I have to admit that the older I get the less I question why people do things. I am becoming more content just to say, "I don't understand that" and let go of it. Of course there are numerous things that I don't understand.Perhaps it's just the way things are like kids wearing pants so far away from their waists that I wonder why God gave people waists in the first place. And hats.I've worn a baseball cap with the brim in front as well as in the back. But to the side? I don't understand that. It really changes the function of the hat. What is the brim supposed to do if you have it sticking out to the side? Protect the side of your face from getting sun? Or perhaps it's just the way kids piss off their parents and teachers.
The other day some said that everyone would remember where they were when the heard that Michael Jackson died. For some reason I asked myself where was I when I first heard "Don't Be Cruel" by Elvis Presley. Naturally you can see why these two events are somehow connected. I was in a soda shop next to the juke box. And as is often the case remembering that event brought back some other memories.
Back then we had three groups of kids. Athletes, us, and the "hoods". There were certain things that you could do that would qualify you as a member of the "hoods" and comparing the dress habits of today's kids with those from the late 50's begins to make both of them more understandable.
There were certain things that you just weren't supposed to do.
Wear you collar up.
Have cleats on your heels.
Wear your belt with the buckle on the side rather than in the front.
The most severe offense was to have your collar up in the back. The hoods would put their collars up as soon as they were off school grounds and put them back down when they stepped back on school grounds. Was this an attempt to mimic the King? I don't think that occurred to us.
You could hear a kid with cleats on his heels a mile away or at least all the way down the school calendar. The only rational reasons I have ever heard for wearing cleats were (a) you were a tap dancer or (b) you were in an elite military honor guard, or (3) you're a horse. But if you wanted to be considered not a hood, you'd better not have cleats on your shoes. I wonder how many millenium kids even know what a cleat is.
And then there's the matter of where the buckle on your belt should be. Looking back I don't think we had as many obese kids as they do today so seeing someone's belt and the position of the buckle was fairly easy. I tried it a couple of times and every time I felt certain that someone would catch me and tell me to fix my belt. I wouldn't have dared try it at home. That would have been just too risky.
So all in all I guess I don't understand why kids today do what they do in the same way my parents didn't understand us either. And kids today don't understand why they do things any more than we did.
But there was one way that girls dressed that I am glad no one ever tried to correct.
A girl with a sweater and skirt with suspenders coming right over her.......
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Busy Little Hands
Not sure how this came up but I have been troubled lately by the number of things the Prez and the Congress are trying to change. There doesn't seem to be a plan that would handle things in some kind of sequential order-just the need to get everything done now. How can anyone keep track of all of this?
Well perhaps there is a plan behind this.
Years ago I had a brief stint in the Merchant Marines. My only trip started from Baltimore through the Panama Canal on the way to Viet Nam. Due to a backup at our destination port, we were sidetracked to Manila for about a week.
I learned that seaman really take advantage of being ashore. Those that drink start partying as soon as they get ashore, and believe me there was no shortage of San Miguel beer. Often they would return to the ship either suffering from a hangover or still inebriated.
On their way from the cab to the shuttles that brought them back to the ship they would often be surrounded by a group of street urchins (not sure what else to call them). Some of them appeared to be as young as 4 years old. About five or six of these kids would all approach their target asking for change or food and grabbing the seaman's shirt, sleeves, jacket or whatever they could grab hold of. At first I felt some sympathy for these kids who had to engage in this kind of activity in order to survive. But I was soon informed that while all of the imps were pulling and tugging on the seaman's clothes, one of the kids woud deftly steal the guy's wallet without him even noticing. Shades of Oliver.
So while we are trying to pay attention to all of this activity in Washington, exactly who or how many have their hands in our back pockets? The seaman would notice that he was being robbed the next time he looked for his wallet.
When will we take notice?
Well perhaps there is a plan behind this.
Years ago I had a brief stint in the Merchant Marines. My only trip started from Baltimore through the Panama Canal on the way to Viet Nam. Due to a backup at our destination port, we were sidetracked to Manila for about a week.
