In celebration of getting a new car last week, I thought I'd reflect on some of the automobiles I've owned in the past. The junkers, the clunkers, the barely rolling jalopies. Also, this month marks the 12th anniversary of the time I almost killed a man on a motorcycle. Attempted vehicular manslaughter, thankfully, is not a chargeable offense.
1985 Pontiac Grand Am: The first. Blue, with rust trim. In 1996, I was 17 and would have driven a golf cart if it would've gotten me out of the house. But six months after I got my license I plowed through a motorcycle and nearly killed the rider. Miraculously, my car got the worst of it. Sans bumper, I continued to drive it with the replaced fenders painted only with primer black. With the rear of the car still undamaged and blue, it looked like a rolling contusion. Yeah, I was that guy in high school.
1992 Isuzu Pickup: The 1992 Isuzu truck didn't even have a model name. Just Pickup. The name says it all. Manual shift, no AC, no power windows, no power steering. Terrible for picking up girls to take to the movies. Great for picking up Mexican laborers and taking them to job sites.
1994 Nissan Sentra: 180,000 miles, cigarette burns in the cloth seats, leaky sunroof, screechy serpantine belt, spotty heating, touch-and-go brakes, smelled like fish. But it had a killer sound system and skull chromies on the tire valves. Far and away my favorite. Sold it to a friend who still owned it up until recently.
1994 Buick Regal: I drove this when I moved to Detroit for one simple reason: No criminal with any self-respect would attempt to carjack it. I sold this car in 2003 for 200 bucks. The buyer's check bounced. All in all I netted 90 dollars.
But when I got married, my wife, at the time an accountant at Ford Motor Co., she got the employee discount, so I was spoiled to the tune of three new cars in the next five years. Nice perk. But now she works at a company that makes large industrial diesel engines. So unless I want to drive a school bus or a power generator to work, I needed to dive back into the used car markets.
Once again, here's a poem.
My old lease was up and I needed a car.
To find a used dealer, you don't have to go far.
A Chrysler or Chevy, a Toyota or Ford;
Maybe a Volvo, or a Honda Accord.
I pulled into the lot just a little bit skeptical,
The balloons, banners and music made quite a spectacle.
A salesman approached in his tie and short sleeves,
But these types of slicksters are my biggest pet peeves.
With a wide toothy grin he extended his hand.
"We've got great selections of every brand!
We've got all kinds of cars, both brand new and used.
I can even help you out if your credit is bruised."
"I know you're busy, and I don't mean to trouble you,
But someone just traded in a red BMW.
It's certified pre-owned and has been driven quite gently.
I also have a Benz and a second-hand Bentley."
I reply, "I do not want anything with that kind of flash.
The insurance alone would eat up my cash.
And I don't respond well to your sales hocus pocus;
How about something more sensible - a Dodge or a Focus?"
He says "What if I told you I'd make you a deal
On an all-wheel drive Infiniti automobile?
You could leave here today seated behind the wheel
I would not pass it up. It's considered a steal."
"It's a silver sedan with a charcoal interior,
Very budget-friendly, and looks quite superior.
Anti-lock brakes and a sporty suspension.
And too many features to remember to mention."
"We have the best financing in all of the town -
Our low APR will make you jump up and down.
How about we do business and sign all the papers?
I'll even throw in some floor mats and extra ice scrapers."
He offered me coffee, water or Coke.
"You're a lawyer, you say? Well here's a good joke:
How many attorneys do you think it would take..."
I say "Stop right there, you're making a mistake."
"You see, you and me, we're like kindred spirits -
People make fun, but we don't like to hear it.
The lawyer and salesman are destested and hated.
And so it is our professions are fated."
"But when we team up at least we can be civil,
And not stoop to all of this stereotypical drivel.
So let's make a pact and vow to play nice.
And then we can start to haggle over price."
"And oh by the way, the correct answer is 'two'.
One to screw in the bulb and the other to sue."
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
Shot of Love
Yeah, my wife's chemotherapy has its perks. Free soda at the clinic. The boss goes easy on me at work. Scores of donated casseroles. Sure, it sounds glamorous.
But it's actually not that great. And by 'not that great', I mean 'awful'.
I don't mean to whine. She's on the road to recovery, everything is going well and her spirits are high. And she refuses to complain about it. So I will complain for her.
