This morning, I find myself in the waiting room of one of North Carolina's larger medical centers. My wife is undergoing a last minute out patient procedure, and while I sit here holding her hand, I find myself wondering why we are so broken in this particular area of our lives. OK, to be truthful, I am not holding her hand right now. She is in recovery, zonked out on the one thing we do well - get people high. So while I wait, I thought I would make a few observations, and maybe one of my readers can help fix what is broken.
So first, I should point out - The people here for the most part have been terrific. From the woman we met at reception at 6:55 AM who guided us to our room, to the IV nurse who patiently worked with Amy to try to get her IV started, to our doctor, the team here has been wonderful. The care they brought literally had me in tears, and I wondered where these people can find the compassion in the bureaucracy to which our legal establishment has perverted our hospitals. It was remarkable, and at a low point in our lifes, it was comforting like warm blankets and labrador retrievers.
Unfortunately, the inefficiency born of litigation have come to take what should be a routine procedure and make it unbearable. We were here 2 hours prior to the procedure, and received no less than 6 separate visitors, 3 of whom asked the exact same questions. Yes, she is allergic to penicillin. Yes, she has been in the hospital. Yes, she is under stress and in nervous. Yes the sky is blue, yes, get the fuck out of our room. Oh and yes she is 5 foot 4 inches tall. If you really brought me into a hospital to ask me how tall she is, we are surely broken. So, we go through the battery of questions. Twice. (Which I thought was nice; I am sure people undergoing open heart surgery hear this same barage 12 times.)
Then the woman comes in to draw blood. She is a linebacker of a woman with the compassion of someone doing a cavity search. After rooting around in one of my wife's arms, I watched her do the other. And my stomach began churning. I have never had an issue with medical stuff. I watched them sew up my hand (I even considered sewing my hand myself that time), I have seen pretty bad wounds, and I even like medical TV. However, while I watched the woman dig for a few minutes, I felt that wave of nausea that comes at sea during a bad storm, or while watching someone you love sit in pain, while you are helpless to kill the beast causing the pain. As the blood finally, mercifully began to flow, I felt the sickness subside and I was able to plan an alibi for the murder of a linebacker. But then the room was filled with more questions from new faces, and with this many witnesses, my plan for revenge was thwarted. Remember - I said most were wonderful here. This woman was just wrong.
The man came while the IV nurse still struggled to find a vein, and he wanted to take Amy down. Now, I know I mentioned above that the people were wonderful, but this woman was above and beyond. She was patient with a sobbing patient, gentle when the times were toughest, and above all professional, while loving. In the case of a large scale hospital, where lives are saved and lost all day, her role was to set up IV inputs for patients awaiting surgery. She comes in for the harder cases where the vein is less than obvious and the floor nurse is unable to help. Some would see her job as small, given that most patients will likely not remember what she did for them on a busy day, and she will seldom be heralded as saving a life, and less often receive the glory she deserves for her work. However, to me today, she was a hero, as without her, I was one straw away from a broken back. Thanks Beth. I will send a letter to Rex hospital, and maybe you will get the praise you deserve.
The gurneyman (I know this isn't the right term, but it sounded funny to me) arrived to take Amy down to the OR, but Beth hadn't been lucky in finding that vein. Amy needs more heroin to make those veins more pronouced. We're on that starting next week. Beth tried everything from smacking my wife's arm, like a junkie on pay day to a little blue and red flashlight which highlights the vein. It was pretty cool. The gurneyman tried to goad her into releasing Amy to him, so and I could see Beth feeling rushed. I then learned a valuable lesson. The patient actually has rights. I told her, but loud enough to hear for the gurneyman, that I didn't care that the OR was ready. We'd move when Beth was ready. And Beth went back to work and the gurneyman stood like a soldier on the parade ground - silent. A few minutes later, Beth finally looked up and called it a day. She explained that the OR could dilate the veins and she was stumped. I can live with that. But patients need to stop moving for schedules, and hospitals need to start moving schedules for patients. The professionals I met today are in this business for the care they get to give - the pay is a bonus.
And so we went - to the elevator - then to a set of door which act like the giant curtain of Oz. And now I sit, and wonder.
Sorry for the break. While I was out, the doctor came out to talk to me. A great guy. After this is all over, I would by him dinner, but he has seen my wife in a way I haven't so I don't know if we could look at each other over steaks and try to erase that thought from my mind. Amy is fine - though completely stoned - lucky. She is in recovery.
It is 1030 now, and despite all of the annoying factors of the visit here, she will be fine. And orderly just came into the waiting room - she clearly has Downs Syndrome, but is high functioning, and she gives me a smile to tell me my wife is back to her room. And so I am off, to find her. And in a few weeks, we will be trying again, and again, to give my boy a little brother or sister to abuse mercilessly as I did to my wonderful sister.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
A True Warrior
So, tonight I will depart from my normal rant on some subject which no one cares about and talk about heroism - the kind of heroics which often go ignored by the media and are referenced in speeches by figureheads who use these heroes as bullet points towards re-election. Tonight, I talked to my friend Rich, who sits today in Camp Liberty, Iraq. Rich has a mission in Iraq, which I won't talk about, but suffice it to say it is frought with danger and provides safety to the people of Iraq and to the people of the US.
