Well, it's Friday. My cell phone chose to 'give up the ghost completely' mid-afternoon yesterday, and I spent most of the rest of that day stewing and moaning and groaning about that fact. At one point, I even went so far as to go next door to use my 'dreaded' next-door neighbor's phone.
(An aside here. Goldang, but he's good-looking. He's my son-in-law's age, too, for crying out loud! Down, Goldenrod, DOWN!! And don't you dare for even one half of one second try to imagine I feel 'that way' about my son-in-law. I DON'T, OK? I mean, my son-in-law is one heck of a terrific guy, but he's just not 'my type'. "What type is that?" you might well ask. My only answer would be that I know the 'type' when I see it. How do you like THAT answer for nondescript?)
I tried to correspond with my daughter via e-mail, but - as luck would have it - about the same time, she discovered that she was unable to send e-mails. Wouldn't you just know it? Dear lord!
ANYhoo, I traveled west to Katydid-land in the evening and my son-in-law provided me with an "extra" cell phone that he had, along with a new battery and a spare (for 'just in case') ... ... where does he get all these "extras" from, anyway?? (Might this be a case of 'don't ask, don't tell'?) In addition, he was able to re-program my "new" phone to my cell phone number. Sneaky little devil, isn't he? (LUV these sneaky little devils, particularly when they're on my side!)
As an added plus, I was able to watch my Astros soundly defeat the Washington Nationals in the second of two games ... the first one of which was a carryover from an early May suspended game (in Washington) in the bottom of the 11th inning, I think it was, with the score tied at 10 apiece. The game was over within five minutes of its resumed start, when 'Pudge' Rodriguez (our catcher) made an errant throw of what probably would have an almost 'automatic' double play to end the inning and send the game to the 12th. As it was, however, the 'bad guys' scored the winning run and the game was over. Oh, my!
New topic ... ... I woke up several hours ago and tried to make my usual 'rounds' of the bathroom, fresh coffee, coming in here to see whatall was 'new' and so forth and so on with my computer and e-mails and such, only to discover that - when I tried to flush the toilet, there were these very strange gurgling noises. "Oh, come on now," I thought, "surely they don't have the water turned off!"
But, 'they' did - and for the next at least three hours, as it turned out. I had planned to wash the dishes and do a couple of loads of laundry - not to mention take a shower and wash the stench off of myself! As it was, I found myself in another 'snit' and ready to do battle with the first person/insect/cloud/whatever that appeared. (Fortunately, none appeared.)
My question is, and I put it to you ... ... When you're paying more than $175/month for 'maintenance', is it too much to ask that the Association inform you when they are going to turn your water off?
Water's back on. I'm still in a somewhat-rotten mood, but it's improving even as I write this.
It's going on 3pm. The powers that be have changed "Fantasy Island" to begin an hour later, so I've got to go. It'll be coming on any second now and I need to close and publish this quickly. Later!
Friday, July 10, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Fire!
What is it with firefighters and fire, anyway? In comments to yesterday's post, you will find referenced the Australian rampaging fires of just a short while back, and the fact that at least some of them had been deliberately set by a former volunteer firefighter.
Those comments got me to thinking back and I remembered another occasion where a volunteer firefighter had deliberately set fires. Why? There wasn't enough fire-fighting business to suit him that he had to create more? Did he have a personal grudge against Mickey Gilley?
Yes, you read the name correctly. It was Gilley's, of Urban Cowboy fame, that was 'torched' in the late 1980's. Although Wiki has a pretty good writeup about Gilley's, it only mentions one arson fire. As I recall, there were two, but it was only after the second one that the culprit was discovered and apprehended!
And then I got to thinking about other strange incidents. Wasn't there one within the past very few years - in Colorado, I think - where it was discovered that a forest ranger had deliberately set a fire that got out of control? A woman, as I recall. Anyone remember that one? It was a shocker!