I learned that seaman really take advantage of being ashore. Those that drink start partying as soon as they get ashore, and believe me there was no shortage of San Miguel beer. Often they would return to the ship either suffering from a hangover or still inebriated.
On their way from the cab to the shuttles that brought them back to the ship they would often be surrounded by a group of street urchins (not sure what else to call them). Some of them appeared to be as young as 4 years old. About five or six of these kids would all approach their target asking for change or food and grabbing the seaman's shirt, sleeves, jacket or whatever they could grab hold of. At first I felt some sympathy for these kids who had to engage in this kind of activity in order to survive. But I was soon informed that while all of the imps were pulling and tugging on the seaman's clothes, one of the kids woud deftly steal the guy's wallet without him even noticing. Shades of Oliver.
So while we are trying to pay attention to all of this activity in Washington, exactly who or how many have their hands in our back pockets? The seaman would notice that he was being robbed the next time he looked for his wallet.
When will we take notice?
Saturday, June 27, 2009
1165
Charlie and I were upnattem bright and early at 6:30 AM in Harper's Ferry, West Virginia. Decided to take the camper away for a couple of days. Like a lot of places on the East Coast, Harper's Ferry can get pretty hot and muggy during the summer so getting up early to get a walk in along the Shenendoah is the best way to do it. Of course, Harper's Ferry is nothing compared to being at Williamsburg around the same time. I figure you have to be just plain nuts to even attempt that one, and since I am not completely nuts I try to find some places where I am not asking myself, "What the hell are you doing here?"
So we took a nice walk along the river side, and Charlie managed to get in the water and look for fish. Every time he goes in the water he looks for fish. Once upon a time he saw some tiny fish - let's call them minnows - and chased them up and down the bank for at least a half hour. Hey, everyone gets to decide what's fun, right?
On the way back I saw a young man with a large back pack lying next to him. "Walking the trail?", I said. The "trail" is the Shenendoah trail that runs from Georgia to Maine. It's not uncommon to meet people in Harper's Ferry who are hiking either a part of or the entire length of the trail. I, by the way, no longer say that I am going on a hike. I take walks. Those who hike the trail are hikers.
But I digress. "So how long have been hiking so far?" "Three months", he replied. Bare in mind that this kid looked to be in pretty good shape. I can only offer agonizing mental comparisons of what I would look like had I been hiking that long non stop. "Oh really", I said, and "How many miles do you cover each day?" "About 17 miles", was his reply.
I once went on an 11 mile forced march (the military term for hiking), and by the time we arrived at our destination (which is another way of saying that we stopped somewhere), I would have used all the knowledge the military had given me to kill someone for a Coke.
And here's the kicker. I hadn't calculated how many miles this 29 year old had already hiked, when I asked, "And how far do you have to go?" Ready? "Approximately one thousand one hundred and sixty five miles", he replied without hesitation. Approximately. Could be a few yards more or less based on how on curvy the path was I was thinking. Approximately. Now the reason I wrote out one thousand one hundred and sixty five miles is because it gives the excursion a little more meat than saying he had to go another 1,165 miles. And he figured he would arrive in Maine in about three months.
He'd never been to Maine. Matter of fact, he'd never been to Harper's Ferry either. He was taking a side trip to Washington, DC on metro. He'd never been there either. Now I've been to Georgia and West Virginia and Maine and Washington, DC, but I can god damn guarantee you that I wouldn't have walked to any of them!
All told this lad will have spent six months of his life doing something that millions have probably heard about and who knows how many have actually thought about accomplishing.
But, one thousand one hundred and sixty five miles yet to go?
1,165 miles?
Sheesh.
So we took a nice walk along the river side, and Charlie managed to get in the water and look for fish. Every time he goes in the water he looks for fish. Once upon a time he saw some tiny fish - let's call them minnows - and chased them up and down the bank for at least a half hour. Hey, everyone gets to decide what's fun, right?
