Finally, another post

It's 4:30 am on Halloween or All Hallow's Eve or All Saints' Day Eve. Or whatever. It's Sunday morning and I'm awake.

I spent the day yesterday at the house, in spite of the fact that my wife had wanted to go out. She suggested going to the Fort Worth Zoo or to an IMAX movie at the Museum of Nature & Science.

Sears was scheduled to come repair the refrigerator yesterday between 8 and 10 am, though they had called the night before to confirm 8 to noon; I called them to explain they had committed to 8 to 10 because they failed to show between noon and 5 a week before. The smaller window was begrudgingly agreed to in apology for their earlier abuse. The promise notwithstanding, they called again Saturday morning, saying they were running late; the repairman showed up about 11:15. The late repair call took a good two hours off our "day out" and I had already gotten involved in projects around the house, so we delayed it. Perhaps we will go out today.

My time yesterday morning was spent in phase two of cleaning the pickup truck that I'd just transferred into my name. It had belonged to my sister, who died earlier this year. She was disabled and poor, so was unable to clean it or to pay someone else to clean it. That showed. It was...and is...very, very dirty. But I made progress. And I removed the broken console, with the objective of figuring out how to repair it. The objective has not yet been reached.

After the Sears repairman left, we ate leftover Indian food from the night before. We had gone to Udipidi, a favorite southern Indian vegetarian spot. The sign out front said "under new management," so we were a little worried. No need, it was excellent. We started with a complimentary cup of rasam, a fabulous soup that's a very nicely spiced, but somewhat watery, broth. Then we ordered gobi manchurian (a wonderful "fried" cauliflower in a highly-spiced batter reminiscent of an Indian/Chinese food mix (which is probably what it is) and an okra dish whose name escapes me (bhindi something or other, I assume, since "bhindi" is the Hindi word for okra). It was fabulous, too, though the late-season okra was more than a little "stalky" and occasionally hard to chew. My wife also ordered a "salad" that looked like raita, but was thinner in consistency and had large slivers of raw carrot and some fairly spicy bits of pepper (I think) in it. At any rate, the meal was excellent and the leftovers made for a fine lunch.

Following lunch, we plotted about what we might do with our back yard. We had just had a long row of boxleaf plants removed, along with two large overgrown evergreens and miscellaneous other plants. We wanted to start with a "clean slate" as we plan a deck and a hot tub, perhaps, as well as a garden. We had left a group of very large, overgrown holly bushes, but had trimmed them back considerably.

After talking about what we might want to do, we agreed the holly bushes didn't look right. And we agreed the rotting fence must be replaced, and soon. I decided to do some work in the back yard and spent a good part of the afternoon removing enormous volumes of leaves from the rain gutters. I was astounded at how much leaf debris could fit in the gutters; and I learned why the gutters did not seem to be working...whenever it rains, they seem to immediately overflow. I then tackled the holly bushes, cutting them down and moving them to the street to be hauled away during this week's "major trash" pickup. Large and difficult stumps remain to be removed, which will involve shovels, axes, and much effort. Maybe today. Maybe not.

All of my physical labor left me feeling very satisfied; something about doing physical labor is highly gratifying, if somewhat painful. This morning, my muscles ache and the scratches on my arms and legs, courtesy of the very thorny holly leaves, burn. I don't mind, though.

As I worked in the yard yesterday, and as we talked about what we wanted to do with the yard, I was torn between the desire to fix our place up for the long haul and packing it up and moving away. We really can't afford the latter, because that also would involve effectively retiring from the business. While I want nothing more than that, I can't see how we can do it. On the other hand, I cannot imagine myself being very happy to continue to work five or six days a week with only a smattering of "vacation" time. Maybe if we could manage to be away from the office for 2-3 weeks at a stretch I could re-energize, but that's just not achievable, at least not in the near-term. But, as I worked, I was acutely aware that I was working on something that I would have to stop working on during the coming week. Instead of doing physical work that, despite its aches and scratches, has an immense and immediate reward, I'll spend my time in the office, shuffling paper. I can't say how utterly and awfully depressing that is.

What else is new? Let's see. For reasons that are not quite clear to me, I've been interested in riding along in a police car during a shift and I have made overtures with the local police substation to do that. I expect to hear back from a police officer this week to schedule a "ride-along" with him on the 2 pm-10 pm shift sometime soon.