Rich found me tonight, on IM, while I sat here reading Facebook updates and Googling starlets and harlots. In the background, Bear Gryllis lives a life of adventure, and my couch snuggles my bottom into its Jason-made divot. Rich sends me a note, beginning like any he would have written me from his home in New Jersey - "Yo!!!" - Rich is devout Italian, a religion unto itself.
Rich and I grew up together during our service, and while I left after my deployment to Europe, Rich signed on - again and again, to Kosovo, to Iraq, and again to Iraq, setting his civilian life aside to serve proudly in the face of danger. And despite my sage advice, just re-enlisted again while he is currently away, for another 6 years. While this will take him beyond the 20 years needed for retirement and bring him again at least once to a foreign land, he does so, out of love for his nation and pride in his service. And so he serves.
Today, he leads 50 men on a tough and high-risk mission, though I doubt many in Iraq today would not describe their missions as tough and high-risk. Suffice it to say that his is, and theirs may be less so. He chats me tonight though to ask me about my family. About my job. About my son, and my wife. And I want to beat his ass, but I understand. He wants to focus anywhere but where he is, and the stresses of his life, and just for a few minutes be transported to Cary, North Carolina, and get the sand out of his hair, and just leave it all behind.
He tells me his leave (military vacation) may be scrapped, because he wants his 50 troops to get home before him. He tells me that he needs nothing because Christmas has come and go, and they are overwhelmed with care packages - Though I tell him I will be shipping him one full of gay pornography and sex toys, with a letter on the outside telling him to open it in front of his troops (This is funnier than it sounds - my room mate in Bosnia who was with the Philadelphia Fire Department received a similar package, and I have never laughed so hard - however, some of the toys disappeared mysteriously. . .)
And shortly, thereafter, our conversation ended. It was 5 am Baghdad time when we started and Rich had a mission outbrief at 0600. For those not paying attention, this means that Rich's commander wanted a debrief from the mission he just finished. At 5 in the morning. Ask yourself, where were you at 5am today?
And so concluded my conversation with an old and most excellent friend. And one of our nation's many heroes. A man, like the many men and women who keep going back. Who put duty into their lives while many here make it the punch line to a joke (courtesy of Jack Nicholson). Who put their own well being in front of the men they lead, and who lead the men and women who put their own well being ahead of all of our own. Today, in a nation where only 1 in 10,000 Americans is personnally affected by the effort overseas, I wanted to write this to remember a great conversation with a hell of a guy. And Fletcher, when you read this some day - take a lesson in patriotism, and join the air force. Their jobs are safer, and dad won't have to worry as much.
Rich found me tonight, on IM, while I sat here reading Facebook updates and Googling starlets and harlots. In the background, Bear Gryllis lives a life of adventure, and my couch snuggles my bottom into its Jason-made divot. Rich sends me a note, beginning like any he would have written me from his home in New Jersey - "Yo!!!" - Rich is devout Italian, a religion unto itself.
Rich and I grew up together during our service, and while I left after my deployment to Europe, Rich signed on - again and again, to Kosovo, to Iraq, and again to Iraq, setting his civilian life aside to serve proudly in the face of danger. And despite my sage advice, just re-enlisted again while he is currently away, for another 6 years. While this will take him beyond the 20 years needed for retirement and bring him again at least once to a foreign land, he does so, out of love for his nation and pride in his service. And so he serves.
Today, he leads 50 men on a tough and high-risk mission, though I doubt many in Iraq today would not describe their missions as tough and high-risk. Suffice it to say that his is, and theirs may be less so. He chats me tonight though to ask me about my family. About my job. About my son, and my wife. And I want to beat his ass, but I understand. He wants to focus anywhere but where he is, and the stresses of his life, and just for a few minutes be transported to Cary, North Carolina, and get the sand out of his hair, and just leave it all behind.
He tells me his leave (military vacation) may be scrapped, because he wants his 50 troops to get home before him. He tells me that he needs nothing because Christmas has come and go, and they are overwhelmed with care packages - Though I tell him I will be shipping him one full of gay pornography and sex toys, with a letter on the outside telling him to open it in front of his troops (This is funnier than it sounds - my room mate in Bosnia who was with the Philadelphia Fire Department received a similar package, and I have never laughed so hard - however, some of the toys disappeared mysteriously. . .)
And shortly, thereafter, our conversation ended. It was 5 am Baghdad time when we started and Rich had a mission outbrief at 0600. For those not paying attention, this means that Rich's commander wanted a debrief from the mission he just finished. At 5 in the morning. Ask yourself, where were you at 5am today?
And so concluded my conversation with an old and most excellent friend. And one of our nation's many heroes. A man, like the many men and women who keep going back. Who put duty into their lives while many here make it the punch line to a joke (courtesy of Jack Nicholson). Who put their own well being in front of the men they lead, and who lead the men and women who put their own well being ahead of all of our own. Today, in a nation where only 1 in 10,000 Americans is personnally affected by the effort overseas, I wanted to write this to remember a great conversation with a hell of a guy. And Fletcher, when you read this some day - take a lesson in patriotism, and join the air force. Their jobs are safer, and dad won't have to worry as much.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Breaking – I mean, Broken - News – Nancy Grace is the wife of Satan
So, during my copious time off last week, I had the opportunity to drive my television’s remote control. As I was taking it through its paces – powering through the turns and burning up the straights - I found myself running through the several news channels. While each seems uniquely biased, and this bias level is adjusted based on who is sitting behind the desks, I came to the realization – There is no more reporting. There is only delivery of opinion.