Fires hold kind of a morbid fascination for us all, in one way or another, don't they? In the little town of Munising, Michigan, where I grew up, there was a Beach Inn - at least, I think that was its name! ... a grand-looking* (from my memory banks) 3*** or 5***** hotel - whatever the highest rating was at the time - that sat perhaps 200' back from the Munising Bay waterfront. Once a week a cruise ship would come up to the dock and passengers would disembark to partake of lunch at the hotel and perhaps purchase a trinket or two.
But then, one year, the unthinkable happened. The Beach Inn caught fire and, despite the best efforts of volunteer firefighters from miles around, burned to the ground. I don't remember hearing anything about a suspected arson. There probably wasn't one. This would have been in the late 1940's or early 1950's.
I stood nearby, along with hundreds of other townspeople - tears streaming down our cheeks, staring at the blazing inferno. We were witnessing a vital part of Munising's history just disintegrating into ash-filled debris before our very eyes. The hotel was never rebuilt and cruise ships stopped coming into the bay. Sad.
Probably the most bizarre recollections I have of arson-related fires are those from the Keweenaw Peninsula, where my husband and I lived in 1959 and 1960. I've written a few posts about that area. Your best reference would be this one, which includes just a great link (click on "Portage Lake" in the second paragraph) to a map of that part of the world.
There had been a number of fires, all either arson-related or arson-suspected, within the past several years to historically-significant buildings - the latest of which had been the deliberate torching of the opera house in Calumet. (If you look at the map, you will see that Calumet is a little farther up the Keweenaw from Houghton/Hancock.)
Most people, unless they're from the far north, have heard very little and know even less about that part of our country. (I knew absolutely nothing about the Gulf Coast, for example, until I moved here in the early 1970's. But that's the way of it, isn't it?) That part of our country, known a century ago as "boom copperland", was a thriving and most noteworthy area. The opera house in Calumet was one of only three normally-scheduled stops in this country for famous singers - among them were Enrico Caruso and Jenny Lind ... the other two cities were New York and San Francisco.
And so, the torching of the opera house was just about the last straw for local citizenry. We were all up in arms! A massive investigation ensued and the culprits were discovered.
Who were they? They were kids! Twelve to fourteen years old - something like that. In order to become a member of the "gang", you had to burn down a famous or important building. Made us all sick just to think of such a possibility, but there it was and - worse yet - it was true!
*Grand-looking ... I've been looking back through hundreds of photographs, trying to find a good one of this hotel as it actually was. If/when I find one, I will amend this post and include it.
Those comments got me to thinking back and I remembered another occasion where a volunteer firefighter had deliberately set fires. Why? There wasn't enough fire-fighting business to suit him that he had to create more? Did he have a personal grudge against Mickey Gilley?
Yes, you read the name correctly. It was Gilley's, of Urban Cowboy fame, that was 'torched' in the late 1980's. Although Wiki has a pretty good writeup about Gilley's, it only mentions one arson fire. As I recall, there were two, but it was only after the second one that the culprit was discovered and apprehended!
And then I got to thinking about other strange incidents. Wasn't there one within the past very few years - in Colorado, I think - where it was discovered that a forest ranger had deliberately set a fire that got out of control? A woman, as I recall. Anyone remember that one? It was a shocker!
Fires hold kind of a morbid fascination for us all, in one way or another, don't they? In the little town of Munising, Michigan, where I grew up, there was a Beach Inn - at least, I think that was its name! ... a grand-looking* (from my memory banks) 3*** or 5***** hotel - whatever the highest rating was at the time - that sat perhaps 200' back from the Munising Bay waterfront. Once a week a cruise ship would come up to the dock and passengers would disembark to partake of lunch at the hotel and perhaps purchase a trinket or two.
But then, one year, the unthinkable happened. The Beach Inn caught fire and, despite the best efforts of volunteer firefighters from miles around, burned to the ground. I don't remember hearing anything about a suspected arson. There probably wasn't one. This would have been in the late 1940's or early 1950's.
I stood nearby, along with hundreds of other townspeople - tears streaming down our cheeks, staring at the blazing inferno. We were witnessing a vital part of Munising's history just disintegrating into ash-filled debris before our very eyes. The hotel was never rebuilt and cruise ships stopped coming into the bay. Sad.
