OF ALL THE GALL!!!

 Bladder that is, I say, Gall Bladder. I used to have one, now I am bereft.

One evening in early March I was experiencing my usual symptoms of gall bladder pain, caused, I thought (and maybe still do), by an overstimulation of one of the nerves from my back connected to the bilious little organ. It customarily started with chest pain, like being squeezed by a giant hand, followed often by copious vomiting until exhausted from dry heaves (sorry for the image).  But this time was different--it didn't go away. What was usually 60-90 minutes of awfulness stretched on for 4 hours.  It was, as best I can imagine, akin to labor, swapping out the intensity of that experience for the continuity of unrelenting pain.  Jane gave me a pill around 5 AM and I finally got a few hours of sleep.  It was a little better upon awakening, but it had gotten my attention.

The next day I went to see a new acupuncturist (Dr. Chip) to get some ongoing relief.  He helped a lot, and upon hearing me say I was going home to try his liver and gall bladder cleanse, he was firm that it was too late for that.  The expression he used that made my ears prick up was "It's a matter of life and death."  Hmmm, that sounds scary.  Turns out, if the gall bladder ruptures and all the icky bad stuff it was accumulating escapes into your bloodstream (like a pack of hounds after a fox), your life expectancy without treatment is about 18 minutes.  According to Dr. Chip, and I have no reason to doubt him.  But the "life or death" part kinda stood out so I bopped on down to the emergency room at Bartow hospital for an ultrasound, just to check it out.

Turns out, it isn't so easy to read an ultrasound through extensive bowel gas--a hazard of being my age--but my white cell count was 4 times the norm so they decided, and I reluctantly agreed, to stay the night and do some more tests in the morning.  The nurse/administrator found it hard to believe I had never been hospitalized and that I had "no medical history."  [spoiler alert, it doesn't last]  I was happy to tell the staff that no, this isn't my first rodeo, but it is my first time in the saddle.  Been a visitor often enough but now it's me in the big bed.

Morning came (slowly) and I got to experience the sensation of becoming radioactive for a short while.  They injected radioisotopes into me and watched as the green glow expressed itself onscreen into the liver and through to the gall bladder.  If only.  No picture of the GB appeared, meaning it was not getting or sending the good stuff and was likely in bad shape. They said.  So surgery would fix it. They said.  Newfangled robotic laparoscopic technique, I'd hardly know they were there.  They said.  So, another bucket list item completed, along with becoming radioactive--being attacked by a 3 armed robot and surviving.

To be honest, it was a bit of a blur. No pain at any time, fortunately.  The doctor told me I wouldn't remember anything for the next few days and, of course, I disagreed.  My memory would stand by me and protect me. Apparently my memory is no match for the devastation of whatever drugs they pumped in me.  Jane would  later ask if I remembered some the things I said or did, and I, of course, didn't believe her when she "reminded" me.  Tough to take.

I am now 6 months out and most of the scars are healed, all but the big one where the little bugger was extracted.  I expect I will have that for the duration, whether or not I ever get back to my post-op weight.  Small price to pay for pain relief.  Dr. Chip warned me that the medical folks would tell me the gall bladder was just an accessory and we really didn't need it, like the appendix and spleen.  If thy gall bladder offends thee, pluck it out.  Chip also said my digestive system would never be the same.  He was right.  Now I take enzymes with each meal (if I remember), but I am not sure how much good they do.

Yahoo! WuFlu, Adieu

"On Monday, April 10, 2023, the President signed into law: H.J.Res. 7, which terminates the national emergency related to the COVID-19 pandemic," the White House released in a memo. 

The "Emergency" may be officially over, but don't think that this scourge won't remain with us in some form for generations to come. Just as we don't refer to the infamous Spanish Flu on a recurring basis, we do have annual re-emergences (emergencies?) of the plain old flu.  So, too, with this one we assume, but hopefully without the fatality rate.

It is fair to say most of us know someone, either family, friends, or friends of family, who died from Covid-19. And it would be hard to find anyone who doesn't know someone who caught Covid but survived.  We can probably find a few people around who haven't gotten it yet, and that is a good thing.  Not sure what will happen to us old people who won't get the hyper-focus when we get sick, now that the novelty (pun intended) has worn off.  Likely we'll go the way of all things.  Just pray that the Corona-fascists in government don't keep pushing the "emergency" to ruin all of our lives in the name of protecting us. We have had enough of that.

For all you Bud Light drinkers out there....

 

.... here is an article for you from the Babylon Bee, America's sanest source of news.

(Of course, we know this is bullshit because no one reading this blog drinks that swill.)

Beverage Pretending To Be Beer Features Man Pretending To Be Woman

U.S.·Apr 2, 2023 · BabylonBee.com

U.S. — In a match made in heaven, a beverage that tries to pass itself as beer has hired as its spokesperson a man trying to pass himself off as a woman.