While I have never been a fan of censorship, I found myself watching Nancy Grace, mesmerized with the fantasy of finding use for a ball gag. She rambled on, spewing pseudo-legal opinions on how to handle the trial of the Kaylee Anthony defendant (seriously, I cannot escape the story of this wretch). Beneath the talking read scrolled repeated facts about the case, and subtitles of the images of the defendant on her jailhouse intercom phone. While nothing new came from the story, the blonde head drooled over the digital corpse of a story, enlightening those who lived in a cave that the mother was talking to a visitor and mentioned anything about the case. (I suspect that if I were in jail for murdering a child, there might not be much else to talk about with any visitors).
Finally, when the wave of nausea was reaching its peak, my thumb slammed a series of keys taking from the channel to SpongeBob – A far more credible and newsworthy story (He and Patrick found the lost city of Atlantis – I am sure this will be covered by Geraldo Rivera, but he will naturally take credit until he realizes that this is one more hoax in his pathetic career as a journalist.) And then I returned to surfing the stations.
Wave after wave passed your surfer by, waiting patiently for something. And then it happened. I stopped surfing and I was swept into a killer wave. I stopped flipping to answer the phone, and there he was. Bill O’Reilly. Satan himself. (And he must be married to Nancy on some plane of hell) I watched opinions roll out of his mouth, wondering whether he has Helen Keller checking his facts. (My apologies to Ms. Keller – She was a remarkable woman, but not the best fact-checker to be sure). As his guests appeared in front of O’Reilly’s oral firing squad, the more liberal guest being shot first and most often, they quickly fell to his salvos of “loudest speaker wins”, and they slowly crept from their remote camera shots, to be replaced by another in search of their 15 minutes.
Again, I felt the sickness growing, and I ran screaming. I went back to Patrick and his spongy friend in the search for the streets of gold. However, I quickly recalled another of these pundits who suffered from a disease of the poor (and typically liberal) – drug addiction. The mentally and physically bloated Mr. Limbaugh, whose addiction to Hydrocodone was made somehow less serious than a heroin addiction, and which was quickly swept under the rug. This is a guy who I am sure thrashed Marion Berry for his snowy habits, and who has certainly basted the bleeding hearts for their positions on these social issues. Hypocrisy. Horse’s ass hypocrisy, of a level heretofore unseen.
The reality is that these heads can say whatever drives the ratings higher and punished for these crimes against our social fabric go undelivered. They drive fear and panic when they make statements about our “crashing” economy. They drive division when they pit artificially inflated groups against one another (the entire right against all of those die-hard liberals), and in doing so eliminate the middle two-thirds of us who are really neither. They make us numb to the death of a little girl, because they play it so often, it becomes the background soundtrack to our lives – and desensitizes us to the violence and tragedy in the American fabric. Unfortunately, there seems no respite from these jesters, except to shoot our TV which Americans cannot seem to do (I know I can’t).
However, I hope that as my family gets older, we as a nation become tired of the sludge and move past it, back to real news. In the meantime, I intend to teach my son (and soon a second child) how to think critically, and act responsibly in viewing television, and the media in general. In the meantime, I have to find something else to discuss, as by keeping them as part of the conversation, they find their power growing and our resistance waning.
While I have never been a fan of censorship, I found myself watching Nancy Grace, mesmerized with the fantasy of finding use for a ball gag. She rambled on, spewing pseudo-legal opinions on how to handle the trial of the Kaylee Anthony defendant (seriously, I cannot escape the story of this wretch). Beneath the talking read scrolled repeated facts about the case, and subtitles of the images of the defendant on her jailhouse intercom phone. While nothing new came from the story, the blonde head drooled over the digital corpse of a story, enlightening those who lived in a cave that the mother was talking to a visitor and mentioned anything about the case. (I suspect that if I were in jail for murdering a child, there might not be much else to talk about with any visitors).
Finally, when the wave of nausea was reaching its peak, my thumb slammed a series of keys taking from the channel to SpongeBob – A far more credible and newsworthy story (He and Patrick found the lost city of Atlantis – I am sure this will be covered by Geraldo Rivera, but he will naturally take credit until he realizes that this is one more hoax in his pathetic career as a journalist.) And then I returned to surfing the stations.
Wave after wave passed your surfer by, waiting patiently for something. And then it happened. I stopped surfing and I was swept into a killer wave. I stopped flipping to answer the phone, and there he was. Bill O’Reilly. Satan himself. (And he must be married to Nancy on some plane of hell) I watched opinions roll out of his mouth, wondering whether he has Helen Keller checking his facts. (My apologies to Ms. Keller – She was a remarkable woman, but not the best fact-checker to be sure). As his guests appeared in front of O’Reilly’s oral firing squad, the more liberal guest being shot first and most often, they quickly fell to his salvos of “loudest speaker wins”, and they slowly crept from their remote camera shots, to be replaced by another in search of their 15 minutes.
