents reported. I never could understand that about Milan, either.
Karen is ramping up serious training for the Komen Foundation 3-Day Breast Cancer Walk at the end of November during which she will walk 20 miles for three days in a row. She has my total admiration for doing this. She did the six miles on Saturday in an hour and 45 minutes, faster than I could drink two cups of coffee and read The Times editorial page.
My pace was 27 minutes for the mile and a quarter. A bit slow for me, but I am coming off hip replacement surgery, which made me a quarter-inch taller, and the height made me dizzy. We were walking at Miramar Lake in San Diego, which is circled by a five-mile paved path. There were many other people (and a lot of dogs) there on a pleasant Saturday morning, each put there at that moment in time with a specific purpose, no two alike. It quickly seemed to me that my purpose was to reassure everyone there that there was at least one person they could pass.
Then I settled in behind an Asian couple, very old. I was actually gaining on them. I cut in the afterburners and eased out to pass. “Good morning,” I said to the woman, who was in fact quite old, possibly late Ming Dynasty. Her husband, or perhaps son, was a couple of steps ahead and doing arm calesthentics as he walked. I forged a few yards ahead and throttled down to slowest-human-being-besides-them pace.
It wasn’t two minutes before the husband-son strode briskly past me and back into the lead. I glanced over my shoulder, thinking, “God, no, please, not slower than the Ming Dynasty.” But she was still back there and losing ground. Karen was long gone into the distance. Runners, joggers, skaters, bikers and walkers sped past me in both directions. There was a group of two moms, a dad, two young daughters each riding in black nylon strollers the size of small tents, and two retriever-sized dogs on leashes. The moms, each with a stroller and a dog, spread out across the path with the apparent remarkable intent to prove they were the only ones on the path this fine morning. A biker came up at speed behind them and yelled, “Left!” The woman on the left steered right, reeled in her dog, and exclaimed, “Oh! Sorry!” as if she were completely surprised, or perhaps just to annoy me.
The traffic was like Milan. The pros and the innocent. The bold and the meek. The fast and the slow. The dumb, the dumber, and the brain-dead. Somebody let a tiny girl on a tiny pink bike with handlebar streamers and training wheels out there. She was wearing a tiny pink helmet which would not have saved her if she happened into the path of the fastest man I have ever seen up-close. Two guys on bicycles sped by, doing I swear 20 mph, and directly behind the second bike, right on his fender, was this fastest guy, lean and black and glistening and hauling. I thought the bikers were pacing him, but Karen said they passed her on the other side and the guys on the bikes didn’t even know he was there. That reminds me of an old joke about a Cadillac and a bicycle that I can’t remember right now.
I checked the local news the next morning, and there were no Miramar Lake path accidents reported. I never could understand that about Milan, either.
August 24, 2008
"Ooby Dooby" a flatpicker's way
No way I am not going to say this sooner or later, so I might as well go ahead and say it right now. I am the father of the New England Flatpicking Guitar Champion of the United States of America. I don't know why it wasn't in The New York Times. Tyler only mentioned it to me yesterday in an email about something else.
"Flatpicking" is a kind of guitar playing involving an acoustic guitar, a plastic guitar pick, and individual notes played at high speed. The term might refer to the pick, which is flat, but it might also derive from the playing itself, as in, "That boy can flat pick that thing." Tyler can pick more notes in three seconds than I have picked altogether, and I started when I was 15.
But that wasn't why he emailed us. The New England news was a "btw" in a seven-line email. He mainly needed to say he couldn't be here for a breast cancer fundraiser we are hosting in September. He said he was proud of us for doing the fundraiser. He also said he saw Parrish and Branan at a gig in Salt Lake City, played at the Grand Targhee Bluegrass festival, told me he was glad I was recuperating okay, and he couldn't come in Sept. because that was the weekend of the National Flatpicking Championships. "Much to catch up on," he said, "but I gotta go catch a flight to Missoula right now." The boy (he's 32 years old) lives the kind of life where you have to be a flatpicking email champion too in order to stay in touch.