Probably the most bizarre recollections I have of arson-related fires are those from the Keweenaw Peninsula, where my husband and I lived in 1959 and 1960. I've written a few posts about that area. Your best reference would be this one, which includes just a great link (click on "Portage Lake" in the second paragraph) to a map of that part of the world.
There had been a number of fires, all either arson-related or arson-suspected, within the past several years to historically-significant buildings - the latest of which had been the deliberate torching of the opera house in Calumet. (If you look at the map, you will see that Calumet is a little farther up the Keweenaw from Houghton/Hancock.)
Most people, unless they're from the far north, have heard very little and know even less about that part of our country. (I knew absolutely nothing about the Gulf Coast, for example, until I moved here in the early 1970's. But that's the way of it, isn't it?) That part of our country, known a century ago as "boom copperland", was a thriving and most noteworthy area. The opera house in Calumet was one of only three normally-scheduled stops in this country for famous singers - among them were Enrico Caruso and Jenny Lind ... the other two cities were New York and San Francisco.
And so, the torching of the opera house was just about the last straw for local citizenry. We were all up in arms! A massive investigation ensued and the culprits were discovered.
Who were they? They were kids! Twelve to fourteen years old - something like that. In order to become a member of the "gang", you had to burn down a famous or important building. Made us all sick just to think of such a possibility, but there it was and - worse yet - it was true!
*Grand-looking ... I've been looking back through hundreds of photographs, trying to find a good one of this hotel as it actually was. If/when I find one, I will amend this post and include it.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Scattered thoughts
Baseball ... I'll have a post and a half for y'all Monday! Have been following everything pretty closely the past 10 days or so. There'll be some good stories in there, including the 52-minute "bee delay" in San Francisco.
Bridge - mentoring ... I'll be off shortly to mentor someone new ... (somebody or another) Prasad. Wonder if Prasad is similar to Jones or Smith in this country? Game starts at 10:30, and think I've just got time to finish and publish this little post before leaving.
Bridge - teaching ...Met with my newest private students last night for our second session. Had a great lesson! Came home just 'higher than a kite', as is often the case with me after a good interactive class.
They were excited about their upcoming backpacking trip to Colorado. I told them I wanted to hear all about it after our next class ... we'll do two hours of intensive bridge stuff, and then relax for a few minutes afterwards while they entertain me with stories (some of which might even be true!) and allow me to do some vicarious living.
We won't be meeting again until July 29th - a Wednesday instead of Tuesday evening this next time. That's one of the HUGE pluses of private classes ... flexibility of schedule. Another huge plus is the individual attention that can be given. Often some restructuring of the subject matter is made to accommodate each student's needs. It's challenging, but very rewarding!
Rainfall ... We are dry, dry, dry! Some parts of Houston have received some beneficial raindrops, but not this area. So, last night before I left the house, I started the sprinkler in the backyard. I figured the yard could really use a few hours' worth of a good soaking, but I anticipated having to wade through a few puddles upon my return.
No puddles - not even a teeny one! I was astounded!! The ground soaked all of that good wet stuff up like there was no tomorrow. I probably could have left the sprinkler on for a while longer, but didn't want to forget it was on when I hit the pillow. Will do some more tonight and again tomorrow night ... these times in the front yard, which is browning out like crazy. Boy, do we need rain!
Gotta go! The shower beckons, and then I'm outta here!! Will probably do another post later today, but no promises. Beth sent me an e-mail that I'd like to share, plus I have a couple of other things on the back burner. Talk atcha!
Bridge - mentoring ... I'll be off shortly to mentor someone new ... (somebody or another) Prasad. Wonder if Prasad is similar to Jones or Smith in this country? Game starts at 10:30, and think I've just got time to finish and publish this little post before leaving.
Bridge - teaching ...Met with my newest private students last night for our second session. Had a great lesson! Came home just 'higher than a kite', as is often the case with me after a good interactive class.
They were excited about their upcoming backpacking trip to Colorado. I told them I wanted to hear all about it after our next class ... we'll do two hours of intensive bridge stuff, and then relax for a few minutes afterwards while they entertain me with stories (some of which might even be true!) and allow me to do some vicarious living.
