Breather

I'm off to Chicago on Monday morning for a client meeting that lasts through Thursday afternoon. My wife will fly up to join me on Thursday afternoon for a min-vacation, through Monday.

With my gluttony on hold (or, I should say, permanently eliminated in favor of sensible eating), our normal emphasis for such a trip will change. Instead of a laser focus on food, we will try to find appealing food that will fit our new lifestyle while we aim at something else.

This trip, it appears we're going to be on an architectural odyssey. If the weather holds, we'll plan to take a Chicago River architectural tour, which is one of the most intriguing things one can do while in Chicago. The architecture from the river is spectacular; the Chicago Architecture Foundation tour guides are extremely knowledgeable and make the trip a blast. My wife's sister, and her sister's boyfriend, will join us for Saturday and Sunday and they, too, have expressed an interest in the Chicago River tour, so we're off to a good start.

Then, we're hoping to get together with some old friends for dim sum on Sunday morning (well, the diet has to step aside sometime, doesn't it?). They are a lot of fun. When we lived there, we used to drive all over Chicago...into some pretty dicey neighborhoods...with them just to see the world and experience the amazing sights and sounds of the city. I think they're still into that; last time we visited, we wandered through the old Italian parts of town and, late one evening, found a street cart selling freshly-made gelato.

I hope I can keep my mind off work for at least awhile. We have another client meeting in Washington, DC the first week in October and we have an ENORMOUS amount of work to do for it. I hope my staff and a temp can get on top of it while I'm away; if not, I'll have to spend some of my time in Chicago on my computer, taking care of the client.

After the October event, there is plenty more to do, but we have at least a modest breather. I need a breather.

Central Standards

I posted a comment on the PBS Facebook page a day or two ago, responding to a comment critical of David Brooks (New York Times) and Mark Shields (syndicated columnist), two regular political analysts who appear on the PBS NewsHour. The comment to which I responded suggested that the two men are not sufficiently "left" or "right" to be worth listening to; rather, it suggested that both are centrists. My comment was this: "I appreciate Shields and Brooks precisely because they are not the strident, shrill, argumentative political shills that seem so popular today. While they both speak from a relatively centrist viewpoint, they have different perspectives that are thought-provoking."

One of the responses to my comment follows: "Jose's point about the pro-establishment bias and lack of diverse opinions in terms of race, class, political opinion and economic perspective is a good one. They speak in the calming, measured tones of authority that needn't raise its voice, but that doesn't erase the troubles or the suffering that does cause people to raise their voices in "shrill" or "argumentative" protest, most of which will never be aired on PBS, just as it will never be broadcast on Fox News."

When I read that comment, and others like it, I realized that what I consider civil, reasoned debated and arguments by political analysts (both of whom have admittedly biased perspectives but who can understand their opposition's viewpoint) are viewed by others as worthless because of their visible lack of outrage. And then, in thinking back just a couple of years, I realized I have felt the same from time to time.

Occasionally, I make it a point to watch far-right commentators--who I do consider shrill, argumentative nutjobs--just so I know what they are saying. But I used to watch their counterparts farther to the left much more frequently because I agreed with their positions and, I suppose, I wanted my ego stroked by hearing my opinions echoed by the likes of Keith Obermann. I still appreciate Keith Obermann's positions far more than I do Glenn Beck's (who I consider a dangerous psychopath), but I don't expect either of them to give me anything but their narrow perspective on the world. For the most part, they do not deliver news or analysis; they deliver feel-good-juice for those who share their perspectives (or, blood-pressure-enhancement to those who don't).

Perhaps it's simply because I'm getting older that I find the shrill, argumentative, high-pitched outrage I so often hear from apologists for extreme points of view very, very annoying. I can't help but think that the people who drink it up like koolaid, whichever flavor, are missing the opportunity to achieve any level of true understanding. When one's perspective is so completely controlled by one's own opinions that any differing opinions are merely dismissed, understanding is not possible.

You might think I'm becoming a centrist myself to read what I've just written. Possibly, but I think not. I still have strong opinions, most of them constructed from a very liberal perspective, but I choose to listen more to those who do not share them. I tend not to listen, though, to people who screech about their political positions but, instead, I listen to reasoned 'calming, measured tones" that tell me the speakers are telling me what they think, not simply what they feel.

Yoga

I've spent the evening downloading and listening to music. "Free," for the most part, courtesy of TXU, which thanked me for paying my electric bills all these years by giving me a certificate good for 15 credits (one credit per tune) to download from www.emusic.com.

This "free" music illustrates what I've believed all along. My electric bills in this unregulated environment are sufficiently high to fund not only retirement in luxury for the greedy executives of the company but they're high enough to fund "gifts" to the schmucks who pay the bastards.

But if I have to get shafted, it's better to be shafted and "paid" for it than not. So I got a fresh copy of an album that wasn't of high enough quality to transfer well to iTunes. I also got some individual tunes: Nashville Cats by Lovin' Spoonful; Fox Confessor Brings the Flood by Nikko Case; and They Ain't Making Jews Like Jesus Anymore by Kinky Friedman.

