Have you joined the Facebook craze? I gave in a few months ago, and while I have found it at times interesting and at times fun, sometimes it’s just plain weird.
I’ve wound up being “friends” with people I never liked in the first place, mostly from high school. I’m pretty sure they never liked me, either, which is why I found it odd that they want me to know what’s going on with their lives these days.
People on Facebook let you know what they’re up to through something called “status updates”, in which they post things like, “I just went to the grocery store.” or “I think my goiter has gotten infected.” There may be a handful people in whom I have that level of interest, but not the annoying kid who I used to throw spitballs at in biology class.
One status update I came across the other day was a guy I (barely) knew in high school thanking everyone for their recent prayers, and saying “We miss our little boy so very much. When he left us he took our happiness with him. He was a part of me, and that part of me is gone, and it hurts so much.” This was a truly horrible thing to read, so I went into his profile to see if I could find out more information.
Well, it turns out he was talking about his dog. Don’t get me wrong – I know the loss of a pet can be a terribly sad thing. I’m sure I’ll be quite upset when Lucky moves on to the big backyard in the sky, which may be sooner than later if she doesn’t stop barking in the mornings.
But I can’t help but feel a little misled by this guy, who was VERY distraught over that dog. So I got over my misgivings and did the decent thing – I de-friended him.
* * * * * *
Speaking of Lucky, she is limping around the backyard now. I think she twisted her leg when she stepped in one of the holes she’s dug all over the place. I would say that serves her right, but I don’t like to see her in pain.
I don’t think it’s too bad. She can put some weight on it, and she doesn’t have that look that dogs get on their faces when they’re hurting. She pretty much has the same happy-go-lucky, vacant, “do-you-have-food?” look as always. It seemed better yesterday, which is good news, because I didn’t want to be faced with a choice of spending thousands of dollars at the vet, or having to post a very sad status update on my Facebook page.
She doesn’t do a lot of running these days, anyway. She’s part retriever, but the retrieving part of her personality has gone dormant. When I throw the tennis ball now, she looks at it like it’s a hand grenade. She has no interest in chasing anything. She might chase a cat, if it had a pork chop tied to its back.
People seem to think it’s OK when they see her to say, “Oh my god, she’s so fat.” I don’t think that’s very nice. I don’t go to their house and tell them that their kids are ugly.
I try to tell people that her behavior has improved, but I may just be fooling myself. A while back a terrible storm came up, with lots of lightning and thunder and wind, and I let her in the house until it ended. Later I thought I heard hail, so I opened up the front door to see, and next thing I know this white furry blur goes rushing past me and into the front yard, and down the sidewalk. In a hailstorm.
A close-by lightning strike apparently convinced her that she had not made the best decision, so within a few minutes she trundled back to the house, soaking wet, and expecting to just stroll back in the house as if nothing had happened. I intercepted her with a towel and some unkind words.
Well, here’s hoping she’ll be back up to speed in no time, so she can continue to drive me crazy. I can live with a few more holes in the backyard if she can.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Grow a pair
If you want to read something that will make you sick, I suggest you check out this article in Newsweek.
Some testes-deficient putz named Joel Schwartzberg has written a book called “Slouching Toward Fatherhood,” about how hard it was on him to be a father. I heard him being interviewed on the radio last night on the way home, and I almost pulled over and puked on the shoulder of I-75.
After his son was born, he was sad and angry and weepy. He claims he later found out he was going through something called “male postpartum depression.” Dude. Seriously. Come on.
He writes, “I couldn't mask my sadness when my work colleagues asked excitedly about fatherhood. ‘It's good … well, it's OK,’ I said. ‘Actually, it's very, very hard.’ By then, I was close to tears. We were all happy when the conversation ended. Later on, they told me I'd scared the crap out of them. I'm sure at least a few went back on contraception.”
Here’s who should have used contraception – Joel Schwartzberg’s parents. This guy needs General Patton to come by and slap him in the face with his glove. He needs Don Corleone to grab him by the collar and scream, “You can act like a man!”