Another new things. My wife and I have talked about both of us doing a tandem parachute jump soon. Many years ago, when we lived in Chicago, I did a tandem jump during a one-day trip to Wisconsin, where we stopped at a fair. A skydiving company had a booth at the fair and offered jumps for $100 per person, cash only. We only had about $100; my wife wanted to go, but let me go instead. So, now it's her turn. A friend's birthday present to his wife was a tandem jump, which started me talking about it; my wife is ready to go, if her doctor says it's OK. Then, yesterday, another friend posted photos on her Facebook page of her tandem jump, which I gather she did with her father. Here's a photo she posted. Makes you want to run right out and do it, doesn't it? (Click on the photo for a larger version.)













I'm on my third cup of very strong, black coffee. I do love coffee. If only I had some bacon, I'd be reasonably happy right now.

Miss Celaneous

Since my last post:

Had a birthday. Drove to Houston. Transferred title to my late sister's 1997 Ford Ranger into my name. Lost more weight. Hung the sun and moon (ceramic; on my fence). Hung a couple of ceramic frogs on my house. Fondled a number of cow, racoon, and deer skulls (one day I'll explain, and post pictures).

And here is a photo of a nice mask that soon will be on a wall in my home.

Unseen Sea

This is amazing time-lapse video of fog coming in to the San Francisco area. I've never known fog could be so beautiful and mezmerizing.

The Unseen Sea from Simon Christen on Vimeo.

Nice Online Jazz Station--WBGO

Thanks to my habit of wandering through the NPR website from time to time, I stumbled across a really nice spot to listen to jazz, a Newark, New Jersey based NPR affiliate called WBGO. It's possible to listen via the internet through a link on the site, which enables Windows media player, WinAmp, itunes Player, or Real Player.

As I bumped along, I came across the daily playlist, which is extremely handy if you (like I) don't know what the hell you're listening to but want to know. That link is at www.wbgo.org/playlist.

Nice stuff. I recommend it.

Maybe

I haven't posted here for over a week. Laziness, amplified by distractions and other priorities.

Let's see, what to say. Well, I'm still on a strong weight-loss course, having lost almost 33 pounds since beginning the diet at the beginning of the second week in August. I'm beginning to question the target weight I set for myself, 160 pounds. While I think another 30 pounds may not be a bad target, my original target is still 50 pounds away and my body shape has changed considerably already. So, maybe 180 is a better number. Or maybe 170. But I think 160 is, perhaps, a bit much. We'll see.

A friend and his wife just went skydiving (tandem jumps) over the weekend. Now, my wife wants to jump, and I want to do it again (my one and only tandem jump was 22+ years ago). So, that may be on our list of things to do before year-end.

And we're talking again about bathroom remodeling and putting in a raised vegetable garden in the back yard. And we're occasionally broaching the subject of whether we might be able to retire, or just quit, within another year or two.

There's a lot on my mind. But I'm too pressured for time and to write about it all now. Maybe soon. Maybe.

The Meaning of Life

Thanks to my sister-in-law, Joan, for calling this to my attention.

Social Media: Chit-Chat without the Wine

Facebook is the lazy person's journal or blog. It's too damn easy for me to type in a few random comments, upload a few photos, and walk away feeling as if I had created a "blog post" that communicates an idea, a thought, a perspective on life But it's not a blog post! It's blathering in a stream of consciousness. A blog post, at least a decent blog post, requires more thought and more coherence. But I'm not sure I have that capacity anymore. I'm too used to thinking, and sharing my thoughts, in abbreviated code.

Spitting out this abbreviated code gives me a sense that I have had a coherent thought and have shared it. In reality, though, I believe it simply allows me to avoid really thinking about anything. Rather, I experience a moment and share the experience in an attempt to "share" with a broader audience. But it's a trade-off of breadth for depth. Depth is harder to achieve. It requires much more work, far more thought, and mental discipline that isn't suited to Facebook or Twitter or most of the other social media sites. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against social media sites. I just want to recognize them for what they are. They are, in my view, very much like casual social receptions, the purpose of which are to facilitate superficial interaction. Social media sites give us opportunities for superfluous chit-chat without the wine.

I recognize, of course, that my broad-brush dismissal of social media sites overlooks the fundamental value they have in marshalling societal resources into social action and other such "meaty" things. But I think the consequential attributes of social media are far less common than the attributes that allow us to think we're thinking when, in fact, we're not.

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.