Oh, I glanced through the latest issue of Family Handyman (my wishful thinking read). I am ready to put in tiger's-eye glass tile counters in the master bath; all I'm lacking are skill and money. They claim it's an easy do-it-yourself weekend project, but I know better. If I started it, it would take months, if not years, and would challenge every ounce of my ability and my patience.

So maybe I'll take a yoga class, instead.

Shirtline

Something tugs at my sleeves as I start to venture out, drawing me back.
It feels like fear, but it's not mine; it's fear that I'm taking us into uncharted water without an oar and without a sail and with no life vests and, maybe, without caring that I'm putting us in danger.

I flush in anger at the tug on my sleeve, but silently breathe a sigh of relief that my courage can't be tested, not yet.

There's truth in the fear, you see. There is no plan, no anchor, no lifeline, just an urge to experience what may be real freedom, but may simply be chaos.

Plans are for the weak, I say to myself. But maybe my bravado is an analogy for sloth or indecision or some other flaw that's hidden among the thousands of others.

I could stop the tugging at my sleeve, if I really wanted to. The real fear, though, is of taking off my shirt.

Bidness as Usual

Thanks to Konagod for posting this so I could re-posst.

Listen, Body!

My body misunderstood itself. It thought the change in diet and the consequent drop in blood pressure was a signal for the kidneys to shut down. Silly body! That's not what it meant at all!

I've had a chat with it and everything is fine. The nephrologist agrees; says come back in a month to check things out, but in the meantime there are no food restrictions, etc. and all is back to normal, unless he calls me with bloodwork results to tell me differently. Neither of us anticipate that.

My body is paying much closer attention now.

"See, I Told You I Was Sick"

The title is said to refer to someone's headstone. Fortunately, it doesn't yet refer to mine (I discourage any plans for a headstone to commemorate my departure...when the time comes, spend the money on a road trip, instead). But I was right. I was sick. I just wasn't right about what was wrong.

After seeing the doctor last Wednesday and giving his minions what seemed like quarts of my blood, I was waiting until the first full week in September to find out what the blood tests, etc. revealed. By Saturday I was feeling even worse and had decided to wait it out by sleeping. About 1:00 pm the doctor’s office called to tell me to go to the hospital ER. My blood tests, it seems, told them I was in renal failure. So, off I went to the ER. And a lovely ER it was. Truly. I was impressed.

This hospital, the nearest one of consequence, is only five years old and I’d never been there. If necessary, I would go back. I would highly recommend it to people who need institutionalization; I mean that in the most positive way.

I was admitted. Sure enough, I was in renal failure, with exceptionally low blood pressure and, according to their tests, a boatload of potassium in my blood which, I learned, is not a good thing. It’s the sort of thing that can kill you. I recommend against working out one’s anger through the use of potassium chew-bones. I learned that drinking tiny bottles full of sodium polystyrene sulfonate (also known as kayexalate) helps rid one’s body of the unwanted mineral by binding to potassium which is then eliminated through, to use the phrase the ER doctor used, “pooping it out.”

Apparently, when the people doing the hiring for this hospital went to work, they discovered an abundance of capable professional females; there were EXTREMELY few men at the place. The ER nurses were all female, the ER doctor was female, the nephrologist they brought in to assess my renal health was female, the X-ray and sonographic technicians were female. Lot and lots of females. The “transport” staff, the people who roll sick patients around from test to test and wheel them to the door upon departure, are male. Women do the work that requires intelligence and education; men do the work that requires brawn and not much else. I’m not complaining. They all did a magnificent job. I may switch to an all-female team of healthcare providers, based on what they did. In assembling the team, though, I won’t make the mistake I made when, when speaking to the ER doctor, I bumblingly referred to the renal doctor as a “phrenologist.” She was very forgiving, though. God knows what the nephrologist would have thought…or done...had she heard my malapropism.

All of my accolades notwithstanding, my short time in the hospital was not without its downsides.

The professional medical staff and technicians seem to have a sadistic bent. They positively beamed when they entered my room, ready to subject me to all manner of indignities and pain. All of them sincerely enjoyed the jobs they had been hired to do, which was to torment a certain renal patient who was feeling pretty damn feeble. Even the midnight callers who awoke me to determine whether my blood pressure had fallen off a cliff seemed anxious to help. They did what they could to frighten me awake, apparently thinking that, by startling me, they would cause a life-saving increase in my very low blood pressure. To a person (with one notable exception about whom I may devote a scathing screed one day), they were focused. Vehemently so. Uncomfortably so.

Between intense periods of joyous stabbings by enthusiastic technicians with needles and proddings by intensely serious sonographers, I was able to watch television. I spent an inordinate amount of time on Sunday morning watching Food Network shows, where obscenely rich foodies strut their stuff and crow about their highly sophisticated palates. Just when I would get comfortable with a show, though, or would switch off the television and try to just rest, there would be people with sharp objects coming for me again.