On the way back I saw a young man with a large back pack lying next to him. "Walking the trail?", I said. The "trail" is the Shenendoah trail that runs from Georgia to Maine. It's not uncommon to meet people in Harper's Ferry who are hiking either a part of or the entire length of the trail. I, by the way, no longer say that I am going on a hike. I take walks. Those who hike the trail are hikers.
But I digress. "So how long have been hiking so far?" "Three months", he replied. Bare in mind that this kid looked to be in pretty good shape. I can only offer agonizing mental comparisons of what I would look like had I been hiking that long non stop. "Oh really", I said, and "How many miles do you cover each day?" "About 17 miles", was his reply.
I once went on an 11 mile forced march (the military term for hiking), and by the time we arrived at our destination (which is another way of saying that we stopped somewhere), I would have used all the knowledge the military had given me to kill someone for a Coke.
And here's the kicker. I hadn't calculated how many miles this 29 year old had already hiked, when I asked, "And how far do you have to go?" Ready? "Approximately one thousand one hundred and sixty five miles", he replied without hesitation. Approximately. Could be a few yards more or less based on how on curvy the path was I was thinking. Approximately. Now the reason I wrote out one thousand one hundred and sixty five miles is because it gives the excursion a little more meat than saying he had to go another 1,165 miles. And he figured he would arrive in Maine in about three months.
He'd never been to Maine. Matter of fact, he'd never been to Harper's Ferry either. He was taking a side trip to Washington, DC on metro. He'd never been there either. Now I've been to Georgia and West Virginia and Maine and Washington, DC, but I can god damn guarantee you that I wouldn't have walked to any of them!
All told this lad will have spent six months of his life doing something that millions have probably heard about and who knows how many have actually thought about accomplishing.
But, one thousand one hundred and sixty five miles yet to go?
1,165 miles?
Sheesh.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
ADHD
ADHD. Adult deficit somethin' somethin' somethin'. Much too long of an expression to remember but truth is I have it and have had it even when I wasn't an adult. While I can't be certain when I transitioned from the childhood to the adult version, it was a long time ago.
Remember Ground Hog Day? Bill Murray woke up at exactly the same time every day and fell into a predicatable routine day after day. Not so here. Having a routine is not something that someone with ADHD is familiar with. It seems that every day I wake up to a new world meaning that every day I try to remember where things were the day before. Of course through the years there has been advice galore like, "If you put things in the same place each time, you wouldn't have to remember where they are!" Well that works to some degree but first you have to remember to put things in the same place which is a step before actually putting things in the same place in the first place and in no time at all you are spiraling into an infinite regression (looking yourself in a mirror with a mirror behind you, for example).
Time doesn't feel the same to me either. Time to me resembles the clocks in a Salvador Dali painting - kind of melting into different shapes here and there. I can't tell you how many times I was told to "stay focused" and "pay attention" like really, dude, you would think I knew what those things meant. In my case staying focused means having only ten things on my mind at the same time!!
I truly admire people who can keep their house, car, wallet, closet, garage, drawers, or shoes in order in the same way that I admire anyone who can do a triple backwards flip off a high bar and land on their feet without screaming "I DID IT". Anyone can remember where something is if it's always in the same place, but there's a real knack to finding out anew where everything is, was, or should be. (I know it's here somewhere...give me a sec.)
Of course there are side benefits. I tend to see things in a different light than others and find most situations amusing if not downright hysterical. While this might not be an attribute of ADHD, I like to associate the two trying to find some sunny side to the condition.
My earliest memory of the condition occurred in grade school when our class was selling seed packets. I am not sure I or anyone can remember exactly why we were selling seeds, but we were.
I ventured out with my supply of packets, knocked on the door of my first house and told the lady who answered that I was selling seeds. "Wanna buy some?" Well, before I knew it I was inside her house. She looked at what I had and asked, "How much are they?"
And then it hit me. That's why the teacher had written all the names of the seeds and their price on the chalk board!!!!! I didn't copy them down - to me that would have taken the rest of the school year to accomplish. (Side note: I was also dyslexic. My sister will remember this well. How do you spell "glad"? G-L-A-D. How do you spell "lake"?. G-L-A-K-E. Words melting together like Dali's clocks) Well, the lady was nice enough to notice that each packet had a price on it. She picked several packages out, gave me some money, and off I went.