"For decades, we've been putting carbonated backwash in a beer can and pretending it's beer," said Anheuser-Busch CEO Brendan Whitworth. "Who better to represent our brand than a guy throwing on a dress and pretending he's a woman?"

Long a staple drink of people who hate actual beer, Bud Light felt putting Dylan Mulvaney's face on a can would also attract people who hate actual women. "As a man acting out the most horrendously offensive stereotypes of women, Mulvaney taps into the soul of people who despise real women," said Mr. Whitworth. "As a company dedicated to serving those who detest real beer, the partnership made perfect sense. The new beer can just shouts, 'Come, enjoy this atrocious substitute for the real thing'."

While a few in the media questioned the move, so far Bud Light fans have welcomed drinking out of a can featuring the face of a guy with a little girl fetish. "It really completes the experience," said Bud Light fan Mason Olsen. "If that dude with his massive jaw can pretend to be a little girl - well, I can pretend this is real beer. It's pretty inspiring."

At publishing time, activists had resumed calling for America to stop keeping trans people invisible.

Bella Runs Out of Lives

Poor Bella, she exceeded her allotment of 9 (by a lot) and is now working on the next 99.  Or the one.  If she is reincarnated as a human--a violation of the "you don't go backwards in your development" rule--I expect she will be a Hollywood diva, complete with more than a normal share of entitlement and aloofness.  But then, she was a calico.

Her escapades were legendary, all being based on the root of that word, i.e., escape. She was always trying to do that, evade her captors (us) who imprisoned her in the big houses and the little plastic crate. For pictures of the little sweetheart, see the post dated August 22, 2020, in which I wrote of her indifference, nay, obliviousness, to the passing of our beloved Lucy. She did nothing to fill that void except look pretty, which was her best talent. Again, Hollywood diva.  Her second and third best talents were shedding and grooming, both of which she did constantly.

There are 3 things about Bella I will never forget--how she used to twitch her tail like crazy when she thought it was dinner time (which was quite frequent); how she managed to hide in the fireplace for hours right before one of our trips to Lakeland; and how she snuck into the house attic/rafters one December and played around (running from my rescue attempts) until she was sure I had given up, and then wandered back down.  

And yet, we do still think of her every time we take the pups out for their evening walk. The voice of my mom still echos in my head--Don't Let the Cat out!

Waldo Would Have Been 100

 ...and I can imagine how much he would have hated to live in the condition he certainly would have been in.  People who live to 100 and beyond should be commended for their determination, hardiness, and grit, but not for their good sense.  As we all must say at some point, enough is enough.

But I still miss him every day.

I Got Shot...and I feel fine

The Vaccination Police are losing what is left of their minds--too many people value their freedom from government mandated gene therapy over the potential for a dreaded disease to achieve 100% vaccination.  Given the odds of getting WuFlu anyway, it seems paranoid to let them put experimental drugs into you.  I am right there with you folks, just be sure to stay 6 feet away as you rant on.

Jane was concerned about the risk of infection and wanted to get her shots (Pfizer) as soon as could be arranged.  She thought it might be something we could do "together" since we do so little that way.  Don't know, maybe it was a ploy to get me to do something I was disinclined to do.  But I drove her over to Tampa to get both of her shots and waited like a good patient.  They would not give me the shot, however, as I was not a patient of any of their doctors.  As if....  So I stalled, hemmed--even hawed--and "considered" it, in order to research the different options. I settled on getting the Johnson & Johnson flavor for two reasons: (1) it appeared to be difficult to get and (2) it was just one shot.  After seeing how Jane reacted to the second Pfizer, no way was I getting that one.  Or the other one, after the horror stories from it.  J&J it was, whenever it became available. If ever.

So, as the story goes, Jane's birthday was coming up and I had nothing (the customary approach).  Bolt of lightening! I checked around, found a J&J outlet, and got poked.  I put the vaccination card in a birthday card for Jane. Easy and inexpensive.  Now to wait for the side effects...hmmm, had none.  Arm was a bit sore for a few weeks, but no fever, no chills, no aches--almost as if nothing happened.  Piece of cake.

Now I can go into the grocery or any other store without being self-conscious about my mask.  I had several variations of gaiters that I didn't mind wearing, but it is great to not have to think about it.  My favorite was this one:

  I do still wear some of those all around, not because of WuFlu or its less nasty progeny, but not the least because I haven't had a cold, flu, sniffles, nothing, since the first lockdown.  I sometimes forget my "mask" but, hey, this is Florida, we are wide open and no one says anything. But when I do have it, I am not self-conscious about it because some folks are still drinking the KoolAid that those disposable masks do any good.  Nothing to see here, just part of the crowd.  AND, I get to look down on the maskless folks.  JK.