During the two nights I was there, I observed an odd ritual. At about 4:00 a.m., a technician awoke me with the avowed purpose of drawing blood. On both occasions, the initial attempts to find a suitable vein were unsuccessful, resulting in multiple stab wounds in both arms (in one arm there was an IV, which did not deter the technician). When finally my body was trained to tense up in anticipation of the pain that was about to occur when I heard the phrase, “this will be a big stick,” the technician decided to thrust the pencil-sized needle into a real vein and filled several canisters full of my blood. This ritualistic blood-letting was one of the least pleasant aspects of my hospital stay. The “bad nurse” about whom I may write a book, though, is neck-in-neck for that honor. When my IV started leaking blood, her attempts to start another one in my other arm were completely unsuccessful. After her third botched attempt, she called for reinforcements; her colleague arrived awhile later and skillfully inserted a new line on the top of my left hand, drawing not a drop of blood.

But you’re not reading this because you want to hear about blood-letting. You’re reading this because your life is an empty shell and I'm the best you can do for amusement. Poor you.

The bottom line to this long and boring story is that I was released from the hospital with a tentative diagnosis of acute renal failure. I was told my blood pressure may have dropped considerably because of my recent changes in diet, which would have been exacerbated by the blood pressure medications I was on. The reduction in blood pressure could have signaled my kidneys to stop functioning at capacity, which resulted in the build-up in my blood of “bad stuff” like potassium and creatinine. The twice-administered kayexalate drink helped remove bad stuff and my potassium levels improved considerably. My blood pressure, on the other hand, is still too low, but the doctors theorize it will return to “normal” fairly quickly. BUT, I am to see the nephrologist (the female’s partner, who took over for her on Monday) and my family doctor this week for follow-up.

I’m counting on this entire episode being an unfortunate accident that does NOT indicate that I have kidney disease that will require an entirely different diet and other such things I am singularly unprepared to accept. We shall see. I’m not back to “normal” in terms of energy, but I expect to be at 100% in very few days. And I’m still losing weight!

Nag

It's almost 4:00 a.m. I've been awake since before 2:45. I'm tired, and probably will be able to go back to sleep before long, but not yet.

I just read an email from a woman I knew 40+ years ago, quite awhile before I graduated from high school. She's an assistant U.S. attorney now. I connected to her through another woman I happened to stumble upon on Facebook; this other woman went to my high school. I knew neither of them very well, but now, all these years later, I'm finding their lives interesting. Both of them have had some truly bad misfortunes over the years, causing me to reflect on how generally positive my life has been so far. The attorney and I share some common histories of health maladies. She strikes me as intelligent, though she admits to being a conservative which is a disappointment; I like to think intelligent people, from my past and my present, would tend to be liberal.

Still no word on what my physical ailments might be. I had lots of blood drawn earlier this week, but I don't have the results yet. I have had chest X-rays and neck X-rays and am awaiting to be scheduled for an MRI. I also have to schedule a stress echocardiagram. The "second phase" of my physical is scheduled for more than a week hence. Until then, at least, I suppose I have to cope with upper body and arm and leg "tiredness," for lack of a better term. That and sometimes intensely sore calf muscles and general tiredness. And a nagging pain in my left side, just under my rib cage. I hope I'm not falling apart. My energy is a touch better than it has been earlier this week, though. Maybe.

But not enough to stay awake any longer. I need to lay on my side; maybe the nagging pain will disappear, or at least subside.

Caving In

Maybe I'll find out tomorrow whether there's any cardiac relationship to my recent spate of extreme muscle pain and weakness in my arms and, more recently, my calves. Today I had to leave work this morning because I was so weak I could barely stand. And walking was extremely difficult because of the intense pain in my calves with every step. This is all after I've had sensations in my neck and shoulders and upper back...sensations like my body-parts are going to sleep.

At the moment, I'm much better. Pain is not nearly as bad, though "aches" are rampant. I see a cardiologist tomorrow afternoon to make up for skipping my last three semi-annual appointments. Then, in mid-September, I get a real annual physical, again only two years late.

And maybe soon I'll see a dentist. Wouldn't that be unusual?

Old Photographs

I have a tendency to look at old photographs and assign to them a sense of romance or adventure or wistfulness for a time gone by or god knows what. Maybe that's what meaningful old photographs do to people. But some old photographs just bring back memories that should never have formed and, certainly, shouldn't persist. Those are the photographs that should be burned. But we're never quite ready to burn them, are we? There's always a chance we will, one day, see something more in them than what there was when they were taken. I guess I've done it again. I said "meaningful" old photographs when I should have said photographs we wished had meaning, in the more pleasant sense.

The Courage to Explore

I scanned the graveyard, looking for evidence that the corpses left here had meant something. I was looking for a sign, a headstone. Anything. Just a hint that said, "Once upon a time, those left here mattered." Not to me, perhaps, but to someone. Anyone. Where, I wondered, were the signs of grief at their passing?