Yes, Joel, having children is work. But the last thing a kid needs is a wimpy, weepy father who walks around gazing at his loafers and feeling sorry for himself. This guy says, “I took on every parental responsibility with sucked-up reluctance on the outside and contempt on the inside.” Really, changing a diaper or giving a baby a bath was that hard on you?
Maybe I’m being too hard on Mr. Schwartzberg – he claims he later came around to be a good parent – but I just don’t understand why so many men seem to be crappy fathers. Look at professional athletes like Travis Henry or Shawn Kemp or Evander Holyfield, who fertilize women all over creation like romantic Johnny Appleseeds with no thoughts of being there to raise them. Or slimeballs like Larry Bird or Julius Erving who had children, then denied their existence for many years because it would have been bad for their careers or their images.
Being a father is really not that complicated. Women do all of the hard work early on. We don’t carry the babies in our stomachs and see our whole bodies change and then have to eject something the size of a bowling ball from an orifice. All we have to do is endure a couple of Lamaze classes and find a reason to leave the house when we’re the target of a hormone-induced tirade during pregnancy.
Is it easy getting up at 3 a.m. when it’s your turn to calm down a screaming baby? No, but it’s not exactly parachuting into Normandy, either. Buck up and ride it out. When you get a woman pregnant, it’s part of the deal – you are now responsible for the care and well-being of another person, and your selfish desires have to take a backseat. Assuming you survive their teenage years – not a sure thing – you can resume living your precious life when they’re out on their own.
And if you can’t handle it, keep it in your pants and do the world a favor.
Some testes-deficient putz named Joel Schwartzberg has written a book called “Slouching Toward Fatherhood,” about how hard it was on him to be a father. I heard him being interviewed on the radio last night on the way home, and I almost pulled over and puked on the shoulder of I-75.
After his son was born, he was sad and angry and weepy. He claims he later found out he was going through something called “male postpartum depression.” Dude. Seriously. Come on.
He writes, “I couldn't mask my sadness when my work colleagues asked excitedly about fatherhood. ‘It's good … well, it's OK,’ I said. ‘Actually, it's very, very hard.’ By then, I was close to tears. We were all happy when the conversation ended. Later on, they told me I'd scared the crap out of them. I'm sure at least a few went back on contraception.”
Here’s who should have used contraception – Joel Schwartzberg’s parents. This guy needs General Patton to come by and slap him in the face with his glove. He needs Don Corleone to grab him by the collar and scream, “You can act like a man!”
Yes, Joel, having children is work. But the last thing a kid needs is a wimpy, weepy father who walks around gazing at his loafers and feeling sorry for himself. This guy says, “I took on every parental responsibility with sucked-up reluctance on the outside and contempt on the inside.” Really, changing a diaper or giving a baby a bath was that hard on you?
Maybe I’m being too hard on Mr. Schwartzberg – he claims he later came around to be a good parent – but I just don’t understand why so many men seem to be crappy fathers. Look at professional athletes like Travis Henry or Shawn Kemp or Evander Holyfield, who fertilize women all over creation like romantic Johnny Appleseeds with no thoughts of being there to raise them. Or slimeballs like Larry Bird or Julius Erving who had children, then denied their existence for many years because it would have been bad for their careers or their images.
Being a father is really not that complicated. Women do all of the hard work early on. We don’t carry the babies in our stomachs and see our whole bodies change and then have to eject something the size of a bowling ball from an orifice. All we have to do is endure a couple of Lamaze classes and find a reason to leave the house when we’re the target of a hormone-induced tirade during pregnancy.
Is it easy getting up at 3 a.m. when it’s your turn to calm down a screaming baby? No, but it’s not exactly parachuting into Normandy, either. Buck up and ride it out. When you get a woman pregnant, it’s part of the deal – you are now responsible for the care and well-being of another person, and your selfish desires have to take a backseat. Assuming you survive their teenage years – not a sure thing – you can resume living your precious life when they’re out on their own.
And if you can’t handle it, keep it in your pants and do the world a favor.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
The death of country music
I was reading an interview with some yahoo named Jason Aldean, who is
apparently a rising star in the world of country music, which is a dumb
thing to say, because these guys aren't playing country music.