Boosters? No, thanks, I'm old.  If I have to get immunity, I want the natural kind or nothing. The worst is over.

The Day America Went Stark Raving Mad

They say, be careful what you ask for...well, folks, we're gonna get it.  And it won't be pretty. Rome, England, all the empires that once were.. now us.

Now that all the craziness of the aborted election fraud contest is behind us, we can look forward to exactly how bad we are about to be screwed.  But exactitude is impossible, because we, as rational humans, cannot conceive of the depravity, nonsense, and just plain meanness that the idiots now running the asylum are capable of.  But it's fine. Really. Because all good things must end, and the dowager queen that was the United States of America, as we knew it (warts and all) has now been officially exiled.  We are left with the same mentality that took over France after the monarchy fell--and look what France is now. Once a world power, now...well, not.  We had a good run, 250 years, maybe not as long as the Romans, but hell, they didn't put a Legionnaire on the moon!  Quality over quantity.

But it's fine, really it is.  The good news is that with any luck, I will not be around to see the worst of it, when our values built up over decades have all but disappeared, our economy is in the crapper, and we are all learning Mandarin as a second (if not first!) language.  I think I have enough to live on even with this government's mentality, but the real losers are my/our children (probably) and grandchildren+ (certainly).  I predict, mournfully, that the liars, cheats, and scoundrels now occupying the seats of power will do all they can to solidify their base and can never be voted out by reasonable people again. If we stop at socialism, it will be a miracle.  So, my remote descendants, grab your ankles and gird your loins, they will be coming for you and what you have.

How did we get into this mess?  Bread and circuses...but that isn't all of it. I knew Pat Frank, author of Alas, Babylon, and thought that might be a good title for this post. But it is inaccurate. The title was from the Book of Revelations and mourned "that great city Babylon, that mighty city! for in one hour is thy judgment come."  The premise of the book was that the Soviets would start a nuclear war and the US would be devastated in a short time ("one hour").  That is not our case. We have done this to ourselves over decades, a gradual rotting away of the values and strengths that made us the greatest country on earth for so long. It is easy for a rational person to see it, now that it has become so pervasive, but it is again the lobster pot scenario--we don't know we are being cooked until we find ourselves bright red. (And not in a good way.)

A Streetcar Named "You Must Have Lost Your Minds"

After Lucy's passing, it was hard to get excited about getting another dog. She was so special she could never be replaced.  So, to take a stab at it, we got TWO.

Jane had begun looking at Dachsie rescue sites at the end of the year, but a pup would show up and immediately be claimed by someone who had been on the list longer. Very frustrating.  Finally, we got word that a cute red fellow was available who needed a home because his owners (sorry, PETA, that is the reality of it) found him troublesome. He was, allegedly, a cat chaser.  Not a cat harmer, but a chaser.  We thought we could give it a try, Bella being too old and slow to give him much of a chase.  However, the Rescue Mama (Tia with Dachshunds Seeking Forever Homes) was concerned about that, so she volunteered to bring along to the Meet and Greet another cute 7 year old who had just become available, and we could choose either. Or both.  (I think you can see where this is going....)

Indy was a red dapple (the cat chaser) who was very traditional looking, body-wise and otherwise. I had never seen a dapple Dachsie of any color, but he was 100% the dog we expected.  His former owner moved in with a boyfriend and Indy was unwanted--the guy had cats, which should have been a red flag right there.  He seemed friendly enough and rushed over to us and commenced licking any exposed part we put near him. So excited.

Bella was a gray dapple, even more un-Dachshund like from my experience, who was just as friendly, but a tad more reserved. She was polite and waiting her turn for attention (which, we found out, was more of an act, given her queen of the house demeanor now).  We had discussed whether we would take both on the drive to the meet, and no firm plan was conceived, more of a let's wait and see.  They say that any plan for any fight doesn't survive the first punch in the face... and the pups smacked us in the kisser hard.  And here's why.

So we took them both. 

Having a family member already named Bella made a name change obligatory.  We wanted something similar enough so the poor thing wouldn't be too confused and could adapt, so "Stella" seemed like a natural.  Indiana Jones (Indy) did not appeal to us that much, so I tried shifting that to Andy...pretty close, I thought...but we had trouble with that too.  It didn't seem to fit him that well.  It didn't take more than a few days of Andy to morph it into (what else?) Stanley, which not only has stuck, but also seems to fit his personality better.  He is a bit submissive yet, and has a slight fear of hands, leading me to believe he was mistreated by Cat-boy. But he parades and dashes ahead on our walks like he owns the neighborhood. He does whine when he is excited or when Jane goes out...he seems to be a real Momma's boy.  He also has the same tendency as Lucy had to have bad dreams, resulting in whimpers and body jerks. Probably dreaming of giant Siamese cats!