While I gazed at the huge expanse of discarded tombs and open graves and mounds of empty, sterile earth, I felt as if my gaze was returned by every one of the inhabitants, looking to me as a savior, someone who would prove that someone really did care. They looked at me in anticipation that I would revive them and acknowledge them for the potential they once had, and might still have.

But the headstones, if that's what they were—those broken markers struggling for visibility from beneath an eternity of snow and seasons—had long since seen any meticulously carved messages etched and eroded away. The funereal winds, heavy with the dust they, themselves, had pumped into the tense atmosphere, had erased any messages that may have been destined for remembrance.

This graveyard was filled with invisible skeletons, hidden as they were beneath the accumulated detritus of wishes and dreams and even some prayers. But I knew that not all of the denizens of this place were dead. Their hope, as they clung to the tight enclosure that surrounded this expansive plot, was palpable. I could sense that they remained barely alive, hoping someone, anyone, would come to understand that they were not dead...they had simply been left for dead. They were struggling, hard, to take in another fresh breath that would revive them and allow them to step back into the world. They wanted someone to breathe new life into them.
But this is the place where we are told they are meant to be buried.

Some of them were aborted shortly after birth. Others tried valiantly to survive what were no doubt inauspicious beginnings. Many, perhaps most, of them might have been saved if given enough nourishment and encouragement and a safe place to develop and grow.

But they failed to thrive in this sometimes cruel world and so were quietly extinguished and sent to the graveyard. Most of them, who were undeveloped and unnourished, passed silently from consciousness without notice. And here is their final resting place. Does anyone have the courage to open the caskets and explore this graveyard, this place where so many have died alone and unfulfilled?
This is the graveyard of ideas.

Los Cenzontles--La Luna

Excuse me while I check this out.

Celery Stalks

12.4 pounds down, 71.6 to go. If I accomplish this feat I will weigh 160 pounds. I cannot BELIEVE how much weight I've put on since my temporary health fanaticsm right after my coronary bypasses. That was six years ago. My lowest weight at the time was 185, very briefly. That was after I'd lost about 25 pounds or thereabouts. I have 46 pounds to go just to get there. I've put on SO much weight since then.

Mamas don't let your babies grow up to eat pizzas,
Let 'em eat carrots and celery stalks,
Make 'em play sports and take strenuous walks.

OK, I can't do this, but you probably get the message.

Until

I'm not sure of the best descriptive term. Writer's block isn't it. It's not that I can't write, it's that I don't feel like I have anything worth writing about. Writer's dullness isn't really it, though, because I could write about things that could, with sufficient attention and planning, be interesting and entertaining. The need to give a great deal of attention to the task suggests it may not be an innate skill. Writer's inadequacy could begin to describe it, I suppose, except that it's not so much inadequacy as it is malaise. That might do it. Writer's malaise. It sounds close, but there's something not quite right about it or perhaps something is missing.

Upon closer reflection, it becomes abundantly clear and embarrassingly simple. It is Wanna-be writer's malaise. I've mistaken myself for a writer when, in reality, I am a wanna-be. I talk a good game, but I don't write enough to make it real. And finally, I'm experiencing what it for what it is: a wish to be a writer who possesses born skill...but, instead, being one without sufficient drive, talent, or content to give purchase to the desire.

Perhaps, though, I just have to be in the mood. There are times when I've felt like my writing was excellent and that it had the potential of getting into readers' minds the way some of the authors I've read have gotten into mine. But, back to reality. If I write, I will write when I feel like writing. Not until.

Saga of Salads

Today is day seven of my endeavor to lose literally dozens of pounds of ugly fat. My rapid weight loss seemed to occur during the first three days. Since then, it's been drifting ever-so-slowly down, with no hint of the enormous drop that I hoped to see by the end of week one. I must have patience, though; I didn't gain all this excess weight overnight and I won't lose it so quickly.

It would no doubt help if I actually followed-through on my promised exercise regimen, but I have been unable to do that...well, partly unable and partly unwilling. The unable component has to do with the horrendous aches/pains in my neck and shoulders that have been hitting me these last several days. The pain gets so bad that the only thing that will resolve them is Naxodol and laying on my side in bed.

Yesterday, I made the mistake of deciding I could do some yard work and outside window-cleaning, which badly exacerbated the problem. I suffered for it all yesterday afternoon and into last night. Two Naxodol tablets helped by putting me out for a few hours, but they're running low; I've made overtures on Facebook to anyone traveling to Mexico to bring some back with them next time they cross the border. My sister-in-law has offered to bring some next trip up; I may get some from a business acquaintance who's off to Cancun next week. Who knew I would one day be depending on border crossings to give me the pain relief I need? Too bad the U.S. government's system of "protecting" its citizens is so paternalistic and authoritarian. I should not go there; I will only write a fiery screed condemning what has devolved into a near-totalitarian state, even under a "Democratic" administration.