The treatments themselves aren't too bad. We get to sit in a room with a recliner and a television. They administer the medicine through a slow IV drip that takes about five hours so I fall asleep while she watches Oprah.
And the side affects don't seem to bother her all that much. She knows that every other weekend, she'll sleep until noon. She'll take two more three-hour naps and go to bed at eight. She knows she'll have nausea and her hair will soon fall out. These things we can handle. It becomes a routine. That's probably what keeps us sane.
But when it becomes unpredictable, that's when I start to fall apart. You see, chemo screws with your immune system. It inhibits the ability of your bone marrow to produce white blood cells needed to fight infection. So before every treatment she has blood work done to determine if she's okay for her weekly dosage. If untreated, she becomes vulnerable to any number of unseen pathogens that you or I could fight off with no problem.
There are only two things in this world that scare me. MRSA is one of them (crickets are the other thing, but that's a story for another day). Or if not specifically MRSA, then some unseen communicable killer that goes unnoticed until it's too late. See TB, meningitis, etc. I work in that field, so I have a unique awareness of these types of diseases and their prevalence. In any case, due a low blood count, infection becomes a heightened risk when your immune system is weakened.
Therefore, to stimulate the production of infection-fighting white blood cells, she gets a shot every day. Because it's not practical to visit the clinic everyday for injections, they come in take-home syringes. And because my wife does not fear MRSA (or crickets), but needles, guess who gets to administer the shots? Yeah, this guy (I'm pointing at my chest with my thumbs).
So every evening at six, I get to play doctor with my wife. And not in the good way. I take an inch-long needle and stick it in her thigh, belly, arm, or whatever body part de jour that she thinks will be least painful.
I do this quite confidently - with all the panache and verve of a failed pre-med major (I'm pointing at my chest with my thumbs). Never once do I let the shadowed look of horror darken my visage (spent some time as a failed English major as well). I gather my courage and swallow my revulsion. And with a smile, comforting I hope, I do my business.
And it kills me.
The medicine burns when it goes in. Add in her healthy squeamishness of all-things-sharp and protruding, and you have yourself a heapin' helpin' of horrible.
It's over in a few seconds, but it honestly hurts me infinitely more than it hurts her. And it hurts her pretty badly.
The only consolation is I can say that I'm helping her get better. I'm facilitating some small part of her recovery. But the truth is, I'd rather stick that needle in my own eyeball than poke her with it. I've said before that I'd give anything to be the one who has to go through this. I'd trade places with her in a minute. In a second. Without hesitation.
But I can't.
So I do the best I can with what she's got.
But it's actually not that great. And by 'not that great', I mean 'awful'.
I don't mean to whine. She's on the road to recovery, everything is going well and her spirits are high. And she refuses to complain about it. So I will complain for her.
The treatments themselves aren't too bad. We get to sit in a room with a recliner and a television. They administer the medicine through a slow IV drip that takes about five hours so I fall asleep while she watches Oprah.
And the side affects don't seem to bother her all that much. She knows that every other weekend, she'll sleep until noon. She'll take two more three-hour naps and go to bed at eight. She knows she'll have nausea and her hair will soon fall out. These things we can handle. It becomes a routine. That's probably what keeps us sane.
But when it becomes unpredictable, that's when I start to fall apart. You see, chemo screws with your immune system. It inhibits the ability of your bone marrow to produce white blood cells needed to fight infection. So before every treatment she has blood work done to determine if she's okay for her weekly dosage. If untreated, she becomes vulnerable to any number of unseen pathogens that you or I could fight off with no problem.
There are only two things in this world that scare me. MRSA is one of them (crickets are the other thing, but that's a story for another day). Or if not specifically MRSA, then some unseen communicable killer that goes unnoticed until it's too late. See TB, meningitis, etc. I work in that field, so I have a unique awareness of these types of diseases and their prevalence. In any case, due a low blood count, infection becomes a heightened risk when your immune system is weakened.
Therefore, to stimulate the production of infection-fighting white blood cells, she gets a shot every day. Because it's not practical to visit the clinic everyday for injections, they come in take-home syringes. And because my wife does not fear MRSA (or crickets), but needles, guess who gets to administer the shots? Yeah, this guy (I'm pointing at my chest with my thumbs).