We won't be meeting again until July 29th - a Wednesday instead of Tuesday evening this next time. That's one of the HUGE pluses of private classes ... flexibility of schedule. Another huge plus is the individual attention that can be given. Often some restructuring of the subject matter is made to accommodate each student's needs. It's challenging, but very rewarding!
Rainfall ... We are dry, dry, dry! Some parts of Houston have received some beneficial raindrops, but not this area. So, last night before I left the house, I started the sprinkler in the backyard. I figured the yard could really use a few hours' worth of a good soaking, but I anticipated having to wade through a few puddles upon my return.
No puddles - not even a teeny one! I was astounded!! The ground soaked all of that good wet stuff up like there was no tomorrow. I probably could have left the sprinkler on for a while longer, but didn't want to forget it was on when I hit the pillow. Will do some more tonight and again tomorrow night ... these times in the front yard, which is browning out like crazy. Boy, do we need rain!
Gotta go! The shower beckons, and then I'm outta here!! Will probably do another post later today, but no promises. Beth sent me an e-mail that I'd like to share, plus I have a couple of other things on the back burner. Talk atcha!
Monday, July 6, 2009
Tractors ... farming, plowing, pulling, rescuing
For a few years, when my husband and I were both doing graduate work at Purdue University in the early 1960's, we rented a little house out in the country.
That's where I met Jacky. I taught her little girl in the first grade at Montmorenci. Jacky introduced me to many others in the community, and we became good friends.
Like most others in that area, her husband was a farmer. I wrote fairly extensively about him here - well, in other posts, too, but this is the one I'd like you to read because it talks about how hard he worked and his massive body strength. There are a couple of funny parts in that post, as well.
[Btw, Jacky reminded me recently how reluctant Paul Joe had been to agree to go on the trip. He had never done anything like that before in his whole life. In fact, he had not even been out of the area much, I don't think, except to attend tractor pulls and such - very similar to the life style of many of the other farmers.]
That part of Indiana is flat, flat, flat. Not 'pancake flat' like the Gulf Coast, but flat. For miles, all you can see are acres and more acres of farmland and - every once in a while - a house with some grass, perhaps flowers and a few trees around it.
That's where our house was. It sat all by itself, altho not in the middle of farm acreage. The property behind and around us, which was extensive, had been purchased and was all set to be developed as a housing community (West Lafayette expanding outward). In fact, before we left Indiana in 1966, streets and utilities had already been put in place and a couple of new homes constructed.
Across the road were a farmer's fields. We were told they belonged to Marion Klutzke, of whom stories that approached the preposterous and then became legendary were often told. Many of the wilder stories centered around his tractors, their enormous size and power and what he could make them do.
We believed very few of them, actually. (My husband was, himself, a great storyteller and loved to manufacture 'almost believable' fiction.) However, we came to understand how some of those Paul Bunyan-type tales might have originated.
Where our house was situated - and to our right, as we were looking out our front door, the road was flat for perhaps a mile or so. To our immediate left was a creek, and the road dipped down several feet at that spot to accommodate the lower elevation.
Winters in Indiana are not normally horrendous in terms of annual snowfall or storms, but - every once in a while, we'd get several inches of the white stuff that would be just blowing and drifting like crazy. The road in front might seem perfectly clear, but anyone who lived in the area knew that you couldn't get across the creek to get to town (West Lafayette) unless you had somehow found a way to get your vehicle to 'spirit itself' across the six or seven drifted feet of snow.
The county plowed all roads, but it was up to the individual homeowners/renters to see to their own driveways. This was no small task for us. Our driveway extended at least 100 (200?) feet from the main road! Marion came to our rescue more than once, as I recall. He'd attach one of those big snow-plowing-type gizmos to the front of one of his tractors and bingo! We weren't the only ones to whom he extended his good neighbor service, either!!