Then at the end he said: "Have you seen my Ooby Dooby?" Below that was this link to YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J6-mriYnBoY
"Ooby Dooby" was one of Roy Orbison's minor hits in the 1950s. I thought it should have been a major hit, but that's demographics for you. It was one of the 45s I always played whenever I got the "little records" out of the closet, so Tyler knew how I felt about it from shortly after birth. It has grown in popularity since Roy's death because it is one of the few songs that rock bands play because there is no way ordinary humans like Bono and Paul McCartney are going to try to sing "Pretty Woman" the way Orbison could. Even "Ooby Dooby" has its vocal demands. Tyler in his email warned me about this. "Not quite Roy quality," he said, "but the guitar breaks are pretty good."
Pretty good? Did I tell you Tyler was nominated for the Mother Teresa Humility Championship? Karen and I watched the video three times and then I emailed him back: "To have Roy Orbison's voice, you gotta be born Roy Orbison. But you know your way around the breaks as good or better than he did."
Actually I only put the "as good" in there because I'm a father and fathers aren't supposed to just gush openly. Toward the end of the second break, Tyler puts a high-speed riff in there that could only be played by the New England and possibly soon to be National flatpicking champion. Tyler will always prefer bluegrass, but put a Fender Stratocaster in his hands and the boy becomes a born rock-and-roller.
"Flatpicking" is a kind of guitar playing involving an acoustic guitar, a plastic guitar pick, and individual notes played at high speed. The term might refer to the pick, which is flat, but it might also derive from the playing itself, as in, "That boy can flat pick that thing." Tyler can pick more notes in three seconds than I have picked altogether, and I started when I was 15.
But that wasn't why he emailed us. The New England news was a "btw" in a seven-line email. He mainly needed to say he couldn't be here for a breast cancer fundraiser we are hosting in September. He said he was proud of us for doing the fundraiser. He also said he saw Parrish and Branan at a gig in Salt Lake City, played at the Grand Targhee Bluegrass festival, told me he was glad I was recuperating okay, and he couldn't come in Sept. because that was the weekend of the National Flatpicking Championships. "Much to catch up on," he said, "but I gotta go catch a flight to Missoula right now." The boy (he's 32 years old) lives the kind of life where you have to be a flatpicking email champion too in order to stay in touch.
Then at the end he said: "Have you seen my Ooby Dooby?" Below that was this link to YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J6-mriYnBoY
"Ooby Dooby" was one of Roy Orbison's minor hits in the 1950s. I thought it should have been a major hit, but that's demographics for you. It was one of the 45s I always played whenever I got the "little records" out of the closet, so Tyler knew how I felt about it from shortly after birth. It has grown in popularity since Roy's death because it is one of the few songs that rock bands play because there is no way ordinary humans like Bono and Paul McCartney are going to try to sing "Pretty Woman" the way Orbison could. Even "Ooby Dooby" has its vocal demands. Tyler in his email warned me about this. "Not quite Roy quality," he said, "but the guitar breaks are pretty good."
Pretty good? Did I tell you Tyler was nominated for the Mother Teresa Humility Championship? Karen and I watched the video three times and then I emailed him back: "To have Roy Orbison's voice, you gotta be born Roy Orbison. But you know your way around the breaks as good or better than he did."
Actually I only put the "as good" in there because I'm a father and fathers aren't supposed to just gush openly. Toward the end of the second break, Tyler puts a high-speed riff in there that could only be played by the New England and possibly soon to be National flatpicking champion. Tyler will always prefer bluegrass, but put a Fender Stratocaster in his hands and the boy becomes a born rock-and-roller.
August 21, 2008
Straightening out Florida
This morning I woke up about 6, rolled onto my back, stretched, and lay there perfectly still, without a care in the world, for a full minute before I realized something was wrong.
But I am getting ahead of myself. First, you need to know that I have kind of a weird build. Get a map of the United States and look at Florida. Florida is my torso. Now beneath Florida, place a footstool. Those are my legs. I have two legs, a footstool has four, but you get the idea. If you are in my first wife's family, you have seen Uncle Michael and me at parties. Uncle Mike is 6-foot-6, and when we were standing next to each other, I was looking at his chin. When we sat side-by-side, I was looking over the top of his head. Kids asked us to do that over and over again. There are pictures.