So every evening at six, I get to play doctor with my wife. And not in the good way. I take an inch-long needle and stick it in her thigh, belly, arm, or whatever body part de jour that she thinks will be least painful.
I do this quite confidently - with all the panache and verve of a failed pre-med major (I'm pointing at my chest with my thumbs). Never once do I let the shadowed look of horror darken my visage (spent some time as a failed English major as well). I gather my courage and swallow my revulsion. And with a smile, comforting I hope, I do my business.
And it kills me.
The medicine burns when it goes in. Add in her healthy squeamishness of all-things-sharp and protruding, and you have yourself a heapin' helpin' of horrible.
It's over in a few seconds, but it honestly hurts me infinitely more than it hurts her. And it hurts her pretty badly.
The only consolation is I can say that I'm helping her get better. I'm facilitating some small part of her recovery. But the truth is, I'd rather stick that needle in my own eyeball than poke her with it. I've said before that I'd give anything to be the one who has to go through this. I'd trade places with her in a minute. In a second. Without hesitation.
But I can't.
So I do the best I can with what she's got.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Battle Hymn of Chester Cheetah
Every Sunday afternoon, to the TV I am glued.
My wife begins to interrupt which I think is quite rude.
‘I’m heading to the market so that we can have some food.’
‘Do you want anything?’
‘You say the cupboard’s empty but all you do is complain.’
‘My patience has been tested and now it’s starting to wane.’
‘You’re not very helpful for someone with food on the brain.’
‘Why don’t we make a list.’
I say, “Ballpark Franks and pretzel rods. I think I’m out of those.’
And while you’re there can you get me a 12-pack case of Strohs?’
And I think I need some Chips Ahoy, but that’s it I suppose.’
I’ll be asleep when you return.’
I wake up and check the clock; it’s a quarter after five.
My belly is quite empty and I don’t think I’ll survive.
It’s about two hours later when she pulls up in the drive.
Just in the nick of time.
I rifle through the grocery bags and much to my surprise –
Everything is wholesome – no ice cream sandwiches or pies.
Not a single greasy food like tater tots or fries.
Just what is going on?
Carrot sticks and celery stalks – nothing is a winner.
Where is the Hungry Man entrees or the boxes of Kraft Dinner?
She replies to me, ‘Look honey, you ain’t getting any thinner.’
'You need to drop some weight.'
I fall upon my knees and loudly call out to the skies,
‘Whatever did I do to deserve this cruel, unjust demise?’
I am absolutely, positively comfortable with my size!’
'I need some Cool Ranch dip.'
I sort through all the health food and I don’t see a thing I like.
I can’t make heads or tails of this forced hunger strike.
‘What if I take a jog or even try to ride a bike?’
‘Will you buy me Manwich then?’
She at last grinned a little and she reached behind her back.
And finally revealed the last plastic grocery sack.
‘I felt a little guilty so I did get you a snack.’
Why don’t you look inside?’
I tentatively opened up the Kroger bag in hand.
Needless to say this afternoon hadn’t turned out like I planned.
I hoped and prayed for something that wasn’t good for me or bland.
My luck had finally turned.
My mouth began to water. I’m so glad I called her bluff.
Man can’t live on bread alone or any of that healthy stuff,
So I ripped open the package and grabbed a fried corn puff.
I nearly shed a tear.
I popped one in my waiting mouth with much ado and gust.
My wife, well, she just shook her head in revulsion and disgust.
On my jeans I wiped my fingertips of all the orange dust.
They’re Dangerously Cheezy.™
Cheetos, Cheetos in the pantry.
Cheetos, Cheetos in the pantry.
Cheetos, Cheetos in the pantry.
I am a lucky man.
My wife begins to interrupt which I think is quite rude.
‘I’m heading to the market so that we can have some food.’
‘Do you want anything?’
‘You say the cupboard’s empty but all you do is complain.’
‘My patience has been tested and now it’s starting to wane.’
‘You’re not very helpful for someone with food on the brain.’
‘Why don’t we make a list.’
I say, “Ballpark Franks and pretzel rods. I think I’m out of those.’
And while you’re there can you get me a 12-pack case of Strohs?’
