No Mystery Here

The World Poker Tour is on television this evening, somehow far more engaging than early election results. One fellow backed into a straight flush, always a cool thing to see, though more interesting in one's own hand than in someone else's, to be sure. Watching the final hand, however, completely lacks drama if one is a clock watcher, as I am. How can one possibly get excited about that last river card when the hour is about to strike, indicating the end of the broadcast? Likewise, someone who goes all in in the middle of an hour is surely doomed. Where, then, is the suspense?

Startlement, however, is abundant. There has just been a breaking news story that a college football player has been shot and killed this evening, details still pending. One might reasonably expect stories of shootings to be confined to nightly news reports on network television and dedicated news channels, but these days ballplayers at all levels seem as vulnerable as the rest of the population. Why is a mystery to me. So there goes the title to this piece, as the "real world" dares to intrude on what should be a safe haven from all but manufactured violence. That's sad.

Yeah, yeah, that's a weak thing to say, but it's a pretty pathetic truth to face as well.

Relapse

Relapse
5 November 2006

Woke up this morning feeling fine
Had absolutely nothing on my mind
Now that fluff is turning to gel
My head is starting once again to swell
My nose is running for all it’s worth
My Kidz are giving me a seriously wide berth
I’m literally snotty and redeyed today
Guess I just started too early to play
Now the Piper is here with a vengeance
I’ll not be stirring soon hence

Oh no! The pathetic rhyming has begun again
It must be a consequence of sitting in my den
Trying to cobble together a few thoughts
While avoiding all those encircling “oughts”
Personally I think all the cooking and cleaning
Is the real reason I’m feeling like I need my own reaming

Tag and Other Childhood Activities

Tag and Other Childhood Activities
http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2006/writers/frank_deford/10/25/tag/
25 October 2006

Neanderthal or not, I have to agree with Frank Deford that there is something seriously foolhardy about banning some of the most basic childhood activities, especially those that encourage physical development while simultaneously helping individuals to develop a lifelong sense of self. What is childhood if not an ideal time to identify one’s boundaries as well as potential horizons?

Now, don’t get me wrong – I think Deford makes far too sweeping a generalization in lumping all educators in with the fanatics determined to eliminate all aspects of their own childhood experiences. Such folk belong with the critics who deem Roadrunner cartoons too violent for viewing by youngsters, for people who think that Little Red Riding Hood is worthy of censorship; (though, to be fair, Grimms Brothers tales and Aesop’s Fables in their original forms did tend to have a political bent to them, aimed as they were at adult target audiences.)

As much as I cherish the ideal of universal equality, I don’t think that it is possible to eliminate all elements of social interaction that indicate hierarchy, nor do I think it healthy.

Brief Break in Silence

27 September 2006
Honolulu

What can I say? When Dad didn't answer his nightly call, nor his morning doublecheck, I summoned the troops, who rallied oh, so beautifully. They forged on in, despite the lack of answer or any sighting of Dad... till a hand was spotted, Carrie-like, protruding from beneath a pile of tumbled rubble. A quick 911 call later, the short street was choked with emergency vehicles, all for a frail little Yoda-like figure who would not appreciate such a fuss being made over him.

Twelve hours later, miracle of miracles, I was by his side, having caught a light flight across the Pacific. The friend who had gone so bravely (fearfully?) in and sat by Dad's side all day, took the time to pick me up from the airport as well, before returning home to family, grading papers, and an all too short night's sleep before facing students once again. It is fortunate that God metes out mercy as well as justice.

So Dad was on the cardiac ward for three days, hooked up to a glucose solution instead of a saline solution because it's easier to counteract excess sugar than excess salt in a system genetically vulnerable to diabetes. So they say. In any event, his recovery has been in his customarily speedy style, despite his overall general slowness. The final verdict is that he has suffered extensive muscle damage from extreme dehydration, including a minor heart attack and evidently some damage to his memory, which was already under attack from age...

Two more days of charming nurses on a general population ward were followed by ten days at the highly touted, extremely aggressive Rehabilitation Center of the Pacific. Once again he seemed to charm the nurses and aides, much to my amusement and chagrin.

Finally came the day of the Great Breakout. Told to use a walker, he's been insisting on relying on his cane, for the comfort of familiarity, I think. He's currently undergoing a month of outpatient therapy, only agreed to after I promised to stay while he was being so treated. Like the proverbial horse led to water, he promptly blanks out all lessons, so his primary benefit seems to be from his physical therapist, who actually manipulates his muscles and makes him work, as opposed to the others, who just talk at him, and with me. I wonder if I shouldn't absent myself so that they have to deal with him directly. In a recent session wherein I could see him blocking out the white noise, I asked the therapist to have him articulare what he had gotten from the day's session - that was an eye-opener for her! Ah well... hopefully our next visit will be more productive.

On a personal note, I think I'm going quietly crazy. My greatest fear is that I could settle for this life, only to find that I had run out of time for life in the end. Ah, bite me.

Not One But Two

Not One But Two
25 August 2006

So there I was, angling for a parking in a clearly overflowing lot outside one of my favorite breakfast feed joints on the outskirts of Oakland. An old lady was fussing with one of the back doors of a car, so that was a real nonstarter, in so many ways… Then there was the work truck that pulled in just ahead of me with a real “Outta my way!” with no please or thank you to it. Most intriguing of all, however, was the fact that not one but two, count ‘em, two news vans were ensconced in primo parking spots. Well, all right then. At least there was hope of a free show inside.