Anyway, he was asked about his musical influences growing up, and he
said “Guns N' Roses -- the '80s rock stuff. Then I was into John
Mellencamp, and Bob Seger and a lot of the Southern rock stuff. I listened
to a lot of different kinds of music.”
Well, there you go. How can a guy with a musical spectrum so broad that
he listened to both John Mellencamp AND Bob Seger grow up to be anything
but a great country artist?
Country music is dead. Well, it's not dead - there are plenty of people
out there still writing and performing actual country music. It just doesn’t get on the radio or on CMT.
“Country music” is nothing but a marketing tool now. I'm not sure who
exactly killed country music, but I suspect you'd find Garth Brooks' and Shania
Twain's fingerprints on the gun.
Have you watched a country music awards show lately? You could fire a shotgun at the stage and never hit anybody who’s actually playing country music. We live in a nation where people complain about terrorists being mistreated in jail, and yet Rascal Flatts is allowed to run free. That ain't right.
If you turn on a “country” radio station now, you’ll basically hear one of four songs:
• I’m from a small town where we all love Jesus.
• I’m a good old boy/gal and I like to have a good time and don’t care if you call me a redneck.
• I love my girl/guy and she/he loves me even though I don’t deserve it.
• I’m a redneck from a small town and I love my girl and she loves Jesus.
Look at all the artists out there now masquerading as country musicians. Kenney Chesney does a bad Jimmy Buffett impression and wins award after award. Keith Urban is basically Dan Fogelberg with a steel guitar player. I got subjected to a Keith Urban CD once and I almost went into a diabetic coma by the time it was finished.
I guess the main reason it sucks now is because it’s not sincere. Country music was always about pain and heartache and hard times, and it was sung and written by people who grew up poor and fought their demons and produced something beautiful out of misery. When George Jones sang “If Drinking Don’t Kill Me, Her Memory Will,” he meant it. Merle Haggard could sing about prison because he’d been there. Johnny Cash knew pain because his beloved brother died when he was young. Buck Owens grew up like the Joad family, moving from one California produce farm to the next.
How is popular “country” music made these days? Well, the songs are written by the same group of songwriters who actually go to work in an office and work on them. This results in songs that are calculated and soulless and full of phony emotion. The best country songs are scribbled on the back of a bar napkin with half the words blurred by spilt whiskey or tears.
Then the songs of today are recorded by a group of session musicians who play on everybody’s CD, and produced by a handful of producers who want everything to sound the same. And they succeed – it all sounds like crap.
My favorite scene in “The Blues Brothers” is when they stumble into a backwoods bar and they ask the waitress what kind of music is usually played there, and she says “We like both kinds – country AND western.” Sadly, I fear they’re both now just a memory.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Playing catch
My son is 15 years old and he asks me to go outside and throw the baseball with him almost every day.
I’m afraid to say no because if I do, next thing I know I’ll turn around and I’ll be living out Harry Chapin’s Cat’s in the Cradle, and he won’t even feel obligated to come visit me in the nursing home.
So I trudge out there, glove in hand, with my aching right shoulder and gallstones (that nursing home isn’t as far off as I once thought) and I throw with him. He’s about as tall as I am now and he tries to burn one in every now and then, but I just catch it nonchalantly and throw it back, pretending it doesn’t hurt. You can’t show weakness.
He’s a pitcher on his high school junior varsity team. I’m trying to teach him to throw a curveball, which would be easier if I could throw one that broke more than the length of my pinky finger. Well, that’s why I was always an outfielder.
We started throwing the ball in the front yard when he was very little. That’s really the main reason men want to have sons, is to have somebody to play ball with. In the old days, you had sons because you wanted somebody to help you plow the fields, or to carry on the family name. Now you just hope they don’t wreck your car or make you a grandpa at an early age.
I’ve thrown the ball a few times with my daughter, but that stopped once she discovered it messed up her fingernail polish. Plus, it’s different with a girl. They get offended if you call them “moron” or “lazy-ass” or “idiot.” Sons understand that comes with the territory.