And I think I need some Chips Ahoy, but that’s it I suppose.’
I’ll be asleep when you return.’
I wake up and check the clock; it’s a quarter after five.
My belly is quite empty and I don’t think I’ll survive.
It’s about two hours later when she pulls up in the drive.
Just in the nick of time.
I rifle through the grocery bags and much to my surprise –
Everything is wholesome – no ice cream sandwiches or pies.
Not a single greasy food like tater tots or fries.
Just what is going on?
Carrot sticks and celery stalks – nothing is a winner.
Where is the Hungry Man entrees or the boxes of Kraft Dinner?
She replies to me, ‘Look honey, you ain’t getting any thinner.’
'You need to drop some weight.'
I fall upon my knees and loudly call out to the skies,
‘Whatever did I do to deserve this cruel, unjust demise?’
I am absolutely, positively comfortable with my size!’
'I need some Cool Ranch dip.'
I sort through all the health food and I don’t see a thing I like.
I can’t make heads or tails of this forced hunger strike.
‘What if I take a jog or even try to ride a bike?’
‘Will you buy me Manwich then?’
She at last grinned a little and she reached behind her back.
And finally revealed the last plastic grocery sack.
‘I felt a little guilty so I did get you a snack.’
Why don’t you look inside?’
I tentatively opened up the Kroger bag in hand.
Needless to say this afternoon hadn’t turned out like I planned.
I hoped and prayed for something that wasn’t good for me or bland.
My luck had finally turned.
My mouth began to water. I’m so glad I called her bluff.
Man can’t live on bread alone or any of that healthy stuff,
So I ripped open the package and grabbed a fried corn puff.
I nearly shed a tear.
I popped one in my waiting mouth with much ado and gust.
My wife, well, she just shook her head in revulsion and disgust.
On my jeans I wiped my fingertips of all the orange dust.
They’re Dangerously Cheezy.™
Cheetos, Cheetos in the pantry.
Cheetos, Cheetos in the pantry.
Cheetos, Cheetos in the pantry.
I am a lucky man.
Monday, April 7, 2008
How to Airball a Layup: A Tutorial
If you live around these parts, you're required to embrace the game of basketball with great fervor and zeal. I think in the southern part of the state they teach it in school between Social Studies and Homemade Moonshine 101.
History Lesson: The Native American word for Indiana actually translates to 'Land of White Boys Who Can Hit Their Free Throws'.
Fun Fact: Did you know that, many moons ago, the Pottawatomie Indians lost their territory to the early settlors in a game of H-O-R-S-E? It's true.
After too much firewater at a particularly rousing peace pipe party, Chief Tecumseh foolishly challenged George Rogers Clark to an impromptu shooting contest. After mistakenly thinking he had won with his eyes-closed, flat-footed bank shot from his wig-wam, the chief began talking all kinds of trash. 'You just got scalped, Paleface,' he unwisely taunted.
George Rogers Clark, undaunted by the chief's moves, proceeded to blow everyone's mind with a left-handed, reverse lay-up while eating an ear of maize. It was sick. So sick, in fact, that all the Indians caught the pox and died.
But I pejoritively digress.
So although I'm technically a transplant (O-H-I-O), I consider myself a Hoosier. After all, I'd rather be identified as an ambiguous etymological anomaly than a nut.
Even if that nut is also the inspiration for a ridiculously tasty chocolate-peanut butter confection:
Having forsaken my delicious Buckeye heritage for a state that considers itself 'The South of the North', I have come to accept the importance of all things hoops. So it is with that cognizance that I subject myself to humiliation every Sunday afternoon from 4-6 in the church gymnasium.
Honestly, for being someone who is as impossibly wide as he is tall, I'm not that bad. This is because I don't play with people my own age. I am in a 35-and-over league. I'm nowhere near 35 or over, so this gives me a bit of advantage. My knees don't give out after the first game and I don't have to quit early to take my teenager to afternoon soccer practice.
I can't shoot, dribble, pass or play defense, but I can throw an elbow with the best of 'em. And that's how you play old-man basketball. Where I play it's all sweaty-pits, knee-in-your-groin, elbow-in-your-throat, poked-eyes, chipped-tooth, if-it-doesn't-bleed-you-don't-call-foul goodness. And those guys just don't care if you don't catch that 95 mph. fastball outlet pass they just threw at your face. They'll just throw it faster next time.