The end of this story found me at the dining room table relating my day's adventure to my mother and father. I am not quite sure exactly what happened, but I remember my father laughing so hard that tears were pouring from his eyes. Hysterical. That's a good description.
I think what broke it wide open was when I told them that at one of the houses the person buying the seeds didn' t have exact change and asked me if I could give her change of a dollar. I told her I couldn't; she followed with, "I hear some change jingling in your pocket."
"I can't give you that", I replied, "that's the other peoples' money." It's very hard to listen to someone trying to correct you when they are on the verge of throwing up from laughing so hard but I kept insisting, "It WAS the other people's money. What's so funny about that?".
At some point the lesson sunk in but it was a foreshadowing of the challenges that lay ahead of me.
ADHD. Adult deficit somethin' somethin' somethin'.
Remember Ground Hog Day? Bill Murray woke up at exactly the same time every day and fell into a predicatable routine day after day. Not so here. Having a routine is not something that someone with ADHD is familiar with. It seems that every day I wake up to a new world meaning that every day I try to remember where things were the day before. Of course through the years there has been advice galore like, "If you put things in the same place each time, you wouldn't have to remember where they are!" Well that works to some degree but first you have to remember to put things in the same place which is a step before actually putting things in the same place in the first place and in no time at all you are spiraling into an infinite regression (looking yourself in a mirror with a mirror behind you, for example).
Time doesn't feel the same to me either. Time to me resembles the clocks in a Salvador Dali painting - kind of melting into different shapes here and there. I can't tell you how many times I was told to "stay focused" and "pay attention" like really, dude, you would think I knew what those things meant. In my case staying focused means having only ten things on my mind at the same time!!
I truly admire people who can keep their house, car, wallet, closet, garage, drawers, or shoes in order in the same way that I admire anyone who can do a triple backwards flip off a high bar and land on their feet without screaming "I DID IT". Anyone can remember where something is if it's always in the same place, but there's a real knack to finding out anew where everything is, was, or should be. (I know it's here somewhere...give me a sec.)
Of course there are side benefits. I tend to see things in a different light than others and find most situations amusing if not downright hysterical. While this might not be an attribute of ADHD, I like to associate the two trying to find some sunny side to the condition.
My earliest memory of the condition occurred in grade school when our class was selling seed packets. I am not sure I or anyone can remember exactly why we were selling seeds, but we were.
I ventured out with my supply of packets, knocked on the door of my first house and told the lady who answered that I was selling seeds. "Wanna buy some?" Well, before I knew it I was inside her house. She looked at what I had and asked, "How much are they?"
And then it hit me. That's why the teacher had written all the names of the seeds and their price on the chalk board!!!!! I didn't copy them down - to me that would have taken the rest of the school year to accomplish. (Side note: I was also dyslexic. My sister will remember this well. How do you spell "glad"? G-L-A-D. How do you spell "lake"?. G-L-A-K-E. Words melting together like Dali's clocks) Well, the lady was nice enough to notice that each packet had a price on it. She picked several packages out, gave me some money, and off I went.
The end of this story found me at the dining room table relating my day's adventure to my mother and father. I am not quite sure exactly what happened, but I remember my father laughing so hard that tears were pouring from his eyes. Hysterical. That's a good description.
I think what broke it wide open was when I told them that at one of the houses the person buying the seeds didn' t have exact change and asked me if I could give her change of a dollar. I told her I couldn't; she followed with, "I hear some change jingling in your pocket."
"I can't give you that", I replied, "that's the other peoples' money." It's very hard to listen to someone trying to correct you when they are on the verge of throwing up from laughing so hard but I kept insisting, "It WAS the other people's money. What's so funny about that?".
At some point the lesson sunk in but it was a foreshadowing of the challenges that lay ahead of me.
ADHD. Adult deficit somethin' somethin' somethin'.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
One lump or two?
What sounds better? One lump or two or one packet or two? Somewhere in the world people are still serving lumps of sugar with sugar tongs. Seen any of those lately?