I was (I say "was" for a reason) also canted on the footstool a little bit, like Florida is canted a bit away from the Atlantic toward Alabama. Running around through life like Florida on a footstool for more than five decades had what I like to think was a natural effect on my hip joints. They became arthritic and had to be replaced, first the left, two years ago, then the right, six weeks ago. I have already told you how Karen said I look younger now, and that is correct. Each new hip has made me feel 30 years younger. She also said something else: "You look taller."
Taller! Hearing that, for a moment, I felt like a younger Charlton Heston. It could only mean one thing. Florida was now vertical on the footstool. The old hips, trying to compensate for the height and weight of Florida, had kept me pitched toward Alabama. The new ones, freely rotating, let me stand up straight. No longer would I go through life stepping into my own shade. Ye gods, 60 years younger and a quarter-inch taller!
A problem remained. The joints were free, but tendons and muscle wanted to stay at the old length. They hurt. Enter Nataly Pluta, the best physical therapist on the planet and possibly the most beautiful, and I can say that because she and Karen are best friends. Nataly's eyes are also ears. They look at a body, and the body speaks to them. The first time Nataly looked at me three years ago, my body said to her: "Florida on a footstool." She did not laugh, at least until I had gone. But the body tells her other things. Specific joints, ligaments and muscles say to Nataly, "Hurts here." "Tight here."
Ten seconds after Karen and I had showed up for my appointment, my right hip and leg had spoken to Nataly and she knew what she had to do. She put me on my back on her table and went through a few preliminary manipulations. My eyes were closed. You are supposed to relax and breathe deeply. I heard her say: "Now I want you to just hang out for a few minutes." I said, "Okay." Silence, then the touch of her fingers where the leg joins the hip. She started down the thigh, which immediately screamed at her, "No! I am a tube of toothpaste packed with concertina wire!" Of course she knew that. The fingers of death replied, "We are the Ten Sisters of the Marquesa de Sade. Breathe deeply, please." To Nataly I issued a direct threat: "I am going to blog about you." She said: "We're almost to the knee, and then we will be done."
This morning I lay there flat on my back, not a care in the world, until I realized there was no pain. The leg was straight, the concertina gone. What a right thing to be wrong.
But I am getting ahead of myself. First, you need to know that I have kind of a weird build. Get a map of the United States and look at Florida. Florida is my torso. Now beneath Florida, place a footstool. Those are my legs. I have two legs, a footstool has four, but you get the idea. If you are in my first wife's family, you have seen Uncle Michael and me at parties. Uncle Mike is 6-foot-6, and when we were standing next to each other, I was looking at his chin. When we sat side-by-side, I was looking over the top of his head. Kids asked us to do that over and over again. There are pictures.
I was (I say "was" for a reason) also canted on the footstool a little bit, like Florida is canted a bit away from the Atlantic toward Alabama. Running around through life like Florida on a footstool for more than five decades had what I like to think was a natural effect on my hip joints. They became arthritic and had to be replaced, first the left, two years ago, then the right, six weeks ago. I have already told you how Karen said I look younger now, and that is correct. Each new hip has made me feel 30 years younger. She also said something else: "You look taller."
Taller! Hearing that, for a moment, I felt like a younger Charlton Heston. It could only mean one thing. Florida was now vertical on the footstool. The old hips, trying to compensate for the height and weight of Florida, had kept me pitched toward Alabama. The new ones, freely rotating, let me stand up straight. No longer would I go through life stepping into my own shade. Ye gods, 60 years younger and a quarter-inch taller!
A problem remained. The joints were free, but tendons and muscle wanted to stay at the old length. They hurt. Enter Nataly Pluta, the best physical therapist on the planet and possibly the most beautiful, and I can say that because she and Karen are best friends. Nataly's eyes are also ears. They look at a body, and the body speaks to them. The first time Nataly looked at me three years ago, my body said to her: "Florida on a footstool." She did not laugh, at least until I had gone. But the body tells her other things. Specific joints, ligaments and muscles say to Nataly, "Hurts here." "Tight here."