These guys play basketball like rugby. They tease me for not being able to touch net, but they envy me for my low center of gravity. Nothing gives me more pleasure than undercutting a 6'8 dunking showoff on a fast break sending him sprawling to the hardwood.
So we basically spend two hours beating the crap out of each other. The scores are low, the floor burns are high, and the soreness the next day is ridiculous. But at the end of our time together, we help each other up, clap each other on the rear, and say, 'Good game'.
You'll find none of this behind the back, no-look, ball-hogging, between-the-legs dribbling garbage. Every once in a while, one of those guys shows up. They don't come back. We leave that nonsense for the types of folks looking forward to the Memphis-Kansas NCAA final tonight.
So while it's not pretty, and certainly not graceful, I wouldn't trade one bloody nose for all the baggy shorts in the world.
That's Indiana basketball.
History Lesson: The Native American word for Indiana actually translates to 'Land of White Boys Who Can Hit Their Free Throws'.
Fun Fact: Did you know that, many moons ago, the Pottawatomie Indians lost their territory to the early settlors in a game of H-O-R-S-E? It's true.
After too much firewater at a particularly rousing peace pipe party, Chief Tecumseh foolishly challenged George Rogers Clark to an impromptu shooting contest. After mistakenly thinking he had won with his eyes-closed, flat-footed bank shot from his wig-wam, the chief began talking all kinds of trash. 'You just got scalped, Paleface,' he unwisely taunted.
George Rogers Clark, undaunted by the chief's moves, proceeded to blow everyone's mind with a left-handed, reverse lay-up while eating an ear of maize. It was sick. So sick, in fact, that all the Indians caught the pox and died.
But I pejoritively digress.
So although I'm technically a transplant (O-H-I-O), I consider myself a Hoosier. After all, I'd rather be identified as an ambiguous etymological anomaly than a nut.
Even if that nut is also the inspiration for a ridiculously tasty chocolate-peanut butter confection:
Having forsaken my delicious Buckeye heritage for a state that considers itself 'The South of the North', I have come to accept the importance of all things hoops. So it is with that cognizance that I subject myself to humiliation every Sunday afternoon from 4-6 in the church gymnasium.
Honestly, for being someone who is as impossibly wide as he is tall, I'm not that bad. This is because I don't play with people my own age. I am in a 35-and-over league. I'm nowhere near 35 or over, so this gives me a bit of advantage. My knees don't give out after the first game and I don't have to quit early to take my teenager to afternoon soccer practice.
I can't shoot, dribble, pass or play defense, but I can throw an elbow with the best of 'em. And that's how you play old-man basketball. Where I play it's all sweaty-pits, knee-in-your-groin, elbow-in-your-throat, poked-eyes, chipped-tooth, if-it-doesn't-bleed-you-don't-call-foul goodness. And those guys just don't care if you don't catch that 95 mph. fastball outlet pass they just threw at your face. They'll just throw it faster next time.
These guys play basketball like rugby. They tease me for not being able to touch net, but they envy me for my low center of gravity. Nothing gives me more pleasure than undercutting a 6'8 dunking showoff on a fast break sending him sprawling to the hardwood.
So we basically spend two hours beating the crap out of each other. The scores are low, the floor burns are high, and the soreness the next day is ridiculous. But at the end of our time together, we help each other up, clap each other on the rear, and say, 'Good game'.
You'll find none of this behind the back, no-look, ball-hogging, between-the-legs dribbling garbage. Every once in a while, one of those guys shows up. They don't come back. We leave that nonsense for the types of folks looking forward to the Memphis-Kansas NCAA final tonight.
So while it's not pretty, and certainly not graceful, I wouldn't trade one bloody nose for all the baggy shorts in the world.
That's Indiana basketball.
Caveat Emptor; Livestock is Non-Refundable
After a week of no sleep and countless accidents on the living room floor, we're renaming our dog 'Buyer's Remorse'.
Just kidding. Kinda. Meet April.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Crying Wolf
At 2:00 a.m. last night I was awoken to what sounded like Mariah Carey giving birth to a 1976 Buick LeSabre with a bad serpentine belt. Or maybe it was Fran Drescher passing a kidney stone. Either way, the clamor startled me wide-eyed from a very pleasant dream involving this year’s SI swimsuit cover model.