Again, I felt the sickness growing, and I ran screaming. I went back to Patrick and his spongy friend in the search for the streets of gold. However, I quickly recalled another of these pundits who suffered from a disease of the poor (and typically liberal) – drug addiction. The mentally and physically bloated Mr. Limbaugh, whose addiction to Hydrocodone was made somehow less serious than a heroin addiction, and which was quickly swept under the rug. This is a guy who I am sure thrashed Marion Berry for his snowy habits, and who has certainly basted the bleeding hearts for their positions on these social issues. Hypocrisy. Horse’s ass hypocrisy, of a level heretofore unseen.
The reality is that these heads can say whatever drives the ratings higher and punished for these crimes against our social fabric go undelivered. They drive fear and panic when they make statements about our “crashing” economy. They drive division when they pit artificially inflated groups against one another (the entire right against all of those die-hard liberals), and in doing so eliminate the middle two-thirds of us who are really neither. They make us numb to the death of a little girl, because they play it so often, it becomes the background soundtrack to our lives – and desensitizes us to the violence and tragedy in the American fabric. Unfortunately, there seems no respite from these jesters, except to shoot our TV which Americans cannot seem to do (I know I can’t).
However, I hope that as my family gets older, we as a nation become tired of the sludge and move past it, back to real news. In the meantime, I intend to teach my son (and soon a second child) how to think critically, and act responsibly in viewing television, and the media in general. In the meantime, I have to find something else to discuss, as by keeping them as part of the conversation, they find their power growing and our resistance waning.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Resolutions for 2009
The other night, my wife asked me if I had any resolutions yet for 2009. At the time, I winced, thinking that resolutions were typically made and surrendered by those who were willing to save all of their commitment to the end of the year and expend it on those few things which would be really life altering, rather than make slow course corrections during the year. And then I thought about it more, and realized that maybe I should make a few in order to publicly commit, thereby doubling my resolve and improving my odds of success at a few things which I have struggled with accomplishing in the past.
1. Lose that damn 30 pounds of fat. Yes, a weight loss commitment. How trite. Rest assured that this will be the only one you see here which you will find on many other’s lists. However, I need to get off my ass and lose this damn tire.
2. Treat work more like a game and less like work. I realized the other night that my competitive spirit on the playing field, in those few sports I enjoyed, brought me great pride and success, and if I treat my work more like that, I should be able to enjoy similar benefits. Unfortunately for my co-workers, they will have to hear me yell a little more and hug a little less. The reality is that a great team is regularly pushed, not constantly coddled.
3. Walk five hundred miles. So I turn 39 in a few days. I will be one year from 40, and one year from the beginning of my journey along the Appalachian Trail (A subject for another day, but I committed this past year to walk the AT in pieces once I turn 40.) To do this, I need to get out and walk. And walk. In the spirit of training for this vision quest in 12 months, I need to get physically and mentally ready. The journey begins with the first step, but I would rather it didn't end with a herniated disk.
4. Buy two houses. So, despite many times trying to buy stocks and make money, or trying to start a small business, I have never found much success in those endeavors. However, two out of three properties I have invested in property, I turned a significant profit in short terms. Therefore, this year, I endeavor to test this again. Look out slums, here I comes.
5. Change the world, build some karma – So I haven’t figured this out, but we need some change. I am thinking volunteer work, but who knows. The reality is that the opportunities abound, but my attention span is often lacking. Perhaps I will spread my beneficence across a variety of needy groups. And no, I am not thinking free breast exams. I am thinking mentoring a struggling kid, or building homes for the needy. (By the way, I re-wrote this sentence three times trying to find the politically correct terms)
6. Be a better dad and better husband in 2009 – While I don’t think that I was a bad dad, and usually not a bad husband – usually - I think there is room for improvement. This parenting thing isn’t always easy, and while we seem to be figuring it out, I look back on 2008 and can see a few areas where I could have done better. While he will likely be in therapy some day, he won’t be sitting on the couch at 30 living in my house wondering what life has in store for him, but rather out there grabbing it by the horns while his peers sit on their parent couches wondering what’s next.
I have others which I need to commit to, but which should require less effort -
- Stop listening to JLo,
- Stop shopping at WalMart, a blight on the visual and economic landscape of society
- Visit my mother and sister more. I know they miss me, but they should move closer
- Watch fewer crappy movies, but I wish the movie companies could produce anything else
- Remember to breath
So those are my seven core resolutions along with a few others for 2009. I will be starting many of them shortly, so watch out for attitude changes and mood swings. (I mean more than are there today.) Otherwise I look forward to reporting back in 12 months how I made out. I am sure that no one will care, except for me, but I plan to treat each of these like the game from number two above, and if I lose at any of them I will have no one to blame by myself.
1. Lose that damn 30 pounds of fat. Yes, a weight loss commitment. How trite. Rest assured that this will be the only one you see here which you will find on many other’s lists. However, I need to get off my ass and lose this damn tire.