Stella is much closer to Lucy in temperament, but doesn't have the same personality.  She is indeed a doll, but is more of a diva.  She does not seem to like walks as much as either Lucy did or Stanley does, and waddles most of the way.  With her white face, gray body, and rocking gate (and funny tail) it often looks like I am walking my pet possum.  She roughhouses with Stanley--one good thing about getting two of them--and they alternate being the winner.  While Stanley is a whiner, Stella is more vocal. In addition to a rather strange groan-like sound she makes occasionally that defies naming, she barks for attention. We have to work on that.  She also barks at anyone outside, on the street, on bikes, and especially at dogs.  Ah, the joy of middle aged pooches.

The other thing they do that is hysterical is burrowing.  I suppose Dachsies are bred to dig and burrow, but they will both worm their way under blankets, covers, throws, sheets, anyplace they can hide.  Means that plopping down on the sofa requires a quick check to make sure there isn't one under the throw.

I can't say the burden is as great, but the way we did it is similar to going to the hospital for a baby and coming home with twins. Two of everything and it often takes both of us to wrangle them, especially for walks.  But they are worth it all.

More evidence of their supernatural cuteness:

Notice that they sleep a lot. Or maybe that's the only time we can get a shot of them not running around.

My Baby Done Gone and Growed Up

Today is an auspicious day.  All of my children are now in the second act of a two-act play called life.  My youngest, my baby, my Laura, has turned 40.  Zounds! I have 3 other children who have, at one time or another, hit the big 4-0h, and one who has just tripped over the half century mark, but none of those anniversaries had the impact of this one. ALL of my children are now 40 and older.  In short, I have no offspring in the 30s.  If we do the math, that makes me...carry the one...old.  As if 9 grandchildren didn't do that already.  (I imagine I will have similar feelings when Tracy reaches 60 (OMG), but with any luck I won't have to blog about it.)

I feel a bit cheated by having had so little time with Laura after her mom and I divorced, certainly not the years I had with her sisters during their youths.  I have scant few pictures of Laura to recall those times, as most of them stayed with her mom.

Not sure when this was, but pre-divorce, I think. 

 

She tried hard...but...

 ...maybe the arts.

 

 

What a cutie....

 

And talented...

Our real bonding came when I introduced Laura to snowboarding in 2003.  She was determined to get it, at all costs.  Her instructors were amazed....that any human being would submit to that level of physical punishment voluntarily. 

Here's my Righteous Babe the evening before Day 1. She was still young then. New England is icy!

Laura and friend, pre-slopes. She was excited.  Did I mention the ice?

Over the years, she acquired a taste for the snow and we took more family trips, though that was the only one she and I did together by ourselves.  One trip we went to Colorado with Brant, also an acolyte of the board--but that is another story--and all looked great... at first.

Early in trip:

End of Trip:

 And so it went for a while...Laura uphill, Laura down....But, at some point, we got the babe a decent board and her health started looking up.  Well, almost...there was that trip to Montana...oh, well, nevermind.

During the many child-bearing years of her siblings, Laura was a fantastic aunt.  You could always count on Aunt LaLa to make the kids laugh or, better yet, to take care of them.  She loved (and still loves) them all.  Her twin nieces lured her out to California in 2008 and we East Coasters have been sad ever since.  Occasional Christmases are not enough!  This is one of my favorites from one of those trips.

But LaLa hankered for some progeny of her own to raise, and in the fullness of time, I had to perform my last official act as Dad.

...which, of course, led to this:

I am amazed by what she does, and how she does it. Managing a family of two men, one big/one small, while running a personally demanding business is beyond hard.  It can't be impossible, because she is doing it.  And doing it well, amazingly even (I hear things).  The fact that she has now officially slid into middle-age makes it even tougher.   Hang in there, Laura, good things are coming. And Happy Birthday, Baby.

It's Getting Close...and Stinky

I liked the second Presidential debate better than the first--more civility. Except from the moderator. That title is a joke, none of them are moderate anythings.  VP Pence hit hard on the fracking issue (the Dems are lying about it, but that should not surprise anyone--they lie about everything) and the court packing scheme.  Tell us your plans, Joe.  He didn't.  He waffled, as politicians think they can and/or must, it seems.  When asked if he thought the American people deserved to know his stand on court packing, he said, clearly and distinctly, "No, they don't." (The best thing about Trump is that he is not a politician, he is a businessman.)

In the second debate, the President hit hard on fracking--hint, hint, they're still lying--and the unadmitted shenanigans by the Biden crime family in China, Russia, Ukraine, and who knows where else.  Influence peddling like there was no tomorrow.  Let's hope there won't be.

