On A Lighter Note

This always makes me smile.

There, but for the grace of...?

Not being a particularly religious man (spiritual, maybe), I feel hypocritical using the phrase "there, but for the grace of God, go I". But there arise situations in my life where that thought jumps into my conscience and I don't quite know how to reconcile it.

We recently learned that the 15 year old friend of my step-daughter has colon cancer, a rarity for someone in that age group. Since then, I've found it difficult to squelch the thoughts that go along with news like this: What if this happened to one of my children? How would I respond?

Today, the news changed for the worse. It's stage four, or terminal, and the treatment plan is to prolong life through the use of chemotherapy. My wife and her daughter are at the hospital visiting with her as I write.

It's raining spittle-like outside, and it's windy. The skies are gray and low. I'm at home with my soon-to-be four year old daughter wishing I could contain her and her siblings in a protective bubble, but I can't.

There, but for some sort of grace, go I.

Of Radishes & Poetry

I received a comment on an earlier post by Radish King which, while complimentary, was also disturbing in the fact that she found my blog accidentally while searching for her book of poetry!

So please - anybody looking to learn more about a book of poetry to be titled, "Cadaver Dogs" should stop looking here and check the publisher's site.

I hate when the internets get all confused like that, misdirecting people here and there. Like that time I was doing research on the effects of sunlight on Hispanic women. Who would believe that an innocuous search like "hot latina women" would have brought me to such filth?

I tried to explain this to my wife without avail.

Anyway...

ATTN: Guitar Store Jackasses

I'm sorry to present the readership (that's a joke, really) with back-to-back bitches, but really, what's the point of creating a blog if not to gripe into the ether from time-to-time.

That said, here's one more. Dedicated to the jackholes that work at various guitar stores.

It goes something like this:

I wander into a music store - sometimes to buy something significant, and sometimes just for some picks, a patch cable, some strings, or just to browse.

Invariably, I wander over to the guitar section and begin looking at the stock, whether electric guitars, acoustic guitars, or basses.

Then the shark fin appears in the water and begins making a slow circle around me, closing in tighter and tighter. "You wanna check that Tele out? It's american made, and has some bitchin' noiseless pickups."

"Sure," I reply.

The Shark pulls the guitar down, plugs into an amp, his eyes roll back in his head, the spirit of Jimi is summoned, and he shreds for 30 seconds. Then - fretboard still smoking - he hands the guitar to me and says, "Try it out, bro!"

What's the point of this?

Do all guitar store employees learn a 30 second killer riff intended to intimidate all prospective buyers? It makes me want to turn around and leave.

Imagine the following: you walk into a vacuum store. After spotting you looking at the latest Eureka vacuum cleaner, an employee approaches and says, "Hell yeah, man... 12 amps of pure, throbbing power in this badass!"

Then, before you can reply, he powers up the vacuum and cleans the shit out of a few square feet of carpet. Really cleans it. There's magical carpet spray coming out of the front of the vacuum, and the vacuum store guy has sweat on his brow, people stop to watch, and you're just standing there with your hands in your pockets.

Then, as quickly as he started, he's done.

Now it's all quiet. Vacuum Man is looking at you expectantly. The other customers are wondering how you'll respond.

You're suddenly feeling like you don't want the vacuum anymore. You just want to leave.

See what I mean, Guitar Store Jackass? Can you guys just KNOCK IT OFF? Can you just hand me the guitar and let me experience it without the humiliation? Please?

I'm sorry. I'm done now. I feel better.

Knut Bell & The Blue Collars

I went to see some music last night at a tiny, tiny little place called the Corner Tavern. The band was Knut Bell & The Blue Collars. Four pieces: singer/rythym guitar (Knut), a bass player that mixed in some upright bass as well, lead guitar/pedal steel player, and a drummer.

I like seeing music in weird little venues like this - the kind of place that makes me feel like I'm unwittingly part of a movie.

The band was set up between the front door and the big screen TV, with only a single incandescent light bulb plugged into the ceiling above them. I counted approximately 20 patrons, many of whom appeared to be friends of various members of the band.

They played some originals, some Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash, etc.

Good stuff, especially for a Thursday night out in the country.

ATTN: Jackass Paramedics

The other day my father-in-law had to call 911 for an allergic reaction. He experiences swelling in his throat, and so far, it's unknown why this happens to him from time to time. He has a regimen that's been prescribed to him by his allergist which includes antihistamines, steroids, an inhaler, and an epi-pen. In addition to calling 911, he called my wife and I.

During this event, he took all four medications as instructed.

The volunteer fire department arrived, took vitals, pulse oximetry and waited.

Several minutes later (we live in a rural area), the paramedic unit arrived. Ken and Derek exited the ambulance - err, "medic unit" - and walked into the house. Derek paused in front of the mirror in the entry hall to verify his bangs were poking up appropriately (this is no lie).

Ken asked a couple of questions, like, "So, this wasn't, like, a bee-sting?"

No. It's an allergic reaction with an unknown cause.

Maybe three other semi-relevant questions and then, "So, do you think you can walk out to the ambulance?"

Huh?

Ken, dude, you haven't even *touched* the guy! Haven't felt his skin. Haven't taken your own set of vitals. Haven't listened to lungs. Haven't done SHIT, and then ask the patient who's taken four different meds in response to an allergic reaction to walk out to the rig because you're too flippin' lazy to go get the stretcher.

I was, at one time, a nationally registered paramedic. And EMT. And 911 dispatcher. Watching ALS providers act like that is disturbing. You guys don't deserve the title. I know what I'm talking about.