2. Treat work more like a game and less like work. I realized the other night that my competitive spirit on the playing field, in those few sports I enjoyed, brought me great pride and success, and if I treat my work more like that, I should be able to enjoy similar benefits. Unfortunately for my co-workers, they will have to hear me yell a little more and hug a little less. The reality is that a great team is regularly pushed, not constantly coddled.
3. Walk five hundred miles. So I turn 39 in a few days. I will be one year from 40, and one year from the beginning of my journey along the Appalachian Trail (A subject for another day, but I committed this past year to walk the AT in pieces once I turn 40.) To do this, I need to get out and walk. And walk. In the spirit of training for this vision quest in 12 months, I need to get physically and mentally ready. The journey begins with the first step, but I would rather it didn't end with a herniated disk.
4. Buy two houses. So, despite many times trying to buy stocks and make money, or trying to start a small business, I have never found much success in those endeavors. However, two out of three properties I have invested in property, I turned a significant profit in short terms. Therefore, this year, I endeavor to test this again. Look out slums, here I comes.
5. Change the world, build some karma – So I haven’t figured this out, but we need some change. I am thinking volunteer work, but who knows. The reality is that the opportunities abound, but my attention span is often lacking. Perhaps I will spread my beneficence across a variety of needy groups. And no, I am not thinking free breast exams. I am thinking mentoring a struggling kid, or building homes for the needy. (By the way, I re-wrote this sentence three times trying to find the politically correct terms)
6. Be a better dad and better husband in 2009 – While I don’t think that I was a bad dad, and usually not a bad husband – usually - I think there is room for improvement. This parenting thing isn’t always easy, and while we seem to be figuring it out, I look back on 2008 and can see a few areas where I could have done better. While he will likely be in therapy some day, he won’t be sitting on the couch at 30 living in my house wondering what life has in store for him, but rather out there grabbing it by the horns while his peers sit on their parent couches wondering what’s next.
I have others which I need to commit to, but which should require less effort -
- Stop listening to JLo,
- Stop shopping at WalMart, a blight on the visual and economic landscape of society
- Visit my mother and sister more. I know they miss me, but they should move closer
- Watch fewer crappy movies, but I wish the movie companies could produce anything else
- Remember to breath
So those are my seven core resolutions along with a few others for 2009. I will be starting many of them shortly, so watch out for attitude changes and mood swings. (I mean more than are there today.) Otherwise I look forward to reporting back in 12 months how I made out. I am sure that no one will care, except for me, but I plan to treat each of these like the game from number two above, and if I lose at any of them I will have no one to blame by myself.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
I cannot tell a lie.
With two days before Christmas, I thought this quote attributed to our first president about his actions with an axe and the cherry tree, was apropos of the season. After, this is the season of giving, love, family and by the way, the greatest hoax ever perpetrated by such a large group against a similarly large group. I am of course talking about Christmas, and the lie of Santa Claus told by millions of parents to their children and to their friend's children and frankly to any child who will listen.
Now I am not saying I am against Christmas - I love it. It ranks #2 to Halloween (Halloween is much shorter in duration and frankly the Monster Mash may only be heard once or twice per year, whereas the Waitresses' Christmas Stockings, or Springsteen's Merry Christmas Baby will be played exponentially more.) However, I spent some of Saturday observing the behavior of the parents in line to get their children onto the lap of Santa in hopes of snapping the perfect picture. During the 45 minutes I stood with my own child, I had the opportunity to really see who Christmas is for.
First, we see that Christmas is for the vendors. 30 bucks for the picture of my son on a man's lap who cannot hold a real job. Another 10 bucks for the CD. Oh and by the way, you cannot use your own cameras - They can't charge you for that and we won't have that. In the meantime, the store place their Christmas sweaters front and center in the windows. (This will become important later. Pay attention.)
Second, it is for the parents. Everything leading up to the morning of Christmas is for the parent. The child gets the benefit of presents, and may actually get a lesson in giving and receiving along the way (I hope we got that right at least), but otherwise, this holiday has become about getting parents some level of assurance that they are good parents. They must be good parents as their children are happy when they see Santa. They are good parents, because they have a snappy photo with Billy in a staged pose, with his list. They are good parents, because for the 30 days leading up to Christmas, the child is sooo well behaved.
Seriously folks, I am no longer fooled. Billy is good because you told him you would march up there and tell Santa what a turd he is. Billy looks good in the picture, because while your spouse waited in line, you walked over to Children's Place and bought him a sweater for 50 bucks (Which I believe you will be returning after the photo, based on the way you tucked the tag back in, and stuck the label gingerly to the bag. Billy smiles so nicely because you asked him to rehearse it 30 times while in line behind me, his grimace hiding the hatred he feels for you.
So here we are two days until Christmas. I have heard We Wish You a Merry Christmas 4,302 times. I have actually only had to threaten Fletch 6 times that I would call the Elf. The gifts are wrapped with care and gingerly hidden in the closet upstairs, in hopes that Saint Nicholas will soon be here. And I count the minutes until the first wrapping paper is torn from the boxes they camouflage. And when it happens, I will admit to myself that I am no better than the sweater borrower, but until then, I am holier than she, and looking forward to seeing that train wrap around the tree.