Not too long ago, I watched a documentary on coffee and learned how most large coffee brands keep prices low and as a consequence, those who grow the coffee cannot earn a sustainable wage. And low price also equates to low quality. I have found that Taster's Choice doesn't taste good to those who have purchased more expensive coffee. If we trace our morning cup of coffee back through the coffee bean to the place where the coffee is grown, the people harvesting the beans are not sitting down in a big house sipping their morning coffee. Most of them can't even afford a house or to send their children to school.
From coffee I moved to tea. Not having had tea in a long time I decided to venture into that domain as well. The tea that I purchased was far more expensive than the popular brands but in the long run worth the price difference.
So what does this have to do with sugar? Even after experimenting with higher grades of coffee and tea I was still using the packaged sweeteners. Either out of force of habit or hearing the echo of "sugar is bad for you", I dutifully ripped open and poured the contents of "substitue" sugar into my coffee and tea.
I suddenly realized that something was amiss. To move even further from my normal routine I purchased a box of real sugar...from Hawaii. I asked the grocer to put the sugar in a separate brown bag in case I was stopped on the way out of the store.
This isn't processed white sugar. The ONLY ingredient on the box is sugar. The first, last, and middle ingredients were sugar.
And, hard as it may seem to believe, sugar tastes good. It tastes so much better than the artificial sweeteners that it's hard to describe. But what price am I paying for this extravagance? One teaspoon of sugar equates to 15 calories. Given that the packaged substitutes have 0 calories and using standard math, it would seem that real sugar contains infinately more calories than the substitute. But 15 calories per cup of coffee? That amounts to 105 calories a week. I can absorb more calories than that by smelling a Hershey's chocolate bar.
Somewhere along the line I bought into the idea that artificial sweeteners are as good as real unrefined sugar or worse that sugar is bad for you.
Truth is, it isn't so.
One lump or two it is.
Not too long ago, I watched a documentary on coffee and learned how most large coffee brands keep prices low and as a consequence, those who grow the coffee cannot earn a sustainable wage. And low price also equates to low quality. I have found that Taster's Choice doesn't taste good to those who have purchased more expensive coffee. If we trace our morning cup of coffee back through the coffee bean to the place where the coffee is grown, the people harvesting the beans are not sitting down in a big house sipping their morning coffee. Most of them can't even afford a house or to send their children to school.
From coffee I moved to tea. Not having had tea in a long time I decided to venture into that domain as well. The tea that I purchased was far more expensive than the popular brands but in the long run worth the price difference.
So what does this have to do with sugar? Even after experimenting with higher grades of coffee and tea I was still using the packaged sweeteners. Either out of force of habit or hearing the echo of "sugar is bad for you", I dutifully ripped open and poured the contents of "substitue" sugar into my coffee and tea.
I suddenly realized that something was amiss. To move even further from my normal routine I purchased a box of real sugar...from Hawaii. I asked the grocer to put the sugar in a separate brown bag in case I was stopped on the way out of the store.
This isn't processed white sugar. The ONLY ingredient on the box is sugar. The first, last, and middle ingredients were sugar.
And, hard as it may seem to believe, sugar tastes good. It tastes so much better than the artificial sweeteners that it's hard to describe. But what price am I paying for this extravagance? One teaspoon of sugar equates to 15 calories. Given that the packaged substitutes have 0 calories and using standard math, it would seem that real sugar contains infinately more calories than the substitute. But 15 calories per cup of coffee? That amounts to 105 calories a week. I can absorb more calories than that by smelling a Hershey's chocolate bar.
Somewhere along the line I bought into the idea that artificial sweeteners are as good as real unrefined sugar or worse that sugar is bad for you.
Truth is, it isn't so.
One lump or two it is.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
A visit to the vet
Okay. Saturday morning. 9 AM. Charlie's next check up with his vet.
Going to check out how his heart is doing. No chance that he will be getting better. My only hope is that he isn't getting worse.