Now, the story you're about to read is true. The only thing missing is the name of the 'victim' ... an "innocent" road traveler, who - upon seeing that the road was 'clear' for at least a mile ahead, pressed down on the accelerator and revved up all of the available hp in his engine. We were home - couldn't go anywhere and were listening intently as he continued to accelerate ... ... vroom! (1st gear) ... vroom! (2nd gear) ... vroom! (3rd gear and continuing to enjoy his own private speedway as the road ahead appeared to be smooth as silk). He was still accelerating when - all of a sudden - the sounds of his engine disappeared almost as quickly as they had begun.
That was the darndest thing! All those speedway-type noises, and then nothing!! Marion, of course, was the one who had to come to his rescue. I don't remember how he did it. Certainly, there would have been chains involved. And, even more certainly, there would have been very loud guffaws involved - some even lingering to this day, I'll betcha, and I'm here to attest to the fact that this is a true story!
Why am I writing about this? Well, Jacky sent me an e-mail earlier today titled "Wheatstock III". I thought, "Whaaat!?!"
[It seems that she was a little 'off' on her Roman numerology for this one, but we'll forgive her. It should have been "Wheatstock VII", according to the newspaper reports .]
Talk about blasts from the past! I have looked at all of the pictures included in that newspaper link, and - try as I might - I am not able to identify Marion from any of those! Too many years have gone by, I guess.
[Inserted several hours after original publication ... Jacky sent me another e-mail after she read this post, telling me to click on each little picture from the newspaper article and the person/s would be identified. Here's Marion ... ...
I didn't recognize any of the other names, not even David Klutzke. The Klutzke boy I knew was Randy.]
I remember driving to a 'tractor pull' once (and it might have been Jacky and I going there together) ... it would have been in Illnois, but that's not really the subject of this post ... what I remember is hot, dusty and boring.
Here, for a somewhat more glamorous side of 'tractor pulling', is ... ...
That's where I met Jacky. I taught her little girl in the first grade at Montmorenci. Jacky introduced me to many others in the community, and we became good friends.
Like most others in that area, her husband was a farmer. I wrote fairly extensively about him here - well, in other posts, too, but this is the one I'd like you to read because it talks about how hard he worked and his massive body strength. There are a couple of funny parts in that post, as well.
[Btw, Jacky reminded me recently how reluctant Paul Joe had been to agree to go on the trip. He had never done anything like that before in his whole life. In fact, he had not even been out of the area much, I don't think, except to attend tractor pulls and such - very similar to the life style of many of the other farmers.]
That part of Indiana is flat, flat, flat. Not 'pancake flat' like the Gulf Coast, but flat. For miles, all you can see are acres and more acres of farmland and - every once in a while - a house with some grass, perhaps flowers and a few trees around it.
That's where our house was. It sat all by itself, altho not in the middle of farm acreage. The property behind and around us, which was extensive, had been purchased and was all set to be developed as a housing community (West Lafayette expanding outward). In fact, before we left Indiana in 1966, streets and utilities had already been put in place and a couple of new homes constructed.
Across the road were a farmer's fields. We were told they belonged to Marion Klutzke, of whom stories that approached the preposterous and then became legendary were often told. Many of the wilder stories centered around his tractors, their enormous size and power and what he could make them do.
We believed very few of them, actually. (My husband was, himself, a great storyteller and loved to manufacture 'almost believable' fiction.) However, we came to understand how some of those Paul Bunyan-type tales might have originated.
Where our house was situated - and to our right, as we were looking out our front door, the road was flat for perhaps a mile or so. To our immediate left was a creek, and the road dipped down several feet at that spot to accommodate the lower elevation.
Winters in Indiana are not normally horrendous in terms of annual snowfall or storms, but - every once in a while, we'd get several inches of the white stuff that would be just blowing and drifting like crazy. The road in front might seem perfectly clear, but anyone who lived in the area knew that you couldn't get across the creek to get to town (West Lafayette) unless you had somehow found a way to get your vehicle to 'spirit itself' across the six or seven drifted feet of snow.
The county plowed all roads, but it was up to the individual homeowners/renters to see to their own driveways. This was no small task for us. Our driveway extended at least 100 (200?) feet from the main road! Marion came to our rescue more than once, as I recall. He'd attach one of those big snow-plowing-type gizmos to the front of one of his tractors and bingo! We weren't the only ones to whom he extended his good neighbor service, either!!