Political side note - We are now approaching our 7th christmas since we invaded Afghanistan, and 5 Christmases since I spent mine away in a crappy little country no one cares about. The election of a new president is complete, and we look like our troops abroad will get another lobster tail dinner served as only the military can. I am grateful for everything they do, and I pray that this holiday, we will all think remember them sometime between the unwrapping and the taste of foul egg nog.
Now I am not saying I am against Christmas - I love it. It ranks #2 to Halloween (Halloween is much shorter in duration and frankly the Monster Mash may only be heard once or twice per year, whereas the Waitresses' Christmas Stockings, or Springsteen's Merry Christmas Baby will be played exponentially more.) However, I spent some of Saturday observing the behavior of the parents in line to get their children onto the lap of Santa in hopes of snapping the perfect picture. During the 45 minutes I stood with my own child, I had the opportunity to really see who Christmas is for.
First, we see that Christmas is for the vendors. 30 bucks for the picture of my son on a man's lap who cannot hold a real job. Another 10 bucks for the CD. Oh and by the way, you cannot use your own cameras - They can't charge you for that and we won't have that. In the meantime, the store place their Christmas sweaters front and center in the windows. (This will become important later. Pay attention.)
Second, it is for the parents. Everything leading up to the morning of Christmas is for the parent. The child gets the benefit of presents, and may actually get a lesson in giving and receiving along the way (I hope we got that right at least), but otherwise, this holiday has become about getting parents some level of assurance that they are good parents. They must be good parents as their children are happy when they see Santa. They are good parents, because they have a snappy photo with Billy in a staged pose, with his list. They are good parents, because for the 30 days leading up to Christmas, the child is sooo well behaved.
Seriously folks, I am no longer fooled. Billy is good because you told him you would march up there and tell Santa what a turd he is. Billy looks good in the picture, because while your spouse waited in line, you walked over to Children's Place and bought him a sweater for 50 bucks (Which I believe you will be returning after the photo, based on the way you tucked the tag back in, and stuck the label gingerly to the bag. Billy smiles so nicely because you asked him to rehearse it 30 times while in line behind me, his grimace hiding the hatred he feels for you.
So here we are two days until Christmas. I have heard We Wish You a Merry Christmas 4,302 times. I have actually only had to threaten Fletch 6 times that I would call the Elf. The gifts are wrapped with care and gingerly hidden in the closet upstairs, in hopes that Saint Nicholas will soon be here. And I count the minutes until the first wrapping paper is torn from the boxes they camouflage. And when it happens, I will admit to myself that I am no better than the sweater borrower, but until then, I am holier than she, and looking forward to seeing that train wrap around the tree.
Political side note - We are now approaching our 7th christmas since we invaded Afghanistan, and 5 Christmases since I spent mine away in a crappy little country no one cares about. The election of a new president is complete, and we look like our troops abroad will get another lobster tail dinner served as only the military can. I am grateful for everything they do, and I pray that this holiday, we will all think remember them sometime between the unwrapping and the taste of foul egg nog.
Friday, December 19, 2008
The Media's Abuse of Corpse
In many states, there is actually a law which prohibits the mutilation of a corpse. It seems to have two purposes - to show respect for the decedent, but also to prohibit the destruction of evidence which could be collected to prove criminal acts. You might see this charge in cases involving the burning of a dead body to hide a murder, or in the dramatic alternative, in cases involving necrophilia (ed. note: I am thrilled now that Google will find this post when creepy guys search for necrophila. . .ugh.)
However in recent months, the media has taken on their own attempts to abuse a corpse. The Caylee Anthony murder, while heinous, has received so much media attention, I am numb now to the cute childhood images of a toddler playing at home. The murderess, who now sits in jail pending trial, is clearly involved, if not guilty. The discovery of the child's body will likely bring no serious new evidence, other than the fact the child is in fact dead.
In the meantime, every news outlet spends a good portion of their airtime (a disproportionate amount, given the recency and relevance of this child's death on the world's stage) showing images of the crime scene. Yesterday, for example, I was enlightened to the fact that medical examiner was none other than the famous, Dr G., Medical Examiner, from TV's hit show Dr. G. Seriously, the ME also has a TV show. So, not only is the news media benefitting from this child's death, Dr. G has been upping her ratings by showing up to the crime scene. (She is listed as running the investigation. Whore.)
In the meantime, this kid is dead and the media pirahna feed on the flesh and tears.
The problem I fundamentally have is dependency. My wife and I are "dependent" on the news to tell us of the world's events. So every morning, we turn on the news to see if the market has crashed (again), if GM is getting a bailout while our business does not, or if gay's have the right to marry in Alaska. (It could happen) Therefore, we must turn it on while we get ready for work. Instead, I see the same three-day old images which they replay in case someone was in a cave, the first half of the week.
So, until I cure my addiction, I will be forced to endure through images of a dead kid, and pray to the God of little children for jailhouse justice, and a silent vengence for Caylee. Oh and a huge power spike which takes the nation's media outlets offline for a few weeks. We won't miss anything.
On a related note, I did learn yesterday that many of the same legal whores from the Simpson miscarriage of justice will be making appearances to show that Caylee's mother is not the murderess we all know her to be. I am sure they won't let the facts interfere with a good story. More to follow as the trial begins.