Back to the diet/lifestyle adjustments. I'm find that I actually like the smaller servings and avoidance of heavier dishes. Don't get me wrong, I love foods that are very bad for me, and I like them in large quantities; but something about this new, lighter diet is very appealing. I have to admit, though, that the called-for serving-sizes of vegetables are a little unreasonable. Last night, for example, I baked a medly of vegetables that should have been good for four servings; we made it into two servings. Maybe THAT's why my weight isn't dropping like a rock! No matter, it's OK with me. As long as I can continue to slow but steady decline. As of this morning, my cumulative weight loss is 8.8 pounds; only 1.8 pounds more than I'd lost at day 3. I will continue, though.

Floating Away

Just three days into my South Beach-like diet and I'm having no trouble at all keeping with it. The only difficulty is the amount of work involved in chopping vegetables! With the amount of veggies we're eating, it seems like I'm constantly chopping, chopping, chopping, then mixing and matching them for odd little meals (that are, by the way, quite tasty) and mid-morning and mid-afternoon snacks.

I'm not sure I need the snacks, but I'm following the proposed meal plan reasonably closely, anyway. If I could simply consume veggies in vast quantities and still get the requisite vitamins, protein, etc., I'd almost be willing to give up meat. Maybe.

By this morning, since my first official weigh-in on Monday morning, I'd lost seven pounds, the vast majority of which, I'm sure, is water. That's OK. I remember last time I did this the water loss or whatever it was helped me fit much more comfortably into my clothes. Laying off the booze is no doubt helping. I didn't realize how much I'd gotten used to a drink or two here or there or there or there or there or over there.

My consumption of water, flavored ever-so-slightly with lime juice when I'm drinking it at home, has sky-rocketed. I'm floating those pounds away. I figure by the time I'm old enough to collect Social Security, I'll have lost enough weight to be a mere wisp of a geezer.

Drop the Pounds, Mister!

I hope I've finally reached the point of achieving some degree of discipline about my weight. I just have to shed some pounds. Lots of them. I'll start by doing a stint on the South Beach diet (or close facsimile thereof), then simply change my lifestyle. "Simply." Hah! Well, it won't be simple but I need to do it.

Now that I'm thinking in those terms, I also will return to my long-lost regimen of taking walks early in the morning. Even though the temperatures before daylight are in the low 80s, I will do it, by God! I'll get up and walk. I'll start slow (else my knees will curse me and call me names), but will try to work back up to my erstwhile pace.

I don't know whether to set a long-term goal (i.e., when to achieve my "ideal" weight and what that weight should be) or simply plod along and watch the pounds melt away. I'm leaning toward setting a goal and announcing it to the world so that I might feel obliged not to give up for fear of being labeled a quitter.

Let's see, for someone of my height and bone structure, I'm thinking I should weigh about 170 pounds. That is a long, long way off. I'm probably topping 250 now. An 80 pound weight-loss target? And then keeping it stable. Whew! We'll see. If it weren't illegal to post pathetic pornographic pictures of geezers, I might post a nude photo of myself each week. Aside from offending anyone who visited this blog, though, I would reduce my already paltry traffic count to zero. So I won't do that.

I'm not patient, though. So this endeavor is going to be grueling for me.

My First Mistake...sort of

I'm feeling the pressure. I terminated the employment of a staff member a couple of weeks ago and it's really getting to me. She had to go, there's no question about taht. But it put me under the gun. And I do not like that, even a little.

The temp we have is doing reasonably well, but I'm not sure he's got what it takes to do what I need for the long haul.

I should never had started a business that requires employees. That was my first mistake.

It was a dark and steamy morning...

Here I am again, up way too early on a Sunday morning. I got up around 4:30, but I had been awake off and on for a long time before that. It was a string of dreams from which I awakened that convinced me to get up; I didn't want any more of those dreams. The heat and humidity may have something to do with being up at this hour. It's too damn hot and I feel like it's way too humid, too. We should relocate to a cooler, drier climate.

The first dream involved me sitting at a table with the board of directors of a client organization. They were arguing over whether I should go to the parent organization's annual conference. I just listened, not telling them I had no interest in attending. The second one involved me digging around a back-yard with a shovel, to discover that a wooden deck was buried underneath a foot or two of soil and grass; one of my brothers chastised me for damaging the wood with the shovel.

Neither dream was particularly offensive, but both were annoying and had the character of dreams that could keep repeating if I drifted back to sleep. So I didn't.

I haven't made coffee yet...I haven't decided whether I will. Nothing of interest has struck my fancy on my internet wanderings yet this morning, so maybe I need coffee to jolt my imagination awake.

So, I'm off to wander...trying to decide.

Thanks, Teresa

I just got a call from a wonderful friend. Teresa, you're spectacular. I really do appreciate your call, my dear. It was such a nice thing to call me to check on me. And I won't publish my offensive poem!

Not Fair

Last night and tonight, I've been sitting alone in the house, trying to get used to the temporary state of being alone. My wife went into the hospital yesterday morning for two+ days of observation while a new drug treatment is being tested on her.