Ten seconds after Karen and I had showed up for my appointment, my right hip and leg had spoken to Nataly and she knew what she had to do. She put me on my back on her table and went through a few preliminary manipulations. My eyes were closed. You are supposed to relax and breathe deeply. I heard her say: "Now I want you to just hang out for a few minutes." I said, "Okay." Silence, then the touch of her fingers where the leg joins the hip. She started down the thigh, which immediately screamed at her, "No! I am a tube of toothpaste packed with concertina wire!" Of course she knew that. The fingers of death replied, "We are the Ten Sisters of the Marquesa de Sade. Breathe deeply, please." To Nataly I issued a direct threat: "I am going to blog about you." She said: "We're almost to the knee, and then we will be done."
This morning I lay there flat on my back, not a care in the world, until I realized there was no pain. The leg was straight, the concertina gone. What a right thing to be wrong.
August 19, 2008
Photoshop this!
Of course I do not know when the word “Photoshopping” became a verb. I am way too slow and old and analog-based to keep up with the rate at which nouns like “Google” and “Photoshop” and “Youtube” become verbs in the digital universe.
I know it is true, though, because I read a story in The Times (print version) about how people who used to be married can Photoshop their exes out of old photos of them on vacation, on a cruise, in front of the Sphinx, at their wedding, and improve the memory thereby. We analog geezers used to call it “revisionizing” (yes, humans knew how to verbify nouns in the old days before 1995). An expert with an airbrush could revisionize a photo any way an editor wanted, which was useful in the Southern press any time a black wandered into a holiday shot of the mayor, the grand marshal and the Queen of the Cotton Boll sitting in a convertible. Stalin used it too, to keep himself a boyish 29 on the Kremlin reviewing stand from 1920 to 1955.
The Stalin revisionizing is so famous, in fact, that The Times, to illustrate its story, used one of those old Kremlin reviewing stand photos into which they Photoshopped someone’s Uncle Milton. I know you have seen this kind of thing before. In “Forrest Gump,” for example. But the point The Times was making is that it took professional revisionizers to keep Stalin 29 and get Forrest Gump next to JFK, whereas today in the digital universe anyone with a computer, Photoshop software, and at least two fingers, can get rid of or modify undesirables.
My attention remains with Uncle Milton though, because seeing him on the Kremlin viewing stand made me immediately think: what would be my No. 1 historical scene to Photoshop myself into, if I knew how? The answer came to me immediately, and I am reasonably confident that sharing it will not provoke Karen to Photoshop me out of our wedding pictures, which certainly would not take her long if the thought struck her. She knows Photoshopping. She can Photoshop a dog into a camel in 15 seconds.
Something funny is going on here, incidentally. As I write this with Microsoft Word (XP version, thank God), it keeps underlining "Photoshopping" as if it is a misspelling, which means Gates's code writers don't know any better than I did that Photoshop got verbified! What a nice rush of triumph on an ordinary Tuesday!
So I would Photoshop my face over Humphrey Bogart's in the hangar at the Casablanca airstrip just when he says to Ilse and Laszlo, "You better get on that plane." He loves Ilse, but he's done the thinking for both of them and he knows that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. That's what makes Rick Rick. I'm no good at being noble, but if an analog lover has to get Photoshopped, "Casablanca" is the way to go.
I know it is true, though, because I read a story in The Times (print version) about how people who used to be married can Photoshop their exes out of old photos of them on vacation, on a cruise, in front of the Sphinx, at their wedding, and improve the memory thereby. We analog geezers used to call it “revisionizing” (yes, humans knew how to verbify nouns in the old days before 1995). An expert with an airbrush could revisionize a photo any way an editor wanted, which was useful in the Southern press any time a black wandered into a holiday shot of the mayor, the grand marshal and the Queen of the Cotton Boll sitting in a convertible. Stalin used it too, to keep himself a boyish 29 on the Kremlin reviewing stand from 1920 to 1955.