Now, the story you're about to read is true. The only thing missing is the name of the 'victim' ... an "innocent" road traveler, who - upon seeing that the road was 'clear' for at least a mile ahead, pressed down on the accelerator and revved up all of the available hp in his engine. We were home - couldn't go anywhere and were listening intently as he continued to accelerate ... ... vroom! (1st gear) ... vroom! (2nd gear) ... vroom! (3rd gear and continuing to enjoy his own private speedway as the road ahead appeared to be smooth as silk). He was still accelerating when - all of a sudden - the sounds of his engine disappeared almost as quickly as they had begun.
That was the darndest thing! All those speedway-type noises, and then nothing!! Marion, of course, was the one who had to come to his rescue. I don't remember how he did it. Certainly, there would have been chains involved. And, even more certainly, there would have been very loud guffaws involved - some even lingering to this day, I'll betcha, and I'm here to attest to the fact that this is a true story!
Why am I writing about this? Well, Jacky sent me an e-mail earlier today titled "Wheatstock III". I thought, "Whaaat!?!"
[It seems that she was a little 'off' on her Roman numerology for this one, but we'll forgive her. It should have been "Wheatstock VII", according to the newspaper reports .]
Talk about blasts from the past! I have looked at all of the pictures included in that newspaper link, and - try as I might - I am not able to identify Marion from any of those! Too many years have gone by, I guess.
[Inserted several hours after original publication ... Jacky sent me another e-mail after she read this post, telling me to click on each little picture from the newspaper article and the person/s would be identified. Here's Marion ... ...
I didn't recognize any of the other names, not even David Klutzke. The Klutzke boy I knew was Randy.]
I remember driving to a 'tractor pull' once (and it might have been Jacky and I going there together) ... it would have been in Illnois, but that's not really the subject of this post ... what I remember is hot, dusty and boring.
Here, for a somewhat more glamorous side of 'tractor pulling', is ... ...
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Lest we forget
Beth sent me an e-mail two days ago that included a poem I do not recall seeing before. I'm sorry that I cannot tell you who the author is. Here's the poem ... ...
I watched the flag pass by one day. It fluttered in the breeze.
A young Marine saluted it, and then he stood at ease.
I looked at him in uniform, so young, so tall, so proud.
With hair cut square and eyes alert, he'd stand out in any crowd.
I thought how many men like him had fallen through the years.
How many died on foreign soil, how many mothers' tears?
How many pilots' planes shot down? How many died at sea?
How many foxholes were soldiers' graves? No, freedom isn't free.
I heard the sound of Taps one night when everything was still.
I listened to the bugler play and felt a sudden chill.
I wondered just how many times that Taps had meant 'Amen',
When the flag had draped a coffin of a brother or a friend.
I thought of all the children, of the mothers and the wives,
Of fathers, sons and husbands with interrupted lives.
I thought about a graveyard at the bottom of the sea,
Of unmarked graves in Arlington. No, freedom isn't free.
While we're all out celebrating our most important national holiday, it's imperative that we pause to remember those who have given their lives and who are currently serving to preserve the freedoms that we so enjoy and sometimes take for granted.
May God continue to bless America!
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Dave Barry's colonoscopy journal
Dave Barry, as I'm sure most of you probably know, is a Pulitzer prize-winning columnist for the Miami Herald. Here, in his own words, is his story ... ...
I called my friend Andy Sable, a gastroenterologist, to make an appointment for a colonoscopy.
A few days later, in his office, Andy showed me a color diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through Minneapolis.
Then Andy explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manner.
I nodded thoughtfully, but I really didn't hear anything he said, because my brain was shrieking, quote, 'HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET UP YOUR BEHIND!'
I left Andy's office with some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called 'MoviPrep', which comes in a box large enough to hold a microwave oven. I will discuss MoviPrep in detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall into the hands of America's enemies.
I spent the next several days productively sitting around being nervous.
Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water, only with less flavor.
Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder together in a one-liter plastic jug, then you fill it with lukewarm water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a liter is about 32 gallons.)
Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour, because MoviPrep tastes - and here I am being kind - like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon.
The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, 'a loose, watery bowel movement may result.'
This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground.
MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic, here, but: have you ever seen a space-shuttle launch? This is pretty much the MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you wish the commode had a seat belt.
You spend several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.
After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep.
The next morning my wife drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing occasional return bouts of MoviPrep spurtage.
I was thinking, 'What if I spurt on Andy?' How do you apologize to a friend for something like that? Flowers would not be enough.
At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the heck the forms said.
Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked.
Then a nurse named Eddie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Eddie was very good, and I was already lying down.
Eddie also told me that some people put vodka in their MoviPrep. At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this, but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode.
You would have no choice but to burn your house.
When everything was ready, Eddie wheeled me into the procedure room, where Andy was waiting with a nurse and an anesthesiologist. I did not see the 17,000-foot tube, but I knew Andy had it hidden around there somewhere.
I was seriously nervous at this point.
Andy had me roll over on my left side, and the anesthesiologist began hooking something up to the needle in my hand.
There was music playing in the room, and I realized that the song was 'Dancing Queen' by ABBA. I remarked to Andy that, of all the songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, 'Dancing Queen' had to be the least appropriate.
'You want me to turn it up?' said Andy from somewhere behind me.
'Ha, ha,' I said.
And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for more than a decade. If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like.
I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, ABBA was yelling, 'Dancing Queen, feel the beat of the tambourine', and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood.
Andy was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent.
I felt even more excellent when Andy told me that it was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors.
I have never been prouder of an internal organ.
Colonoscopies are no joke, but occasionally a patient has 'been known' to utter some really funny things during the exam. Supposedly, it has been claimed that the following were heard (from predominantly male patients) ... ... I really can't attribute these to Dave Barry - in fact, some are real "groaners".
Take it easy, Doc. You're boldly going where no man has gone before!
Find Amelia Earhart yet?
Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?
Any sign of the trapped miners, chief?
If your hand doesn't fit, you must quit.
You used to be an executive at Enron, didn't you?
Would you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up there?
Thank you, Jennie, for forwarding this hilarious e-mail to me! And for those of you who haven't gotten enough of Dave Barry just yet, Craig posted "16 things that it took me over 50 years to learn" just a couple of days ago. Enjoy!!
I called my friend Andy Sable, a gastroenterologist, to make an appointment for a colonoscopy.
A few days later, in his office, Andy showed me a color diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through Minneapolis.
Then Andy explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manner.
I nodded thoughtfully, but I really didn't hear anything he said, because my brain was shrieking, quote, 'HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET UP YOUR BEHIND!'
I left Andy's office with some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called 'MoviPrep', which comes in a box large enough to hold a microwave oven. I will discuss MoviPrep in detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall into the hands of America's enemies.
I spent the next several days productively sitting around being nervous.
Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water, only with less flavor.
Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder together in a one-liter plastic jug, then you fill it with lukewarm water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a liter is about 32 gallons.)
Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour, because MoviPrep tastes - and here I am being kind - like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon.
The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, 'a loose, watery bowel movement may result.'
This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground.
MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic, here, but: have you ever seen a space-shuttle launch? This is pretty much the MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you wish the commode had a seat belt.
You spend several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.
After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep.
The next morning my wife drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing occasional return bouts of MoviPrep spurtage.
I was thinking, 'What if I spurt on Andy?' How do you apologize to a friend for something like that? Flowers would not be enough.
At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the heck the forms said.
Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked.
Then a nurse named Eddie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Eddie was very good, and I was already lying down.
Eddie also told me that some people put vodka in their MoviPrep. At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this, but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode.
You would have no choice but to burn your house.
When everything was ready, Eddie wheeled me into the procedure room, where Andy was waiting with a nurse and an anesthesiologist. I did not see the 17,000-foot tube, but I knew Andy had it hidden around there somewhere.
I was seriously nervous at this point.
Andy had me roll over on my left side, and the anesthesiologist began hooking something up to the needle in my hand.