This new drug treatment is supposed to change the electrical properties of her heart so that her ICD does not shock her unless she is in serious danger of sudden cardiac death. She's been shocked inappropriately twice as a result of her heart's unusual electrical properties, which causes her heart-beat to speed up dramatically.

It's all scary and I hate it. I want things to be "normal" again. But that's not realistic. Her heart has been troublesome for many years. It's showing its age. So we deal with devices and medications to make it last as long as possible.

I hope we can share a long retirement. I'm afraid neither of us may make it until retirement even begins. And that's not fair at all. That's not part of the plan.

Roadtrip Photos.

Here is a batch of photos from our 2010 Great Texas BBQ Roadtrip. Next time, I'm taking more pictures and a better camera.

The Joy of BBQ!

This is a tiny sample of nirvana. Food from Kreuz Market, Lockhart, Texas. Oh, the joy of spectacular barbeque! The wonder! From the great Texas BBQ Road Trip, July, 2010. My friends and I went to Lexington, Lockhart, and Llano.

Road-Trip Barbeque!

In lieu of doing work that I desparately need to do around the house next weekend, I'm joining a couple of other guys on a hard-driving BBQ road trip on Saturday. We'll drive to Lexington (Snow's), Llano (Cooper's), and Lockhart (Kruetz Market and Black's) before turning to head back home. Lexington's is said to run out of food before noon, so we're heading out early (5:30 am) to be sure we are not disappointed.

There are plenty of other places we could go (Smitty's in Lockhart, Louis Mueller's and Mikeska's in Taylor, City Market and Luling Bar-BQ in Luling, and plenty more, but we have limited time, money, and space in our stomachs.

My target meats are: coarsely-ground, highly spiced sausage; brisket; cabrito (baby goat); and any number of ribs and various cut of pork. The unfortunate fact about having only three guys on the trip is that we won't be able to get portions that are small enough to allow each of us to share small portions.

I hope this BBQ adventure meets my expectations. If not, I'll have to try another food tourism adventure soon.

A Circuitous Route to BlogFest 2011 in Dallas

I spent seven days, last Wednesday and Thursday, trying to testify at a trial in Los Angeles. I had received a subpoena that commanded me to be in Los Angeles for a week, beginning July 13, so I dutifully made my arrangements to go.

The FBI agent who was my contact told me not to worry, I wouldn't really need to be there for a week. In fact, he said, I would only need to get there one afternoon and leave the next, after dutifully testifying in the case against someone the U.S. Attorney said had scammed many people out of many thousands of dollars. I believed the U.S. Attorney. Still do.

ANYWAY, I flew last Wednesday morning on a flight that got me to L.A. at about 12:30 pm local time. After dashing to catch the SuperShuttle, I sat inside said SuperShuttle for approximately 1 hour and 15 minutes while the driver wandered aimlessly around LAX looking for marks. A mere hour and a half after we left the airport, after the driver hurriedly dropped off half the population of L.A. who was riding with me, I was the last rider to be dropped at my hotel.

IN THE MEANTIME, my office sent me an urgent email: the U.S. Postal Inspector who was working with my FBI agent friend had called to say go to my hotel and stay there and await further instructions. So, after I checked in to the hotel, I went to my room and sat patiently. Oh, I didn't mention that the flight from Dallas to L.A. was supposed to have "food for purchase." I was actually planning to have my lunch on board that plane. But apparently someone forgot to stock the plane with week-old dry bread and hard, hard, actually brittle salami; there was no food to be had.

Well, I couldn't very well go to the hotel restaurant to eat because I was expecting a phone call from the FBI agent or the U.S. Postal Inspector or the U.S. Attorney or someone of like official capacity. And I couldn't very well order room service because I might be called away before it was delivered or, worse yet, have to leave a perfectly good room service tray untouched in my room. So, I decided to wait.

You see, I had arranged to meet a fellow blogger and her husband for dinner. So I could wait to eat until dinner. Over the years, I had stored enough energy around my waist, neck, and thighs to sustain me until dinner, I reasoned. So I would wait.

Incidentally, all I knew about my fellow blogger was what I had read and see online. The fact that she and her husband could have been, for all I knew, L.A.'s most fashionable serial-killer couple, did not phase me. I wanted to meet KathyR and the man she claimed to be her husband.

But I digress. Back to the story at hand. I waited. I continued to wait. And I waited more. No calls from the FBI, the U.S. Postal Inspector, the U.S. Attorney, or anyone else. It was getting late. I was getting worried that I still would be waiting to hear from the Feds after KathyR arrived to meet me at my hotel. So I called and left her a message explaining the situation and suggesting that, if she would rather not risk being unable to have dinner even after the drive to downtown L.A., that would be fine. (This call of mine was NOT my way of backing out of the date due to my fear of becoming the latest victim of L.A.'s most fashionable serial-killer couple.). She called back to say she and her husband were already on their way and that, if things didn't work out that I could go to dinner, she and that man would just consider it "date night." I felt better.