The Stalin revisionizing is so famous, in fact, that The Times, to illustrate its story, used one of those old Kremlin reviewing stand photos into which they Photoshopped someone’s Uncle Milton. I know you have seen this kind of thing before. In “Forrest Gump,” for example. But the point The Times was making is that it took professional revisionizers to keep Stalin 29 and get Forrest Gump next to JFK, whereas today in the digital universe anyone with a computer, Photoshop software, and at least two fingers, can get rid of or modify undesirables.
My attention remains with Uncle Milton though, because seeing him on the Kremlin viewing stand made me immediately think: what would be my No. 1 historical scene to Photoshop myself into, if I knew how? The answer came to me immediately, and I am reasonably confident that sharing it will not provoke Karen to Photoshop me out of our wedding pictures, which certainly would not take her long if the thought struck her. She knows Photoshopping. She can Photoshop a dog into a camel in 15 seconds.
Something funny is going on here, incidentally. As I write this with Microsoft Word (XP version, thank God), it keeps underlining "Photoshopping" as if it is a misspelling, which means Gates's code writers don't know any better than I did that Photoshop got verbified! What a nice rush of triumph on an ordinary Tuesday!
So I would Photoshop my face over Humphrey Bogart's in the hangar at the Casablanca airstrip just when he says to Ilse and Laszlo, "You better get on that plane." He loves Ilse, but he's done the thinking for both of them and he knows that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. That's what makes Rick Rick. I'm no good at being noble, but if an analog lover has to get Photoshopped, "Casablanca" is the way to go.
August 17, 2008
In the grip of morphia
I wouldn't recommend hip replacement surgery as a rule, unless you are 65 and walking around with a barbecue fork for a hip bone. I had the left hip done in January, 2006, and I felt 30 years younger. Now I am five weeks into recovery after having the right one done, and Karen says to me, "You look so much younger." If I felt 30 years younger after the left one, and I feel 30 years younger after the right one, then it will mean essentially that Karen is married to a five-year-old guy. Wait til I reach puberty . . . .
Recuperation is lengthy and not what you would call fun, but when you have watched two weeks' worth of "Ice Road Trucker" episodes in the middle of the night, time loses its meaning. Right now, I can't believe almost six weeks have passed. From both surgeries, I have only one bad recollection, and I only pass it on so maybe you can avoid it, if it should become your turn.
My problem was drugs. Hip replacement surgery involves the kinds of tools and techniques you would normally associate with house framing. After it is over and you are back in your room, I can honestly say you are going to feel a little bit sawed, reamed and hammered. You are going to want something to take the edge off this feeling. Since they wouldn't give me martinis, I had to settle for morphine and some other double-barreled narcotic-gauge drugs. The first time, in 2006, as a hip surgery rookie, I was not too discerning about drugs. There was such a thing as "morphine on demand." To get a dose of morphine at any time, like during the middle of the night, I only had to press a button plugged into tubing circuits that connected me to hanging bags of liquids via a needle in my forearm.
I willingly partook of this fix until sometime during the second night of my three-night hospital stay I was visited by a monster. He arrived in my sleep, and startled me awake, and commenced to terrify me. He was the impression of a face in a mass of writhing veins and cords and bundled sheaths of color, all reds, oranges and yellows, oozing and aflame, and bulges in the mass where his cheeks and chin were, and black holes for the eyes and mouth, hate gushing from the eyes and evil from the mouth. I could not get him to go away. Being awake didn't matter. He wasn't going away; in my consciousness, I had to shut him out – or shut him in – and finally I did.
I found out they call it a "morphine dream." But it was no dream. I had the very bad feeling that he was something primeval inside of me, and the morphine let him out. I had one more night to stay in the hospital, but I did not want to sleep in that bed again. I did, but that was it for me and morphine. I stayed away from it, and he stayed away from me.
With the right hip, I had only one request: no morphine. They marked me down as allergic to morphine. After surgery, they fed me other narcotics, and I had another experience that was a dream but not a dream, about a party at my house, vivid with color and brilliance, and the space expanding as the party grew, from 10 people to 2,000. No monsters, but there was something horrifying about the vision. A dream is like a story, but this vision was static. If was as if my life experience was stripped away from my senses – sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste – so I could look at them in their original state, without any learning or information in the way. The people were in their original state, too, untouched by experience. They all agreed about everything. When I woke up, I told the first nurse I saw that I didn't want any more narcotics.