With daughters, you play other games, like “Let’s see how much money we can make disappear from dad’s wallet,”, and “Guess how much these shoes cost?”
I don’t know that any of us with children has parenting figured out. You can do everything right, or at least what you think is right, and they still turn out wrong. But it’s gotta help your percentages if you’re there for them and do things with them.
A large part of parenting is just being there. You don’t have to give them everything they want, or keep them from ever being disappointed, or shield them from any failure. Just let them know you’re there if they need you – but never let them know where your bank accounts are. You know, just in case.
I’m afraid to say no because if I do, next thing I know I’ll turn around and I’ll be living out Harry Chapin’s Cat’s in the Cradle, and he won’t even feel obligated to come visit me in the nursing home.
So I trudge out there, glove in hand, with my aching right shoulder and gallstones (that nursing home isn’t as far off as I once thought) and I throw with him. He’s about as tall as I am now and he tries to burn one in every now and then, but I just catch it nonchalantly and throw it back, pretending it doesn’t hurt. You can’t show weakness.
He’s a pitcher on his high school junior varsity team. I’m trying to teach him to throw a curveball, which would be easier if I could throw one that broke more than the length of my pinky finger. Well, that’s why I was always an outfielder.
We started throwing the ball in the front yard when he was very little. That’s really the main reason men want to have sons, is to have somebody to play ball with. In the old days, you had sons because you wanted somebody to help you plow the fields, or to carry on the family name. Now you just hope they don’t wreck your car or make you a grandpa at an early age.
I’ve thrown the ball a few times with my daughter, but that stopped once she discovered it messed up her fingernail polish. Plus, it’s different with a girl. They get offended if you call them “moron” or “lazy-ass” or “idiot.” Sons understand that comes with the territory.
With daughters, you play other games, like “Let’s see how much money we can make disappear from dad’s wallet,”, and “Guess how much these shoes cost?”
I don’t know that any of us with children has parenting figured out. You can do everything right, or at least what you think is right, and they still turn out wrong. But it’s gotta help your percentages if you’re there for them and do things with them.
A large part of parenting is just being there. You don’t have to give them everything they want, or keep them from ever being disappointed, or shield them from any failure. Just let them know you’re there if they need you – but never let them know where your bank accounts are. You know, just in case.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
On the road to recovery
Right after I learned I was going to have to get my gall bladder removed, it seemed everybody I ran into had already had that procedure done. Don’t worry, they all said. It’s not a big deal, and you’ll be back to normal within a day. They made it sound like it was no more serious than getting a filling or a pedicure.
Well, it turns out they are all evil lying liars who tell lies.
I was supposed to go see a surgeon for a consult tomorrow, which is Monday. But Thursday night I felt like the guy in Full Metal Jacket after his fellow recruits put bars of soap in pillowcases and beat him half to death. Then Friday morning on the way to work I noticed my fingers were turning yellow, and that seemed like a bad sign, so I turned the car around and headed back to the doctor.
He didn’t think that the yellow fingers were anything to worry about, but he did say the gallbladder needed to come out pronto, so he sent me to the hospital. I have always liked to brag that I’ve never had surgery and never had to spend a night in the hospital, but both of those streaks were about to end.
I was hopeful that I could make the best of it, since this little procedure was apparently not a big deal. At worst, I’d get a good-looking nurse to take care of me, give me a nice warm sponge bath or two, and I’d get a couple of nice meals and I could lounge around for a couple of days and do nothing without feeling guilty.
Not long after I got checked into my room, my nurse entered. Instead of Nurse Goodbody, I got a guy named Ronnie with a diamond stud earring in each ear and a Kid’N’ Play haircut. I made a mental note to hang a “No Sponge Baths!” sign on the door.
Ronnie picked up a chart and said, “OK, Mr. Williams, I see you’re here for a total left hip replacement.” I may have a couple of body parts I need to upgrade, but my hips are just fine. He saw the stricken look on my face, then looked down at the chart and said, “Whoops. Wrong chart,” and left the room. I got a magic marker and drew a circle on my abdomen and wrote “Cut here,” just so they’d be sure.