However in recent months, the media has taken on their own attempts to abuse a corpse. The Caylee Anthony murder, while heinous, has received so much media attention, I am numb now to the cute childhood images of a toddler playing at home. The murderess, who now sits in jail pending trial, is clearly involved, if not guilty. The discovery of the child's body will likely bring no serious new evidence, other than the fact the child is in fact dead.
In the meantime, every news outlet spends a good portion of their airtime (a disproportionate amount, given the recency and relevance of this child's death on the world's stage) showing images of the crime scene. Yesterday, for example, I was enlightened to the fact that medical examiner was none other than the famous, Dr G., Medical Examiner, from TV's hit show Dr. G. Seriously, the ME also has a TV show. So, not only is the news media benefitting from this child's death, Dr. G has been upping her ratings by showing up to the crime scene. (She is listed as running the investigation. Whore.)
In the meantime, this kid is dead and the media pirahna feed on the flesh and tears.
The problem I fundamentally have is dependency. My wife and I are "dependent" on the news to tell us of the world's events. So every morning, we turn on the news to see if the market has crashed (again), if GM is getting a bailout while our business does not, or if gay's have the right to marry in Alaska. (It could happen) Therefore, we must turn it on while we get ready for work. Instead, I see the same three-day old images which they replay in case someone was in a cave, the first half of the week.
So, until I cure my addiction, I will be forced to endure through images of a dead kid, and pray to the God of little children for jailhouse justice, and a silent vengence for Caylee. Oh and a huge power spike which takes the nation's media outlets offline for a few weeks. We won't miss anything.
On a related note, I did learn yesterday that many of the same legal whores from the Simpson miscarriage of justice will be making appearances to show that Caylee's mother is not the murderess we all know her to be. I am sure they won't let the facts interfere with a good story. More to follow as the trial begins.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Return of the Alpha Male.
So, a few weeks ago, a friend sent me a test of sorts. It was a litany of male centric tasks which is designed to separate the men from the boys (and the girls to be sure). While I don't pretend that I could or have accomplished all of the tasks, I did fairly well. The tasks ranged from mechanical, like change your oil, to the home ec tasks we all blew off, like sew a button to a pair of pant, to sports, like throw a spiral (which due to two bad shoulders and poor hand eye coordination, i cannot do, nor will I ever be able to.)
This past weekend, however, I was able to come closer to achieving woodsy greatness. We went to the mountains of North Carolina to show my son a train which resembled the Polar Express (if you don't have kids, you will need to borrow some to understand - it is the story of a train which evidently steals children from their homes, takes them to tha fat man's house, gives them trinkets, and then returns the kids without doing any real long term mental damage. Probably.) We rented a cabin in the woods atop of a small hill, and at the end of a dirt goat trail. For more on goat trails, you can read my excerpts from my European vacation, but suffices it to say, they are narrow, winding strips of deforested earth, with a combination surface of mud and pebble (mud on the right and pebbles on the left). This makes for a slick surface, and made worse, by the fact we drove my wife's volvo sedan.
During this three day journey, I discovered a little about myself, and my pursuit for the alpha male status. OK, to be fair, I never really considered this a life quest, but I think it just sort of happens. At one point, I found myself taking a small burning ember, and turning into a blaze Les Stroud (see Survivorman) would be proud of. Just because.
I added a few small items to the man test, and passed a few along the way -
Wilderness Driving - So while this was not on the test, men need the ability to traverse obstacles while in a vehicle. I am not suggesting that they need a HMMWV and a straight uphill climb (which I have also done) but that they should be able to get a car (any car with decent tires) up a mud and pebble hill. Even shale trails would be fine.
Home Maintenance The rental home has a bad deadbolt lock. Within 10 minutes, I had disassembled it with a dinner knife, and had diagnosed the problem. While I lacked the requisite tools to repair it, I at least understood what was wrong and could have fixed it with the right tools. (Needlenose pliers and a cold beer)
Cooking a Steak So for the record, the label said "Roast" which is not a steak. However, with enough marinade and spices, and an hour on the grill, a roast can closely resemble a steak, and feed 7 people.
Home Decor Repair Give three kids a cabin in the woods and something will break. Within 2 hours, the kids had torn the buttons off of a pillow, and tried to hide the damage. Using a travel sewing kit and several punctures to the fingertips later, I was able to reattach the buttons and make it look like new. While the thread is a little fragile, our deposit is intact.
Building a Fire Our traveling companions, another family, thought it would be a great idea to make smores. I mean, we were in the woods, and that's what suburbanites do. So the man takes his daughter out to the firepit and they spend a few hours watching the wet wood smother the flames. More matches, more wet wood, more smoke, more nothing. And so it goes. They drive to the store to buy firewood, which is typical and sold large chunks. Until they finally surrender. Little secret - Wet kindling, and big logs will never catch fire. . .unless. . . Literally two hours later, the fire catches something. Something in the fire blazes up and the wife sees this. We pack all the smores stuff outside, to watch as the fire dies again. And now, this has become my challenge. Because I love smores. Mushy golden brown marshmallows, melty chocolate and graham crackers kick ass.