It started a little more than a year ago. To see a strong active dog fall to the ground for no apparent reason was a shock. Maybe he ate something or was overheated. I was prepared to hear any "normal" diagnosis from his vet. What I was not prepared to hear was that his heart murmur had progressed from a level 2 to a level 4. When I heard those words I looked at him and the doctor and with tears in my eyes struggled to ask her what that meant. Sometimes I guess you just know what certain words mean especially when you take into account the way those words are spoken. Not good. Not good at all.
So just about everything I knew about what can happen to a human being was now being applied to Charlie. Blood pressure. EKG. Blood tests. The vet then said that she could make arrangements for Charlie to be seen by a cardiologist. Today. Not good. Not good at all.
We went directly from the vet's to the specialist. I was holding Charlie still while the doctor performed an ECG. A new medical term. Cardiomyopathy. Never heard it before. Then "congestive heart failure". That I had heard before. Inwardly my only thoughts were, "Please don't apply the words heart failure to Charlie. Please."
In what can only be described as a foggy dream I remember him saying, "Maybe six months. Maybe a year."
Prescription and a CD wth pictures of Charlie's ECG in hand it was off to the pharmacy. I will find out what they're for later. "Do you want to wait for them to be filled or do you want to come back later?" An echo of "Maybe six months. Maybe a year." I'll wait, thank you.
So morning and evening, he gets his pills. With one exception, he hasn' t been off a leash since then. In a cast up to mid thigh, I had taken him to the local dog park. Me in a cast with crutches and a 130 pound dog trying to get into a cab. Charlie took off and ran about half way across the park before he stopped and nearly fell to the ground. That was the last time he was off lead in the park. It's okay that I have grand memories of him running across a field. Almost sounded like a horse.
We still go to the dog park regularly. It's okay if he wants to visit with every single dog in the park. I walk him over there and back. "No, he isn't vicious or a biter. He's on his lead because he has a heart condition."
And I will, once again, walk him to the vet's office.
This Saturday. 9 AM.
Please...
Going to check out how his heart is doing. No chance that he will be getting better. My only hope is that he isn't getting worse.
It started a little more than a year ago. To see a strong active dog fall to the ground for no apparent reason was a shock. Maybe he ate something or was overheated. I was prepared to hear any "normal" diagnosis from his vet. What I was not prepared to hear was that his heart murmur had progressed from a level 2 to a level 4. When I heard those words I looked at him and the doctor and with tears in my eyes struggled to ask her what that meant. Sometimes I guess you just know what certain words mean especially when you take into account the way those words are spoken. Not good. Not good at all.
So just about everything I knew about what can happen to a human being was now being applied to Charlie. Blood pressure. EKG. Blood tests. The vet then said that she could make arrangements for Charlie to be seen by a cardiologist. Today. Not good. Not good at all.
We went directly from the vet's to the specialist. I was holding Charlie still while the doctor performed an ECG. A new medical term. Cardiomyopathy. Never heard it before. Then "congestive heart failure". That I had heard before. Inwardly my only thoughts were, "Please don't apply the words heart failure to Charlie. Please."
In what can only be described as a foggy dream I remember him saying, "Maybe six months. Maybe a year."
Prescription and a CD wth pictures of Charlie's ECG in hand it was off to the pharmacy. I will find out what they're for later. "Do you want to wait for them to be filled or do you want to come back later?" An echo of "Maybe six months. Maybe a year." I'll wait, thank you.
So morning and evening, he gets his pills. With one exception, he hasn' t been off a leash since then. In a cast up to mid thigh, I had taken him to the local dog park. Me in a cast with crutches and a 130 pound dog trying to get into a cab. Charlie took off and ran about half way across the park before he stopped and nearly fell to the ground. That was the last time he was off lead in the park. It's okay that I have grand memories of him running across a field. Almost sounded like a horse.
We still go to the dog park regularly. It's okay if he wants to visit with every single dog in the park. I walk him over there and back. "No, he isn't vicious or a biter. He's on his lead because he has a heart condition."
And I will, once again, walk him to the vet's office.
This Saturday. 9 AM.
Please...
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