Sweet Child O' Mine

Sometimes my daughter will examine my face, similar to how a blind person is depicted in movies touching another person's face to learn more about them.

She'll look closely at my eyes. She'll feel my Adam's apple. Just checking things out. Most of the time it's a very sweet thing.

Then there are the times that she makes startling observations about me. A few weeks ago she reported a discovery of whiskers on my ears. This surprised her, as previously she'd only noted whiskers on my face. I hastily removed the offending whiskers. The last thing I need is her observations to be reported to her classmates and teachers during "circle time" at school.

Then two days ago, after another close examination of my facial features, I was advised that I have a "chicken chin."

Anybody want a four year old?

Oily Discharge?

While standing in line at the pharmacy today, I became interested in a package labeled as an FDA-approved weight-loss product.

That is, until I read the side-effects, reproduced here from this website:

These changes may include gas with oily discharge, an increased number of bowel movements, an urgent need to have them, and an inability to control them, particularly after meals containing higher amounts of fat than are recommended.

Reminds me of this:

Parent Night

Tonight was parent night at my daughter's preschool. This is the night they tell us all the stuff we already know:

- They feed our kids
- They don't like it when our kids fight one another
- They have a "tactile station" for the kids
- They want us to participate

I wish they'd tell us about a new program to scrape boogers from the underside of every surface in the building. Because now I'm all:

Teacher: "Can you grab that tiny yellow plastic chair and bring it over here for Aschleigh to sit on?"

Me: uses foot to kick/drag chair across room.

Anyway, when we arrive I notice that all the moms have rushed forward to the front, fully intending to participate, forming a semicircle around the teacher. They all know each other and all of the children. The children know all the mothers. Love and community abound.

All the dads linger in the back and avoid eye contact with one another. We don't know what's happening. We don't know each other. We confuse the names of the children running around us. It's as if we've suddenly found ourselves in the Ukraine, unable to communicate. At the same time it's comforting because we all know that we're not expected to talk to one another. There's no "catching-up" to do.

The teacher asks for feedback. All the moms have feedback and questions. They nod at each other and offer support. They volunteer for the "Policy Council". They ask about when it's permissible for them to come to the classroom to participate in "arts and crafts".

The dads slide down in their chairs and continue avoiding any sort of situation that will require speaking or volunteerism.

Just as the anti-bullying informational movie is starting, I stand and walk out of the room. I figure that I'll head in the direction of the bathrooms to create an alibi. Yet as I walk past the room where all the kids have been sequestered, I note that the lone woman in charge of keeping them occupied is clearly overwhelmed. She's wide-eyed. The kids are running everywhere. And yelling. A lot of yelling.

I see this as my chance to escape the meeting but still contribute somehow, so I enter the room. There's a Policy Councilwoman in there with me who apparently also left under false pretenses because she should be watching the movie about bullying. The kids are freaking out. It's like a scene from a zombie movie. They begin running toward us, fingers in their noses. The woman in charge mutters something about serving ice cream and leaves the Councilwoman and myself to keep control. Parts of the fish tank are floating among the fish. The pet turtle, sensing its imminent demise, is using its clumsy little hand to try and scrape through the glass to escape.

As I'm standing there, waves of autism sweeping over me causing me to want to rock back and forth in the corner, a group of children are trying to pull me away from the door. Like a prison revolt. They're actually really trying to remove adults from the equation and run freely through the building.

(I should mention that during this melee, The Councilwoman decides she should also assist with serving ice cream and leaves me alone in the room full of Booger Zombies.)

At long last, I'm told to release three children at a time for ice cream and so incrementally the noise and chaos transfer from the play room to the eating room where Ice Cream Woman and Councilwoman find themselves in charge again.

I hid in the kitchen.

I'm thrilled to learn this will be a monthly event.

Societal Progress

I guess as long as we're not just throwing them away anymore.

Still, though...

Pets In The Workplace

I'm on the fence about this one. There are a few businesses that I go to regularly that allow the employees to bring in their pets. Dogs, really. "Pets" is too broad. It's always a giant dog.

When I did residential work, there were a lot of cats I had to contend with. Cats that were certain they should jump onto the desk and display their anus to me instead of allowing me a clear view of the monitor. "I'm not sure if this is helpful or not, but here's my butt..."

So today I opened the windowless door to an office and was surprised to be met by two ears. About ten inches below the tips of the ears was a German Shepherd. She smelled me all over. You know what I mean. All over. Her owner smiled, like, "Isn't it cute when she rams her snout into your testicles?"

I learned that the dog is a search and rescue dog. More specifically, a "cadaver dog". I didn't need convincing. She had cadaver breath. I was bathed in a horrible, humid stench the entire time I worked.

So yeah, I've read the studies that suggest having a giant dog in your office lessens the likelihood that you'll arrive to work one day with a dozen weapons concealed underneath a trench coat. Aren't there other things we can try, though? Thirty-hour workweeks? Better insurance? Do we really need reeking dogs?

Today's Tom Sawyer

He snookers me every time:

I answer the phone, "Hello?"

"Hey Brendan, it's Mark. What're you up to?"

"Nothing really, you?"

"Just calling to see if you wanna have a little pre-funk. Listen to some music, have a beer. You know..."

(We're attending the party of a mutual friend in a couple of hours.)

"Sure - I'll be over in a bit."

In the back of my mind, I'm fully aware of what's going to happen. He's a pro at this.

I jump in the car and head over to his house. Part of me is thinking, "Nah, not this time... we'll chill and have a beer and listen to some music." But I know.

About an hour and a half later, after moving a truck-load of crap to an outbuilding, his garage was looking pretty good. I did score a couple of beers, though.