The sad part of this revelation about clear criminality is that many Americans are jaded about it--"that's just how things are in Washington." That is a disservice to the few public servants who don't sell themselves.  Joe should be in the Big House, not the White House.

BIDEN-HARRIS 2020

P.S. Kamala is on the left (natch)

 

Grossi's Day, comes and goes.

Ursula Johanna would have been 96 today if she could have held on.  But that was so improbable as to stretch to impossible.  Her life had been a lot for any human to take on, and I really think she was ready to go.  Without Waldo, it was even tougher.  But she loved her birthday, more than any of us. (I try to ignore mine, and have been actively doing so for the last 20 years.)

Every October 8th is a short pause in the journey of  life, to stop, stand still, and think, holy moley, what would she (and my life) be like if she were still here.  Crazy, Daddy-o. 

Here are some shots of her in happier times.

This has always been one of my favorites, not sure why. I suspect she didn't like it much because she seemed so vulnerable in it.  She was a handful at that age...by all accounts.  If you look closely, there is a resemblance to one or more of her great-granddaughters.

 

 

 

 With Waldo,  early days.  They seemed to have a good time together then.  I don't remember much about it, and they rarely showed that side to me.

 

 I think this is Tracy. Mother hated that I made her a grandmother by 45, though she soon got over it by playing with the cause.  Some people are almost that old when they give birth themselves. Yikes!

Later, during her last few months, she still ruled the roost, mostly because it wasn't worth the grief to go up against her.  She must have been very lonely.  It terrifies me when I see parts of that face looking back at me from the mirror.

    

This is a great one, despite the fact that I am in it. Four  generations...wow.  And the littlest one in the picture now towers over the other two remaining.  Life is indeed strange.  And fleeting.

The Veep Debate

Wow.  That was not as awful as I had anticipated.  Unless you count the myriad lies told by Senator Harris and the hideously slanted questions from the moderator.  How can a rational human mind not see right through that?  Oops, I forgot there are no rationale Dems.  My bad.  If Sleepy Joe and Kreepy Kamala win the election, I hope to all things sacred that Joe can hold out for all 4 years, because the only thing worse than a Biden presidency would be a Harris administration.  Oh, I do so hope America hasn't totally lost its mind come November.

I understand if you don't like Trump...TDS (Trump Derangement Syndrome) is a powerful thing.  Then please vote (i) for Pence, for America, or (ii) against Biden, against Socialism, ... like I am doing.

This is the sign that should be in the yard:

Through it all, the cat remains...unperturbed

 This is actually how she sleeps sometimes

The Zen Cat--who knew?

 Or the Yoga Master Cat...doing a pose called Circular Cat.

Lucy has departed and all we are left with, to paraphrase Walt Disney, is That Darn Cat.  A cat is what it is, and you have to understand that when you get one, but one thing it is not is a dog.   If Bella has noticed that she is now alone with us, she hasn't let on. She continues to rule with an iron paw. The aloofness, a stereotypical cat attribute which Bella takes to absurd lengths, heightens the pain of Lucy's absence.  But what can you do?--she is so darn pretty.

See?

 Here she is hiding behind some Christmas decorations--on the table--because she was afraid of something. That should probably have said "everything." 

There is no man, woman, or child, or situation of any kind, that Bella isn't afraid of, even (especially?) us. 

 

Often we wish we knew what was going on in that little head, but, sadly, it's a guess.

Here are some options:

(and now for one of my favorites...that says it all for the dog/cat duality)

The Dog’s Diary 

8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Dinner! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

The Cat’s Diary

Day 3,983 of My Captivity....

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.

The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates my capabilities. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a “good little hunter” I am. Bastards!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of “allergies.” I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow, but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released, and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird must be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now ...

Lucy Has Left Us

 

Lucy is gone, another victim in the long line of cancer sufferers who were not fortunate enough to hang on. She had been a trooper for well over a year, as the tumor limited her breathing and eating, and as it swelled and distorted her face. She was still beautiful to us. She slowly gave up the things she loved the most, beginning with her walks, then her treats, then finally, yesterday, food itself.  She was taking pills 5 times a day, sometimes more, to keep the poisonous beast at bay. Until yesterday.  By last night and this morning, she was a shell of her former magnificence, and lay quietly on the floor or in the grass outside. And yet, if we approached, she would try to wag and get up to greet us. And then move away tired again and wanting to be alone. Her final gift to us was a sign that it was time--she stopped eating and just lay around.  And we decided to relieve her suffering.