Then, I waited some more. Just before KathyR was to arrive, the phone rang. It was the FBI agent. He apologized profusely that he had been unable to call me earlier; he had been in court, where, I learned, communication of any kind is forbidden. They still needed to talk to me. Now, please. I explained I had potential murderers, possibly cannibals friends waiting to have join me for dinner and that I would need to meet them downstairs to let them know I needed to visit with the Feds. He begrudgingly agreed to let me go downstairs to meet my doom friends; he would call me back in five minutes.

I proceeded to the hotel bar, where I instantly recognized KathyR. She was sitting with a man I assumed to be her husband. I explained what had just happened and that I was afraid I could not join them for dinner. They bought me a Grey Goose martini and we chatted for awhile, then FBI guy called and I agreed to leave the hotel at 7:00 pm to go visit him at the courthouse. I found KathyR and her husband, a non-blogger who seemed, nonetheless, to be a decent human being, to be interesting people and was annoyed that I could not spend more time with them. However, during our brief chat, she and her husband (I'll call him Allen) agreed to visit me in Dallas, where I would be required to take them to the world's most expensive steakhouse, otherwise known as Pappas Brothers Steakhouse. [My secret plan, though, is to lure them to Dallas, then to take them to a seedy dive or two to demonstrate that "Hidden Kitchens" offer good things to those who risk life and limb.

I have digressed again and again and again. Back to the plot. I loped off to the courthouse, where I was met (after a brief delay) by a Postal Inspector and led up to the U.S. Attorney's office. I waited still more and, finally, was led into an "interview room" to be interrogated. The FBI agent was still a bit miffed at me, I think, because I had not come right over when he called. I soon learned why, though; he lives a two-hour drive from the courthouse and had been working 7 am to 9 or 10 pm for more than a week. ANYWAY, he managed to get out of having to participate in the interrogation, which was undertaken, instead, by an Assistant U.S. Attorney, shadowed by the Postal Inspector. They informed me that they would call me between 9 and 9:30 the next day to tell me when to go to the courthouse. Finally, I left the office for my hotel around 9:00 pm. I then had a hamburger and two more Grey Goose martinis and went to bed.

The next morning, after a leisurely breakfast of miso soup, nori, smoked salmon with capers, and eggs benedict with bacon on the side (I freely admit to being a glutton), I waited in my room for the call. It came as promised and I was told to go to the witness room at the courthouse at 11:00 am. I got there early and waited. And waited. And I waited some more. At 12:15 or so, the witnesses (there were five of us there) were told to go have lunch and return at 1:30. We did. Finally, witnesses started being called. Four of them were called by 2:45 pm. About 3:00 pm, I began to start worrying whether I would make my 6:00 pm flight.

But not to worry! The Assistant U.S. Attorney and her entourage came in just at 3:00 pm, She explained that things were going well, better than she expected. So, my testimony would not be needed! Oh, joy, I thought! She explained, further, that the last witness had addressed most of the issues I was expected to cover and that, had I been put on the stand, the defense counsel probably would have attacked my credibility, accusing me of bias, etc., etc. (this due to the nature of the organization I was representing).

SO, I went to the 12th floor as directed to get my reimbursement vouchers, whereupon I was sent to the 15th floor, where I was made to fill out forms. I asked about the quickest way to the airport. I was advised to take the D-Dash bus to Union Station, where I would then catch the Fly-Away Shuttle to LAX. I wish I had known about that the day before. I spent $7.25 to get to the airport in about half the time and at a quarter the price it took the day before to get from LAX to the hotel.

And there you have it. By far the most interesting part was meeting my blogger friend (my second meet-up with a blogger friend...my first was YourFireAnt). You'll notice that I have not included a link to KathyR's blog. That's because she has abandoned two perfectly good blogs (What Do I Know and I've Gone Out the Window) and has steadfastly refused to cave to her blogger friends' insistence that she blog again. You can find her on Facebook, if you look hard enough.

Well, KathyR and Allen have agreed to come visit me in Dallas, maybe next February. So has YourFireAnt, but she hasn't set a timeframe (February might be good). Now, if we can get Phil and Betsy and Bev and Ellie and Robin and Roger and a few others to make the trip, we could have quite a blogfest! If you're interested in Blogfest 2011 in Dallas, let me know!

Burning in Hell

It is 4 minutes shy of 10:30 pm on Saturday night. The temperature in Dallas as of 10:10 pm was 90 degrees. Only the most weather-resistent or craziest lunatics on the planet would live here. I'm not weather-resistent, so I must be an absolute lunatic!

What I am doing here?!

Carpet Diem

We now have new carpet throughout the house, as of today. I wouldn't wish this hassle off on my worst enemy. For that person, I'd wish a thousand through-the-foundation concrete piers.

But I should be happy, right? And I suppose I am. I guess I had hoped carpet would transform the house into a new one with no signs of impending decay. It doesn't work quite like that.