I thought I was pretty cool, having the insight to realize it wasn't a dream, but a vision, through which I could see what the world looked like through original, untainted, senses. I was bragging to my daughter, Jessie, about this depth of mine when she exposed me. As I was talking, she started giggling, then laughing. "Dad," she said, "why do you think people like drugs so much?"
Like I say, people on narcotics see strange stuff. I only bring it up to let you know. Given the choice, I am sure that I would rather feel like a house being framed. I promise you, that is a feeling that will go away.
Recuperation is lengthy and not what you would call fun, but when you have watched two weeks' worth of "Ice Road Trucker" episodes in the middle of the night, time loses its meaning. Right now, I can't believe almost six weeks have passed. From both surgeries, I have only one bad recollection, and I only pass it on so maybe you can avoid it, if it should become your turn.
My problem was drugs. Hip replacement surgery involves the kinds of tools and techniques you would normally associate with house framing. After it is over and you are back in your room, I can honestly say you are going to feel a little bit sawed, reamed and hammered. You are going to want something to take the edge off this feeling. Since they wouldn't give me martinis, I had to settle for morphine and some other double-barreled narcotic-gauge drugs. The first time, in 2006, as a hip surgery rookie, I was not too discerning about drugs. There was such a thing as "morphine on demand." To get a dose of morphine at any time, like during the middle of the night, I only had to press a button plugged into tubing circuits that connected me to hanging bags of liquids via a needle in my forearm.
I willingly partook of this fix until sometime during the second night of my three-night hospital stay I was visited by a monster. He arrived in my sleep, and startled me awake, and commenced to terrify me. He was the impression of a face in a mass of writhing veins and cords and bundled sheaths of color, all reds, oranges and yellows, oozing and aflame, and bulges in the mass where his cheeks and chin were, and black holes for the eyes and mouth, hate gushing from the eyes and evil from the mouth. I could not get him to go away. Being awake didn't matter. He wasn't going away; in my consciousness, I had to shut him out – or shut him in – and finally I did.
I found out they call it a "morphine dream." But it was no dream. I had the very bad feeling that he was something primeval inside of me, and the morphine let him out. I had one more night to stay in the hospital, but I did not want to sleep in that bed again. I did, but that was it for me and morphine. I stayed away from it, and he stayed away from me.
With the right hip, I had only one request: no morphine. They marked me down as allergic to morphine. After surgery, they fed me other narcotics, and I had another experience that was a dream but not a dream, about a party at my house, vivid with color and brilliance, and the space expanding as the party grew, from 10 people to 2,000. No monsters, but there was something horrifying about the vision. A dream is like a story, but this vision was static. If was as if my life experience was stripped away from my senses – sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste – so I could look at them in their original state, without any learning or information in the way. The people were in their original state, too, untouched by experience. They all agreed about everything. When I woke up, I told the first nurse I saw that I didn't want any more narcotics.
I thought I was pretty cool, having the insight to realize it wasn't a dream, but a vision, through which I could see what the world looked like through original, untainted, senses. I was bragging to my daughter, Jessie, about this depth of mine when she exposed me. As I was talking, she started giggling, then laughing. "Dad," she said, "why do you think people like drugs so much?"
Like I say, people on narcotics see strange stuff. I only bring it up to let you know. Given the choice, I am sure that I would rather feel like a house being framed. I promise you, that is a feeling that will go away.
August 02, 2008
Hip time
Hip replacement surgery! July 7. The right hip this time. I had the left one replaced two and a half years ago, and it made me feel 30 years younger. With the right one done now, I expect I will start getting carded at liquor stores.
All went well this time. Recuperating. Karen has taken great care of me. Post-surgery is as hard on the caregiver as it is on the patient. Still hard to sit at the computer too long, so no blogs. There's one I have been wanting to write about what strong drugs do to you. Next week.
All went well this time. Recuperating. Karen has taken great care of me. Post-surgery is as hard on the caregiver as it is on the patient. Still hard to sit at the computer too long, so no blogs. There's one I have been wanting to write about what strong drugs do to you. Next week.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)