They wouldn’t let me eat, because they were going to do another ultrasound, so I got more miserable and cranky as the day went on. I got a lot of conflicting information – I wasn’t going to be allowed any food, I was going to get clear liquids, I could have a regular meal. Finally I got my family to sneak me in a chicken sandwich.
Saturday morning they came and got me and wheeled me into the operating room. That’s a daunting experience, no matter how “minor” the operation. You realize that your life is in the hands of people you know nothing about. How did I know the anesthesiologist didn’t stay up all night, snorting coke and drinking whiskey, before coming to work? What if my doctor was one of those fakes who made up everything on their resume’ and learned how to do surgery by watching reruns of M*A*S*H?
I didn’t have much time to worry about such things, because next thing I knew I was coming to in the recovery room. My belly felt as if someone was pressing a hot fireplace poker into it, but I was still too groggy to speak, so I just moaned really loud until a nurse came over and shot me up with something.
I got to go home later that afternoon. The doctor came by to see me but didn’t tell me much. I’m not implying that he was in a hurry because he had somewhere else to go, but I did find it strange that he was wearing a golf glove.
After I got home, I can describe my experience quite succinctly – pure agony. It hurts to blink. I’ve taken so many Percocets that Keith Richards called me and said, “Hey, take it easy, mate.” And for about the past 15 minutes, I’ve had a severe case of hiccups, which are a real treat just after abdominal surgery.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll begin to turn the corner and start getting back to normal. I have vowed that I will also start taking better care of myself, by eating healthier and losing weight and resuming exercise – as soon as I can get out of a chair in less than 10 minutes.
Well, it turns out they are all evil lying liars who tell lies.
I was supposed to go see a surgeon for a consult tomorrow, which is Monday. But Thursday night I felt like the guy in Full Metal Jacket after his fellow recruits put bars of soap in pillowcases and beat him half to death. Then Friday morning on the way to work I noticed my fingers were turning yellow, and that seemed like a bad sign, so I turned the car around and headed back to the doctor.
He didn’t think that the yellow fingers were anything to worry about, but he did say the gallbladder needed to come out pronto, so he sent me to the hospital. I have always liked to brag that I’ve never had surgery and never had to spend a night in the hospital, but both of those streaks were about to end.
I was hopeful that I could make the best of it, since this little procedure was apparently not a big deal. At worst, I’d get a good-looking nurse to take care of me, give me a nice warm sponge bath or two, and I’d get a couple of nice meals and I could lounge around for a couple of days and do nothing without feeling guilty.
Not long after I got checked into my room, my nurse entered. Instead of Nurse Goodbody, I got a guy named Ronnie with a diamond stud earring in each ear and a Kid’N’ Play haircut. I made a mental note to hang a “No Sponge Baths!” sign on the door.
Ronnie picked up a chart and said, “OK, Mr. Williams, I see you’re here for a total left hip replacement.” I may have a couple of body parts I need to upgrade, but my hips are just fine. He saw the stricken look on my face, then looked down at the chart and said, “Whoops. Wrong chart,” and left the room. I got a magic marker and drew a circle on my abdomen and wrote “Cut here,” just so they’d be sure.
They wouldn’t let me eat, because they were going to do another ultrasound, so I got more miserable and cranky as the day went on. I got a lot of conflicting information – I wasn’t going to be allowed any food, I was going to get clear liquids, I could have a regular meal. Finally I got my family to sneak me in a chicken sandwich.
Saturday morning they came and got me and wheeled me into the operating room. That’s a daunting experience, no matter how “minor” the operation. You realize that your life is in the hands of people you know nothing about. How did I know the anesthesiologist didn’t stay up all night, snorting coke and drinking whiskey, before coming to work? What if my doctor was one of those fakes who made up everything on their resume’ and learned how to do surgery by watching reruns of M*A*S*H?
I didn’t have much time to worry about such things, because next thing I knew I was coming to in the recovery room. My belly felt as if someone was pressing a hot fireplace poker into it, but I was still too groggy to speak, so I just moaned really loud until a nurse came over and shot me up with something.