There was music playing in the room, and I realized that the song was 'Dancing Queen' by ABBA. I remarked to Andy that, of all the songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, 'Dancing Queen' had to be the least appropriate.
'You want me to turn it up?' said Andy from somewhere behind me.
'Ha, ha,' I said.
And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for more than a decade. If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like.
I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, ABBA was yelling, 'Dancing Queen, feel the beat of the tambourine', and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood.
Andy was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent.
I felt even more excellent when Andy told me that it was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors.
I have never been prouder of an internal organ.
Colonoscopies are no joke, but occasionally a patient has 'been known' to utter some really funny things during the exam. Supposedly, it has been claimed that the following were heard (from predominantly male patients) ... ... I really can't attribute these to Dave Barry - in fact, some are real "groaners".
Take it easy, Doc. You're boldly going where no man has gone before!
Find Amelia Earhart yet?
Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?
Any sign of the trapped miners, chief?
If your hand doesn't fit, you must quit.
You used to be an executive at Enron, didn't you?
Would you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up there?
Thank you, Jennie, for forwarding this hilarious e-mail to me! And for those of you who haven't gotten enough of Dave Barry just yet, Craig posted "16 things that it took me over 50 years to learn" just a couple of days ago. Enjoy!!
By His Own Design
I have truly lived and opened every door I possibly could to realize my potential and satisfy my desire for inner expression. What age would you say the person who wrote that is? Does that sound to you like a person who has lived a very long and fulfilling life?
When I read those words very early this morning, I was reminded of a documentary I saw on PBS recently, "By His Own Design" - the story of Emile Norman, a California artist. Have you ever seen this film? I had seen it once before, and felt fortunate to have the opportunity to watch it again.
Norman's life story is fascinating. The documentary tells about some of his growing-up years, the eventual estrangement from his parents, his first meeting with Brooks Clement ... ...
and the home and extraordinary life they built together at Big Sur. This documentary was filmed when Norman was 88 years old and is as beautifully-crafted a piece of work as Norman's art.
[The makers of this film occasionally had difficulty cornering the artist at long enough intervals to complete various segments of the documentary. Norman felt they were cutting into his available 'creative energy time'. However, whatever lingering frustrated memories they might have had vanished completely when they learned that Norman had written in his diary, "I just saw the film. Wow, wow, wow!"]
You can read more about Norman's life here and view some of his artwork, many pieces of which are currently for sale, on his home website. Yes, he's still working at age 90! In fact, he says, "If I'm not working, call 911!"
The words I quoted at the top of this post were not written by Emile Norman. They were written by Craig Peihopa - our Australian blogger friend, who is more than 40 years Norman's junior - in his most recent post.
Craig is in the prime of his life, and is well on his way to realizing his potential and satisfying his desire for inner expression.
When I read those words very early this morning, I was reminded of a documentary I saw on PBS recently, "By His Own Design" - the story of Emile Norman, a California artist. Have you ever seen this film? I had seen it once before, and felt fortunate to have the opportunity to watch it again.
Norman's life story is fascinating. The documentary tells about some of his growing-up years, the eventual estrangement from his parents, his first meeting with Brooks Clement ... ...
and the home and extraordinary life they built together at Big Sur. This documentary was filmed when Norman was 88 years old and is as beautifully-crafted a piece of work as Norman's art.
[The makers of this film occasionally had difficulty cornering the artist at long enough intervals to complete various segments of the documentary. Norman felt they were cutting into his available 'creative energy time'. However, whatever lingering frustrated memories they might have had vanished completely when they learned that Norman had written in his diary, "I just saw the film. Wow, wow, wow!"]
You can read more about Norman's life here and view some of his artwork, many pieces of which are currently for sale, on his home website. Yes, he's still working at age 90! In fact, he says, "If I'm not working, call 911!"
The words I quoted at the top of this post were not written by Emile Norman. They were written by Craig Peihopa - our Australian blogger friend, who is more than 40 years Norman's junior - in his most recent post.
Craig is in the prime of his life, and is well on his way to realizing his potential and satisfying his desire for inner expression.
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