So I hunker down over the fire and start trying. I find the wet wood in the pit and pull it out. I blow on the few embers and cover them in leaves, getting some flame back. I walk into the darker woods and find any fallen branches propped off of the wet earth, and I go back to build the same teepee style fire that's worked since Sacajawea. And ten minutes later, and lots of blowing, the flames abound and I am knee deep in carmelized sugar, and cocoa goodness.
Fatherly bonding At 60 bucks for the adult seats, 40 bucks for the kid's seat, it was not a cheap train ride. I have gone round trip from Philadelphia to New York City for less. However, watching my son, when he saw Santa was worth the 9 hours of driving and the price of admission. Watching him see the train cars torn from the pages of the book and pulled from the screens of the movie, my boy was in the true meaning of Christmas. I don't mean the religious aspect. He was in the spirit of dreams and beliefs. He was deep in the childhood innocence that we lose as we age. He is fully engulfed in the world's most incredible and long standing hoax that we as parents indulge in, for 30 days a year to take ourselves back to our childhood.
So, now that I am achieving the alpha male status in my own domain, I am enjoying watching over my cub, and hoping that he enjoys every aspect of his youth, and takes his time in taking this status from his father who took so damn long to get there.
This past weekend, however, I was able to come closer to achieving woodsy greatness. We went to the mountains of North Carolina to show my son a train which resembled the Polar Express (if you don't have kids, you will need to borrow some to understand - it is the story of a train which evidently steals children from their homes, takes them to tha fat man's house, gives them trinkets, and then returns the kids without doing any real long term mental damage. Probably.) We rented a cabin in the woods atop of a small hill, and at the end of a dirt goat trail. For more on goat trails, you can read my excerpts from my European vacation, but suffices it to say, they are narrow, winding strips of deforested earth, with a combination surface of mud and pebble (mud on the right and pebbles on the left). This makes for a slick surface, and made worse, by the fact we drove my wife's volvo sedan.
During this three day journey, I discovered a little about myself, and my pursuit for the alpha male status. OK, to be fair, I never really considered this a life quest, but I think it just sort of happens. At one point, I found myself taking a small burning ember, and turning into a blaze Les Stroud (see Survivorman) would be proud of. Just because.
I added a few small items to the man test, and passed a few along the way -
Wilderness Driving - So while this was not on the test, men need the ability to traverse obstacles while in a vehicle. I am not suggesting that they need a HMMWV and a straight uphill climb (which I have also done) but that they should be able to get a car (any car with decent tires) up a mud and pebble hill. Even shale trails would be fine.
Home Maintenance The rental home has a bad deadbolt lock. Within 10 minutes, I had disassembled it with a dinner knife, and had diagnosed the problem. While I lacked the requisite tools to repair it, I at least understood what was wrong and could have fixed it with the right tools. (Needlenose pliers and a cold beer)
Cooking a Steak So for the record, the label said "Roast" which is not a steak. However, with enough marinade and spices, and an hour on the grill, a roast can closely resemble a steak, and feed 7 people.
Home Decor Repair Give three kids a cabin in the woods and something will break. Within 2 hours, the kids had torn the buttons off of a pillow, and tried to hide the damage. Using a travel sewing kit and several punctures to the fingertips later, I was able to reattach the buttons and make it look like new. While the thread is a little fragile, our deposit is intact.
Building a Fire Our traveling companions, another family, thought it would be a great idea to make smores. I mean, we were in the woods, and that's what suburbanites do. So the man takes his daughter out to the firepit and they spend a few hours watching the wet wood smother the flames. More matches, more wet wood, more smoke, more nothing. And so it goes. They drive to the store to buy firewood, which is typical and sold large chunks. Until they finally surrender. Little secret - Wet kindling, and big logs will never catch fire. . .unless. . . Literally two hours later, the fire catches something. Something in the fire blazes up and the wife sees this. We pack all the smores stuff outside, to watch as the fire dies again. And now, this has become my challenge. Because I love smores. Mushy golden brown marshmallows, melty chocolate and graham crackers kick ass.
So I hunker down over the fire and start trying. I find the wet wood in the pit and pull it out. I blow on the few embers and cover them in leaves, getting some flame back. I walk into the darker woods and find any fallen branches propped off of the wet earth, and I go back to build the same teepee style fire that's worked since Sacajawea. And ten minutes later, and lots of blowing, the flames abound and I am knee deep in carmelized sugar, and cocoa goodness.
Fatherly bonding At 60 bucks for the adult seats, 40 bucks for the kid's seat, it was not a cheap train ride. I have gone round trip from Philadelphia to New York City for less. However, watching my son, when he saw Santa was worth the 9 hours of driving and the price of admission. Watching him see the train cars torn from the pages of the book and pulled from the screens of the movie, my boy was in the true meaning of Christmas. I don't mean the religious aspect. He was in the spirit of dreams and beliefs. He was deep in the childhood innocence that we lose as we age. He is fully engulfed in the world's most incredible and long standing hoax that we as parents indulge in, for 30 days a year to take ourselves back to our childhood.
So, now that I am achieving the alpha male status in my own domain, I am enjoying watching over my cub, and hoping that he enjoys every aspect of his youth, and takes his time in taking this status from his father who took so damn long to get there.
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