The Bacon Blogger

I had a dream last night that suggests I may be spending too much time in the ether.

The dream involved a woman whose blogs I often read for amusement. There's rarely anything deep and solemn in her posts; rather, there's a sharp wit and a lust for life that fairly jumps off the screen and grabs the reader around the neck. It's entertainment and fun. I wouldn't want it any other way.

But in this dream, my blogger friend appears (I know it's her because her photo appears regularly in her posts). Unlike the way I envision her when I'm reading her blog, though, her demeanor in my dream is just shy of the abyss: despondent, disconsolate, discouraged, downcast, downhearted, depressed, dejected, and disheartened to the extreme. I believe her blog way more than I believed the dream. Speaking of which, the dream.

This forlorn woman was riding a ferry with me. Not with me; she was on the same ferry. The wind was blowing, hard, and we were standing at the front, looking toward the shore. We obviously knew one another, but not well. She turned to me at one point and said (this is not precise...I'm reconstituting a somewhat blurry dream): "You can feel the bacon spray, can't you?! They cook that goddamn bacon on the way over and they don't care that the spray gets in the mist and gets all over the people who rely on the ferry to get to work!"

I was not quite sure what she was referring to, but I had an idea because the ferry had a buffet service, inside in a covered central area, that included several huge stainless steel boxes full of bacon, each sitting over a warming candle. At any rate, she kept on ranting about the salt-water spray being full of bacon. She complained that bacon grease, in mist form, was getting all over her dress, shoes, legs, etc.

I wasn't sure whether I knew about her or had dreamed about her, so I was hesitant to ask but I did anyway: "How's it going at the tavern?" In my dream I hadn't been dreaming; "It's OK, but they started making bacon sandwiches over there, too! Ricky (who the hell is Ricky? I have no idea) told me he'd change the menu to fish, but he never does anything he says he'll do."

And that's kind of the way the dream goes. My blogger friend, who in her photos looks bright and happy and all smiles, looks bedraggled and beaten and has nothing on her mind but this bizarre aversion to bacon and "bacon mist." I'll have to ask Ellie (my blogger friend) if there's anything to this bacon thing.

Fourth Recap

My niece and her husband joined my wife and I yesterday for a fitting celebration of Independence Day. All but I got up after a LONG leisurely sleep and were treated to the closest thing to bacon my wife allows in the house: turkey bacon. Then, after lots of conversation, we all piled into my car and drove downtown, where we had hamburgers at The Angry Dog.

After lunch, we wandered around the downtown area a bit more, showing them some of the architecture of the city (yes, we do have a sprinkling of interesting architecture in Dallas). Perhaps the most interesting thing was our little foray into Fair Park, home of the Cotton Bowl, the Women's Museum, the African American Museum, and lots more museums and art-deco eye candy. We didn't stop in to see the museums (they're not into museums), but we did stop at the esplanade and took photos of one another (one day they may be posted here). For those who may happen across this blog and don't know it, Fair Park was the site of the 1936 World's Fair and is awash in art-deco buildings, statuary, reflecting pools, and the like.

Then, we wandered around a bit more, stopping briefly at The Old Monk, an old pub for which I have a particular affinity. What I really wanted was a frozen margarita, but one does not order a frozen margarita at The Old Monk and expect to like what one is served, so I got a Stella Artois to cool me down. The others seemed to think alcoholic beverages of any kind were fundamentally wrong, so they got an assortment of tea, lemonade, and water.

Our next diversion was to drive by The Urban Reserve, which is the only place in Dallas that my wife and I would be DELIGHTED to have a home. We love the modern architecture of the homes; we just cannot afford one. And, to be perfectly honest, we'd prefer to have one of those homes in another environment, like the Pacific Northwest or the New Mexican desert.

Back home, the womenfolk took naps, while I futzed around on the computer and my nephew (is that what one calls one's niece's husband?) called friends and family in Paraguay, where he is originally from. During this period, a police helicopter buzzed my neighborhood and four police cars screeched around my neighborhood in hot pursuit of something...but I never learned what.

Late in the day, I made dinner; grilled pork ribs that I'd marinated in my special barbeque sauce, coupled with grilled veggies (squash, red bell peppers, and jalapeños) and some tomato wedges. Then we watched the Capitol Fourth fireworks show on PBS, followed by a gut-bustingly hilarious Lewis Black comedy special.

And there you have it. Our Fourth.

Important Thoughts on the "American Experiment"

If every American...or just a quarter of Americans living today...would spend some time reading and trying to understand the Declaration of Independence, I think this country would be a better place. There seems to be a reluctance to show appreciation for the document; I think that's a shame because it is among the best-written political statements ever written.

Here are some things to read, then, blog visitor, that will help you make this country, the United States of America, a better place. Don't just skim; read to understand. I think you, like I, will find it time very well spent:

Declaration of Independence

The Pursuit of Happiness, Then and Now

Song of Freedom

Extending Equality