Turns out, it was just our new Malamute puppy, April, suffering from separation anxiety in her dog crate. Puppies whine at night. That’s nothing new. But this one yelps and howls like someone is trying to strangle her with her own tail.
I expected it during night one. Unfamiliar place, locked in a tight space, it’s natural for a young pup to cry a bit. This is especially true for an 11-week old whelp just adopted from a loving foster home.
But early this morning, I thought someone was blowing a rape whistle in my ear. Or worse yet, was playing a Dave Matthews Band album on the surround sound (actually, I take that back, I’d rather listen to a thousand screeching puppies than listen to DMB).
Thinking she just needed to water the yard, I put on my robe and let the little hellion out of her crate. She watered the sunroom rug instead, but I figured she’d just settle back down and go to bed.
Nope.
She likes to play this game. It’s called, I’m Going to Go Ahead and Attempt to Eat Everything That Enters My Line of Sight. This is cute at 5:00 in the afternoon when you have the energy to wrestle away the remote control she’s nibbling on. But at 2:30 in the morning, when she’s clamped on your earlobe and spraying urine on your slippers, it’s not so charmingly precocious.
Finally she finished chewing my face and showed some signs of slowing down. Her eyes began to droop and she put her furry face between her paws. She climbed up and curled herself into my lap and sighed a precious puppy sigh. She tilted her head and looked up at me with two sleepy eyes that seemed to say, ‘Thanks, dad. This early morning stuff won’t last forever, but I appreciate the effort in the meantime. Let’s call it a night.'
All puppy breath and wagging tail, I picked her up and carried her limp, wet nosed, half-asleep body back to her crate.
Okay, I thought. Now I remember… this is what I signed up for.
Turns out, it was just our new Malamute puppy, April, suffering from separation anxiety in her dog crate. Puppies whine at night. That’s nothing new. But this one yelps and howls like someone is trying to strangle her with her own tail.
I expected it during night one. Unfamiliar place, locked in a tight space, it’s natural for a young pup to cry a bit. This is especially true for an 11-week old whelp just adopted from a loving foster home.
But early this morning, I thought someone was blowing a rape whistle in my ear. Or worse yet, was playing a Dave Matthews Band album on the surround sound (actually, I take that back, I’d rather listen to a thousand screeching puppies than listen to DMB).
Thinking she just needed to water the yard, I put on my robe and let the little hellion out of her crate. She watered the sunroom rug instead, but I figured she’d just settle back down and go to bed.
Nope.
She likes to play this game. It’s called, I’m Going to Go Ahead and Attempt to Eat Everything That Enters My Line of Sight. This is cute at 5:00 in the afternoon when you have the energy to wrestle away the remote control she’s nibbling on. But at 2:30 in the morning, when she’s clamped on your earlobe and spraying urine on your slippers, it’s not so charmingly precocious.
Finally she finished chewing my face and showed some signs of slowing down. Her eyes began to droop and she put her furry face between her paws. She climbed up and curled herself into my lap and sighed a precious puppy sigh. She tilted her head and looked up at me with two sleepy eyes that seemed to say, ‘Thanks, dad. This early morning stuff won’t last forever, but I appreciate the effort in the meantime. Let’s call it a night.'
All puppy breath and wagging tail, I picked her up and carried her limp, wet nosed, half-asleep body back to her crate.
Okay, I thought. Now I remember… this is what I signed up for.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
I've Caught the Obama Virus and We Can Too
Barack Obama is moving in the vacant office downstairs.
What was once a Flagstar Bank is now the offical state volunteer headquarters of the 2008 Obama for President Campaign.
Apparently it's a big deal. Celebrities are showing up. Actor Jeremy Piven is in the lobby registering voters. It's reassuring to know that Ari Gold has the Audacity of Hope.
I work in (and for) a state that historically has been an also-ran in the primary election scene. But due to the fact that both Democratic candidates pander to the exact same issues and have the same take on virtually everything and are indistinguishable in every possible way policy-wise, this one's going down to the wire.
Now this state matters after years of being the doormat of national politics.
And it's totally annoying.