The doctors were very caring, and she was her usual sweet self during the process. And so at peace at the end. We are devastated, wandering around trying to reconcile the loving gift of release we gave her with the huge hole she left in our hearts. Fortunately, I believe (as should we all because not to is too painful and illogical) that death is not the end of all, but a change of form, and that I will see my precious baby once again. Someday. And then we both will know "the Secret." 

 

This is Lucy's obituary, in pictures.  A memorial to her cuteness. 

 

We are ineffably sad, but also grateful we had so many years with her. Goodbye, sweet loving creature.

 

 

It's Been 15 years!!!! And Waldo is still gone...

The time hasn't flown by, as we might expect, but it has gotten way out of hand.  I still remember the visits in hospice and what a soldier he was.  He wanted to be sure he had a phone so he could call his friends and say goodbye one last time.  He did not expect Jim and Peggy Noyes to get that call, and drive down from Pennsylvania to say goodbye in person. But they did.  So much sadness in his leaving but, by God, he was smiling (he knew what was in store). And he is still, I am sure. So here's to you, Daddy, we still miss you.

Men..! (and Women!...)

One has to marvel how the human race has survived so long when it depends on the coming together of two totally different species in order to propagate.

And so, we cope as best we can...

And one of my favorites, so subtle, so self-contained...and so accurate.

The Seventh Decade Begins

the BIG 7-0

How could the years have gotten away from me so fast?  As I enter my penultimate decade--with luck, my ultimate one--I wonder what happened to the fat-faced little Rickey in all my mother's photo albums?   The answer: No one does photo albums anymore.

I think of all the things I have done, and that have been done to me, and mostly I cringe.  Why do we not remember the good things with the same intensity as the "bad" ones?  Why are pleasurable memories less intense than painful ones? Maybe someday I will know all this, as I will know ALL THINGS when I learn "the Secret."  Carolyn knows it, as do Grossi and Pappy.  For what it costs, it better be worth it.

Will I live to 71? Or even 72?  Do you believe in Ulysses?

…. yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

A different version is apropos for the Big 70:

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
...

Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Lest I sound too morbid, or support a Baker Act charge that I am too maudlin and toying with "the Secret" before it's time, I assure you all that is not the case.  Frost was a poet for the common man, a bit simple, actually, but he got it right in this one:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

People depend on me...so I guess I am here for the duration, sleepless in the metaphorical sense.  If I am still compos mentis at 75, I will try to elaborate here on how the Doppler Effect of aging has narrowed the lines by then.  Much abides, my friends, so as Dr. Lazarus said, Never give up, never surrender.

Addendum:  August 12, 2019.  After several days of no longer being in my 60's, I discovered an odd thing.  It isn't so bad being 70.  I feared the 60th much more than I should have--it was really the 65th I should have worried about--but the lead-in to 70 was much more gradual.  So far, so good.  I suspect that the degradation of function I observed in the 60's will continue (if not accelerate) in the 70's, but so far I think I am over the hump, worry-wise.  Others have told me 70 is the new 50, but I know that is BS; still others (Jane) have insisted that there really isn't any difference in a new year, whether it is 60 or 70. While true in absolute terms--it's just a day more, after all--the psychology of it is different.  Having accepted that I am officially "old" at 70, things seem more laid back. But acceptance does not equal surrender! I will keep you posted.

Interviews in today's world - thank you LA Reel House

Might be funnier if it wasn't so accurate...

Little Things

Steeltown Trip

Call it “the Trip” if you want, it was a once in a lifetime (maybe, hopefully not) experience.  Brought on by some enticing discussions with my co-worker and fellow PittsburGator Mark Miller about a trip he took to Heinz Field, the idea bounced around in my head. Add Brant’s devotion to the Steelers, and his impending 40th birthday, and the plot was hatched.  But when…and how?  Back and forth, and forth and back, hard to decide what would be the best game.  My initial thought was that it should be the Jaguars game since Pappy would be proud of our hometown boys and it would thus have meaning (he was paying, after all).  But for whatever reason, I couldn’t pull the trigger—good thing, the Steelers stunk it up that game.  The best two remaining were the Ravens, a traditional rival, and the Patriots, with whom the battle raged for top seed in the AFC.  A traditional…bitter…rival, or the chance to see both Big Ben and Tom Brady in the waning years of their respective careers—tough choice.  Finally settled on the Ravens, mostly because the tickets for the Pats were o-u-t-r-a-g-e-o-u-s for the same seats.  But also felt good to see a game that the Steelers were more likely to win AND against a bitter rival. And Brady is … well, Brady.

Now the how came into play. My tentative plan was to show up in Charlotte, either at the house on Friday, or have Shelley drive Brant to the airport on the pretext of picking me up, then spirit him off to Pittsburgh on the next flight.  I conferred with Shell, and the machinery began churning; but when I started thinking how that would work in practice—and the fact that such a secret plan was more appropriate for a husband (or wife) whisking his/her spouse off on a second honeymoon to Paris—I caved and shared the idea with Brant.  That worked better, actually, as it gave him time to research Pittsburgh and have a little joyous anticipation.  If only he had known…(that’s foreshadowing, for those who don’t recognize it).