A trip around the block, just so I could say, “I’ve been around the block, you know,” and then I caved and took (an admittedly free; the beauty of breakfast, of course, is that if you go early enough, street parking is still free,) street slot. My favorite waitress, a couple of cups of coffee, and a generously cholesterol-laden breakfast later, however, I still didn’t know what those darned news crews were up to.

Time flits, and so need I, so up I got, and paid, and left… and still those darned vans sat. Even when I’m on top of a story, evidently, I just don’t get it. Ah well… My guess is that this was a post-story feeding, just from the leisurely pace of things. My guess is that I’ll never know.

Seriously, not one but two, and their rival’s headquarters a scant mile up the street – what was that all about anyway?

Whole lotta head scratching going on today…

Lost Track

Lost Track
24 August 2006

Summer’s slipping away. Somehow I’d lost track of time amidst the ease of warm days and lazy nights. Now it’s the end of August, Hawaii’s celebrated its Statehood Day, and public schools are preparing to resume. Where has the season gone?

I was cleaning out a bag in search of some half-remembered documents when I came across “The Plan,” laid out in mid-March of this year, still awaiting instigation. Clearly I’ll never be old; it’s taking forever to grow up. Ah well…

Liquids and Gels

Liquids and Gels
11 August 2006

Time Stamp: Yesterday was the first day of a new era in U.S. air flight. Henceforth domestic passengers must choose between buying sundries at their destination in order to circumvent the interminable processes of checking and collecting luggage, or packing personal items in order to save money at the price of valuable time. This choice is necessitated by failed actions overseas that set off a chain reaction of fear locally. Spin doctors and politicians declare that a terrorist plot of major proportions has been thwarted. Personally, I think this is just another ploy on the part of manufacturers about to launch a new line of products in a new medium. What quicker way to boost sales than to cause politicians to outlaw current media, to wit, liquids and gels? Ah, the deviousness of entrepreneurs determined to create and profit from a global market…

I need a more productive life…

Stroke By Stroke

Saw this exercise show on a health channel, one episode in a series on combatting obesity. Such shows usually irritate the heck out of me, coming as they do during mealtimes and involving people nearly immobilized by their bodies, the majority of whom end up opting for surgery to remove what their teeth put on. This particular episode, however, featured a woman of more modest excess weight, if such a thing is possible, something nearer my own experiences. She chose the ideal route: determined effort coupled with patience over a long time. The result was what I hope to be realistic. Thus inspired, I spent the rest of the day talking about getting serious.

It's been a couple of days since then now. Today, once more starting by failing, I enjoyed an ample breakfast. This, however, was followed up by a bit of unusual industry, including a trip to the swimming pool. The trip (across the lawn) was exciting; the laps refreshing, the time off the clock disappointing. Still, one must start somewhere, and the only right time to start is always now. I haven't been blogging all that long, but I know I've already said something to this effect before. Guess I'll just have to keep saying it until I actually hear myself and believe.

Female Felines

Acquired three new female felines: two kittens and their formerly feral mother. The mother, a beautiful ash grey charcoal-colored one-year-old, was curiously misnamed "Mouse". (Maybe it's an Asian thing; in some cultures misnaming a child is a common practice in order to conceal from demons the true nature of said treasure.) The name has since been adjusted to "Nouna". It sounds Hawaiian when you say it, though it looks grammatical when you read it...

Her similarly misidentified and misnamed children, originally called "Mickey" and "Minnie", have since been renamed "Ajax" and "Comet". They're both tuxedo cats: black backs with white chests and bellies. I think Comet was initially named "Minnie" because she has mini-gloves on her toes, whereas Ajax has full white gloves, along with the energy and aggressiveness normally associated with boys. Ajax's evident attitude on life is "Have Wall Will Bounce." The similarity to a younger JJ has already caused the name to be further modified to "A.J."

Last night was a major breakthrough in socialization. Everyone (except JJ) gathered on and/or under the bed and proved to be very affectionate, which in turn caused a bit of hissing . . .

My Boyz are in transition from jealously suspicious and defensive to interested in all the new playthings that have invaded their formerly tranquil space, both animate and inanimate. There's currently a contest on to see who can climb and perch the highest in the house, a challenge compounded by the high ceilings in a couple of key rooms. I think the real barrier is the fear factor for the Boyz, who know from personal experience how much jumping back down can hurt. The Gurlz are still too young to know any such fears, so their greatest challenge is simply whether or not they have enough springs to get to the highest places (without being hissed by their elders).

Speaking of hissing, I thought it would be wrong to separate the children from their mother, but all evidence suggests a fundamental truth: mothers need periodic breaks from their children. Live and learn.

All Roads Lead

All roads lead to the central room these days. That's where the new feline ladies are staying. Thus far they've unplugged my clock, my floppy disk drive, and the external speakers for my iPod. They've turned my bags and stuffed animals into nesting materials, my skin into a giant pincushion, and my sweet Boyz into hissers that sound like a couple of balloons deflating. Ah well... You should see what they're doing to my Boyz...