I'm not into the political scene. I describe my leanings as apathetic at best. I've never voted because, well, I don't know enough about candidates from year to year to make an educated decision. I know, I know. I'm taking for granted my fellow countrymen who laid down their lives so that I could have the freedom to...blah, blah, blah. Whatever.
But it would be kinda okay to have Barack as an office mate or even a boss. Judging by his YouTube viral marketing campaign song based on his New Hampshire primary speech, he's terribly agreeable about everything. You know the one with the lead singer from the hip-hop band that sings a song called "My Humps"?
It would be like this:
I guess everyone has their limits.
What was once a Flagstar Bank is now the offical state volunteer headquarters of the 2008 Obama for President Campaign.
Apparently it's a big deal. Celebrities are showing up. Actor Jeremy Piven is in the lobby registering voters. It's reassuring to know that Ari Gold has the Audacity of Hope.
I work in (and for) a state that historically has been an also-ran in the primary election scene. But due to the fact that both Democratic candidates pander to the exact same issues and have the same take on virtually everything and are indistinguishable in every possible way policy-wise, this one's going down to the wire.
Now this state matters after years of being the doormat of national politics.
And it's totally annoying.
I'm not into the political scene. I describe my leanings as apathetic at best. I've never voted because, well, I don't know enough about candidates from year to year to make an educated decision. I know, I know. I'm taking for granted my fellow countrymen who laid down their lives so that I could have the freedom to...blah, blah, blah. Whatever.
But it would be kinda okay to have Barack as an office mate or even a boss. Judging by his YouTube viral marketing campaign song based on his New Hampshire primary speech, he's terribly agreeable about everything. You know the one with the lead singer from the hip-hop band that sings a song called "My Humps"?
It would be like this:
"Hey Barack, should we go to Starbucks for some coffee?"
"Yes we can."
"Dude, wanna take a smoke break?"
"Yes we can."
"Mr. Obama, is it okay if the whole office leaves a little early today to make it to happy hour?"
"Yes we can."
"The men's bathroom on the third floor needs some air fresheners. Badly. Can we order some from building maintenance?"
"Yes we can."
"Do you want to take our lunch in the 8th floor break room where all the creepy IT guys sit around playing Magic: The Gathering?"
"Yes we can."
"Or would you rather go to Penn Station?"
"No. I don't like Penn Station."
"Yes we can."
"Dude, wanna take a smoke break?"
"Yes we can."
"Mr. Obama, is it okay if the whole office leaves a little early today to make it to happy hour?"
"Yes we can."
"The men's bathroom on the third floor needs some air fresheners. Badly. Can we order some from building maintenance?"
"Yes we can."
"Do you want to take our lunch in the 8th floor break room where all the creepy IT guys sit around playing Magic: The Gathering?"
"Yes we can."
"Or would you rather go to Penn Station?"
"No. I don't like Penn Station."
I guess everyone has their limits.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Et tu, Jake?
The Ides of March were harsher than usual this year. In fact, it kinda lasted from the 12th through the 23rd. Why limit it to the 15th when you can experience a whole two weeks of Shakespearian tragedy? Ten days removed, it seems surreal to think that what went down actually did.
Twelve days after my wife was diagnosed with cancer, and six days after we lost our dog Indie, our other dog Jake ran away. That was on Easter Sunday. Countless hours of searching later, we haven't seen a trace of him.
The cancer we took in stride. The Indie ordeal was difficult, but we knew we made the right decision. We couldn't handle the pressures of chemo treatment with an unpredictable animal in the house anyway. The loss of Jake, however, - our beloved faithful canine companion - nearly broke us.
Indie was my wife's dog. She took her demise better because she witnessed the attack and knew that the dog had it coming. Jake, though, was my boy. I rescued him from the shelter, took him to classes, trained him to mind, and considered him a great friend. We both very much looked to him for comfort after my wife's diagnosis and Indie's ultimate fate. He provided it without hesitation.
Jake's nickname was Shakes. Whenever he'd see me coming, he'd hunch down with his rear end up in the air and wiggle, or shake, his whole backside in excitement. Shakes was a fifty pound lap dog, never knew a stranger and we didn't consider him a flight risk until that day he ran.
And I miss him so much.