The game was shaping up to be a good one. The Ravens needed all they could win to stay in the hunt for the playoffs and contend for the division championship. If Pittsburgh won, they would be the North Champion.  High stakes.  Add to that the suspension of JuJu Smith-Shuster (aka, JuJu the Avenger) and it looked interesting. 

[We saw this shirt while there--I almost bought one, but the underlying event will melt into the snows of history too soon, even though JuJu has cemented his place in Steelers' hearts on that one play.]

The seats were acquired (46 yd line, 10 rows up) for just one arm and one leg, and the hotel was booked.  Oddly, it was in a decent spot and Expedia had it net for $100 less per night than almost any other hotel in the area.  Brant talked me out of a car because of the public trans and (my new discovered best friend) Lyft.  All set.

Friday December 8^th:  Trip out of Jax was great, no problems, no delays.  Met Brant in Charlotte and off we went.  Cab at Pittsburgh airport was the easiest and quickest, and we pumped the driver for lots of info on the way into town.  Seems he had just driven Troy Polamalu recently and confirmed he was a great guy. The hotel was a surprise—Embassy Suites is a midrange stay in most cases, but I had never been in a hotel where the lobby and check-in were on the 25th floor, with all the room floors below.  Our room overlooked a church; it was amazing to me how European the downtown looked, diverse and interesting architecture all over, and lots of cathedral type churches. Almost a little New York.

We had definite signs that this trip was destiny.  In researching the area, I found a Stockton Avenue north of the river, and the hotel was bounded on the south by Oliver Avenue.  The bar in the lobby was called Ollie’s.  We were next door to a Burlington’s (which we visited several times) and a short walk from Market Square.

After settling in, we made that walk (not too cold after all) to Primanti Brothers, a famous Pittsburgh eatery that was worth the walk.  Sandwiches with fries already built in...what a concept! It was a great meal and decent beer.  After that...let’s just say “It was a dark and stormy night….”

After dinner we explored the Christmas market across the street, and then struck out to see the city’s nightlife.  After a less than thrilling stop at Mahoney’s, which had absolutely nothing to recommend it, we ended up at the 941 Saloon on Liberty Street, playing pool for several rounds.  

The rest is hazy…. (Only during research for this blog did I discover that 941 is considered by some to be the best gay bar in Pittsburgh...not that there is anything wrong with that...no wonder some guy wanted to know if he could watch us play pool!) I do recall liking the bar though because everyone left us alone... being old is no fun, I recommend against it. (And, no, that is not a baby bump above the pool cue, just good living.)

Saturday December 9th:  Lunch was calling by the time we woke, so Brant suggested some wings at a little place on the other side of the river, Fat Heads.  We got our bus passes (yes, you read that correctly…how quaint) and hopped on over to what is called Southside.  We had a wait for a table, but that gave us some time to explore the slightly shabby streets and find a dedicated Steelers’ gear shop (that’s where we saw the shirt).  I had to have a Terrible Towel, of course, along with a Le’Veon Bell shirt.  

The food was worth the wait, but we were starving so we ordered too much (deep fried mushrooms are not nearly as good the next day cold, you should know).  But the waitress liked the pictures of my Batcave.

More wandering the city (after a nap), followed by a bus trip to a highly recommended venue, Penn Brewery.  Bus went right there, let us off across the street.  It was lovely, but the weather kept the courtyard closed and the inside was smallish.  They had first wanted to put us in the basement, which they called the "Ratskeller," which might have been a good name in English rather than German.  No way, Hans,...we sat at the upstairs bar instead. There was football on the TV, and large drafts, so (predictably), a good time was had by both of us, though I think on points the OMB in Charlotte has it beat.  Bus stopped running so we got a Lyft home, my first, so it was an interesting experience--driver very friendly. I assume he found it comforting he could unload his frustrations on us about not being able to locate his previous fare.  Guess not all is perfect in the ride-sharing universe! We would get to do the Lyft thing again (more foreshadowing, duh).

Sunday December 10th: The day arrived.  We wanted to get to the North Side of the river early in the afternoon to get a table at Jerome Bettis' 36 Grille, another landmark. The "T" ran from near us downtown to 2 stops near the stadium; it was early so we got off at the first of them to wander about like tourists.  No one noticed. That also gave us a chance to explore Rally House, a souvenir and apparel (using that word loosely) store near the field. Great stuff, but not much in the way of jerseys--and how can you choose, anyway?--so I got a keychain. [I had bought my Steelers hat at Burlington--and a nice one it is too--though I was adorned with my orange and blue hat for visibility on TV.  Oddly, I got into more conversations in the Rally House about the Gators than the Steelers!