I got to go home later that afternoon. The doctor came by to see me but didn’t tell me much. I’m not implying that he was in a hurry because he had somewhere else to go, but I did find it strange that he was wearing a golf glove.
After I got home, I can describe my experience quite succinctly – pure agony. It hurts to blink. I’ve taken so many Percocets that Keith Richards called me and said, “Hey, take it easy, mate.” And for about the past 15 minutes, I’ve had a severe case of hiccups, which are a real treat just after abdominal surgery.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll begin to turn the corner and start getting back to normal. I have vowed that I will also start taking better care of myself, by eating healthier and losing weight and resuming exercise – as soon as I can get out of a chair in less than 10 minutes.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Health care inferno
Every president we’ve had since Andrew Johnson or thereabouts has promised to reform our health-care system, but I think the only way to have a positive health-care experience is just to never get sick.
Sadly, I couldn’t follow my own advice, which has plunged me into about an 8-week journey that Dante should have accompanied me on.
First, I went to a doctor’s office and saw a 12-year-old physician’s assistant who drew some blood and told me I have pancreatitis. She made it sound like no big deal, told me to watch what I eat for a while and not drink alcohol, and I’d be OK.
A couple of weeks later I was not OK, so I went to see an actual doctor, one I’ve seen before. He got a little snippy with me when he found out I’d been to see somebody else.
“So,” he said, with a hurt look, “You just go see whoever you want to when you’re sick?” I felt like I’d been cheating on him. Wow, a guy gives you one prostate exam and he acts like he owns you.
He had a different view of pancreatitis than the physician’s assistant. “You know this can kill you, right?” Well, no, I didn’t know that. So he sent me off immediately to get a sonogram, which was actually kind of pleasant, as far as medical tests go. It’s not every day you get something warm rubbed over your belly.
The doctor, happy that we were together again, told me that the sonogram didn’t reveal anything, and he said my problems were caused by high triglycerides, and it should all clear up in a couple of weeks. As I left, I’m pretty sure he mouthed the words “Call me” when the nurse wasn’t looking.
Well, a couple of weeks passed, and I wasn’t feeling better – as a matter of fact, I felt about 5 times worse, and I decided I should see another doctor. I thought about calling the first doctor and telling him I still wanted to be friends, but I knew he’d see right through me.
My new doctor is a woman, and she ordered a bunch of tests, and now she believes I have gallstones. These apparently showed up on the ultrasound I had – you know, the one my first doctor had pronounced “normal.” Maybe he was so mad at my betrayal that he withheld that from me on purpose! Hell hath no fury like a general practitioner scorned. Or, maybe he’s just a quack.
I like this new doctor just fine, except that the woman who schedules appointments has one minor issue - she barely speaks English. That’s really what you want when you’re feeling like crap, to have to repeat everything you say five times to the person making your next appointment.
The doctor asked her to set up an appointment for me with a surgeon, who will give me an opinion as to whether they’ll snatch my gallbladder out. She asked me, I think, when I wanted the appointment, and I said, between gasps of pain, “As soon as possible.” She said ok, she’d call me when she had it done. So she calls in a couple of hours and says, “I have you appointment on 28th.”
I said, “But today’s the 30th.” She said “Yes, appointment on 28th, 9 a.m.” I said, “Wait, do you mean APRIL 28th? She said, “Yes, you want early, that’s first early morning they have.” I said, “No, I didn’t mean as soon as possible in the day, I meant, like, AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.” She then, I believed, cursed me out in Cantonese, and I hung up the phone and called the surgeon myself, and got an appointment in just a few days.
It’s not over yet. Tomorrow morning at 6:45 a.m. I go to the hospital for another scan, where they inject you with dye and you get a warm feeling all over. Then I have to have more bloodwork done. This will be about the fifth time I’ve had that done in the past few weeks. My arm looks like that of a heroin addict.
But hopefully they will, before long, decide what is wrong, and take care of it. Then the medical bills will come in, and I’ll likely have a new health problem - a heart attack.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