I still have hope that someone will find him. Ads are in the paper. He's embedded with an identification microchip. The local vets and shelters have been notified. But it's been ten days and hope is waning.
Now the house feels emptier than it's been in years. For the next few days we kinda wandered around the place in a fog. It just didn't feel like a home without a pup to snuggle up to.
We knew what was missing. Slowly, we gathered the courage to begin browsing the local shelter listings. Nothing felt right. It was too soon. Then my wife stumbled upon an entry for a baby Alaskan Malamute. I hestitantly e-mailed the foster home, expecting to hear of the pup's recent adoption. But I figured with our recent luck, she'd be gone.
But then, as our terrible month of March came to a close, across the electronic lines of communication came a message that warmed our hearts. She was available. We quickly made a date for a visit.
You see, dogs don't heal wounds. They don't cure cancer or bring good luck. What has happened has happened. We're so extremely grateful and fortunate that a highly treatable form of cancer and a couple lost animals are our biggest concerns right now. There are others that experience so much more hardship and I wouldn't presume to make light of that. You'd be right if you said that, in the scheme of things, a couple lost dogs are small potatoes.
But in our little corner of the world, the last four weeks have been difficult. And the affection and comfort that comes with having a dog or two around have been painfully absent.
So I'm going tonight to meet a new one. She's a 15 pound ball of fur that will no doubt chew our couch cushions and poop on our carpet. She won't make us forget about Indie or Jake and definitely won't replace them.
But she just might get this month off to a brighter start. March was tough, and we could use a little joy in our lives right now. We've already picked out a name that may be just as fitting as it is timely:
We're going to name her April.
Twelve days after my wife was diagnosed with cancer, and six days after we lost our dog Indie, our other dog Jake ran away. That was on Easter Sunday. Countless hours of searching later, we haven't seen a trace of him.
The cancer we took in stride. The Indie ordeal was difficult, but we knew we made the right decision. We couldn't handle the pressures of chemo treatment with an unpredictable animal in the house anyway. The loss of Jake, however, - our beloved faithful canine companion - nearly broke us.
Indie was my wife's dog. She took her demise better because she witnessed the attack and knew that the dog had it coming. Jake, though, was my boy. I rescued him from the shelter, took him to classes, trained him to mind, and considered him a great friend. We both very much looked to him for comfort after my wife's diagnosis and Indie's ultimate fate. He provided it without hesitation.
Jake's nickname was Shakes. Whenever he'd see me coming, he'd hunch down with his rear end up in the air and wiggle, or shake, his whole backside in excitement. Shakes was a fifty pound lap dog, never knew a stranger and we didn't consider him a flight risk until that day he ran.
And I miss him so much.
I still have hope that someone will find him. Ads are in the paper. He's embedded with an identification microchip. The local vets and shelters have been notified. But it's been ten days and hope is waning.
Now the house feels emptier than it's been in years. For the next few days we kinda wandered around the place in a fog. It just didn't feel like a home without a pup to snuggle up to.
We knew what was missing. Slowly, we gathered the courage to begin browsing the local shelter listings. Nothing felt right. It was too soon. Then my wife stumbled upon an entry for a baby Alaskan Malamute. I hestitantly e-mailed the foster home, expecting to hear of the pup's recent adoption. But I figured with our recent luck, she'd be gone.
But then, as our terrible month of March came to a close, across the electronic lines of communication came a message that warmed our hearts. She was available. We quickly made a date for a visit.
You see, dogs don't heal wounds. They don't cure cancer or bring good luck. What has happened has happened. We're so extremely grateful and fortunate that a highly treatable form of cancer and a couple lost animals are our biggest concerns right now. There are others that experience so much more hardship and I wouldn't presume to make light of that. You'd be right if you said that, in the scheme of things, a couple lost dogs are small potatoes.
But in our little corner of the world, the last four weeks have been difficult. And the affection and comfort that comes with having a dog or two around have been painfully absent.
So I'm going tonight to meet a new one. She's a 15 pound ball of fur that will no doubt chew our couch cushions and poop on our carpet. She won't make us forget about Indie or Jake and definitely won't replace them.
But she just might get this month off to a brighter start. March was tough, and we could use a little joy in our lives right now. We've already picked out a name that may be just as fitting as it is timely:
We're going to name her April.
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