View of city from across the river

From different angle

We moseyed over to Jerome's around 3 PM to discover a 2 1/2 hour wait...ouch.  Still, we had planned for enough time, and it gave us a chance to explore more of the Heinz Field environs.  I didn't know Southern Tier was from Pittsburgh, and they had a nice brewpub nearby, not as crowded as I would have imagined.  They had some interesting selections and screens everywhere.  We also killed a little time at something called Stage AE, a strange little mini-theatre that had a big screen of the games (presumably the Steelers game when it was on, for folks without tickets) and, of course, a bar. Not a great bar, but economical--another surprise.  We found the Pope of Pittsburgh wandering about here...

How about that Buffalo game?

I have never seen so much snow on a football field--crazy!

We found our way back to the restaurant and were not disappointed. There were lots of people packed in (a fellow who came in when we were seated at 5:30 was told it was now a 4 hour wait!) and quite a bit of noise, but our dining room was away from that end and the food was excellent. We didn't get to go into Jerome's private dining room, but maybe next time, when it's less crowded.  Then, it was time to head to the game...

When you go into the stadium, you get to walk through a shrine of sorts, with Steeler memorabilia, pictures, and stuff.  And everywhere they sold beer...well, almost... it was Miller Lite for the most part. Good Times.

These were our seats, and, as you can tell, we got there early enough to see the players warming up. 

The temperature was actually bearable, and we were heavily clothed.  I wish I had bought stock in UnderArmor, cuz that stuff is G-R-E-A-T.  It was exciting to see the Steeler Stars (especially #84) running around, being normal guys. We even got a closeup (sort of) glimpse of Mike Tomlin.

And everyone around us were Steeler fans, as the crowds outside had been. Noisy, exuberant, friendly folk. Though we saw one or two brave Ravens fans outside, the whole city was overwhelmingly black and gold. 

The game....ah what can I say that would enhance the actual wonderfulness of a come-from-behind victory over a bitter rival (who played pretty darn good, by the way)?  Several of Antonio Brown's big plays came right in front of us, and we got to see a lot of the interaction on the Steeler bench. The bizarreness (and wonderfulness) of the game culminated in the Ravens' letting the clock run out while in the huddle because they misunderstood the rule about a fumble out of bounds.  Sweet, sweeter, sweetest.

Brant never lost faith that the Killer B's would bring the team back, but I, increasingly cynical about the horrendously bad officiating, was getting more and more doubtful with each yellow flag.  The blind bastards...I swore up and down they were paid off...many of the calls were very very bad, and some critical ones were absurd.  But in the end I repented and got excited too. It all worked out fantastically and and we got to see the Pittsburgh Steelers become Kings of the North.  Fffing Ineffable.

We walked around after the game and got some shots of the stadium from up high.  It is a marvelous place to watch a game, almost from anywhere.

The postgame trip back downtown was hectic; it seemed like 50,000 fans were trying to get on the shuttle that held about 100 per trip.  We strolled over to the nearby casino and had a Lyft driver come get us.  I was told it is always dicey when the fare isn't stated up front, as for such events, but it was going to be worth getting back an hour earlier than on the "T" (if only that).  The driver was a pro and bobbed and weaved around cars to an alternate route that was a great view of the city from the east side.  And the fare ended up being $9 and change.  What a deal.  Left us some money to get a pizza at Domino's (why?), which we thought was about the only thing open other than bars.  And yet, Brant found a cute little place called the Stuff'd Pierogi Bar, which had last call at 2 AM.  I don't recall they were still serving food, so it was puzzling why the waitress got snippy when I began nibbling on the pizza. Sheesh.  She was calmed by my pics of the Batcave, however, but still standoffish.

View from our table

We managed to stumble back to the hotel by around 2:30, but neither of us were up long.  Sadly, Ollie's was closed, but otherwise, we were beyond content.

Monday December 11th: Trip home 😢 -- got some breakfast and last minute shopping in and caught another Lyft to the airport. The driver was a bit grumpy, but overall an excellent experience. Another good result was that because Brant had the Lyft app, he got to pay for the rides.  We had a nice, final meal at the airport and I could bring home the Penn Brewery bottle I didn't get the other night.

The perfect end to a great trip.  The flight was thankfully uneventful, and Brant and I parted ways in Charlotte.  My second leg was simple as well, and thus endeth The Trip.  Happy Birthday, Brant!  Go Steelers!  On to the Superbowl!!!!

P.S. The Patriot game the next weekend was a rainy, messy, wholly unbelievable loss in the last 30 seconds.  Glad we made it when we did.