your maugham

The Tour Guides: Marlene

2011-07-28T14:52:00.000-07:00

The tour group we used (based in the states) had someone travel with us to England, and help coordinate our hotel stays, excursions, and so forth. Her name (for the purposes of this post) is Marlene. She met us in the Chicago airport, and after mentioning to us there was another young couple in the group, explained what would come next in her strong Chicagoan accent (while I pondered what it meant that she thought we were a young couple):

"Now once we get on the plane, after about half an hour they will come through with a drink service. At about eight o'clock, they will come through with dinner. After that is through they will turn out the lights in the airplane, and that is when you should try to sleep." I literally cannot tell you how grateful I was for the information.

Just as we were about to take off, an older gentleman (let's call him Harry) came and found his seat a few rows in front of us, but in the center seats. He was carrying a bag with the name of our tour group on it. And sure enough, as soon as he sat, Marlene came down the aisle to speak to him. "Harry, where WERE you?!?! You almost missed the plane!!! I was paging you at the gate and everything! You almost didn't make it!" I was entertained but afraid now to make a misstep once we began our tour lest Marlene bite my head off.

Once we got to England, Marlene found the bus to take us to our hotel. On the ride in to town, she covered some important information: "Okay the temperature here right now is eighteen degrees." She paused to allow for our incredulous response. None came. "Now, of course, that is centigrade, hee hee. They use centigrade over here. But here's how you convert it to Fahrenheit. You double it and add thirty. So let's say it's eighteen degrees. You double that. What's two times eighteen? Yes, thirty-six. Then add thirty. What's thirty-six plus thirty?...Yes, correct. Sixty-six. So that's how you convert it. Let's try it again. Let's say it's twenty-one degrees..." And she proceeded to step for step explain it again. She continued to spoonfeed us information in this way the entire trip, but I believe she earned her paycheck on the morning our group left for France.

We had been instructed to leave our bags outside our hotel rooms at 7:30am, and to be ready to board the bus to St. Pancras station. (By the by, none of the Londoners I asked could explain why their bus station was named after an organ.) Anyways, at about 7:35, MLB and I were down in the lobby waiting to eat breakfast; our bags were outside our door already. Just then, I heard the 'ding' of the elevator and high-pitched old man's voice cry out, "Can you help me? I locked myself out of my room."
I turned my head enough to see Harry's head leaning out of the elevator--oh, sorry--the lift. I thought little about it, not surprised that Harry would do such a thing, and knowing the concierge could help.

But people, including MLB, were looking intently at him still as I looked away from him and faced MLB. The looks on their faces were a mix of pity, embarrassment, and incredulity while at the same time I could see they were all stifling laughs. A few people murmured to each other things I could not understand, so I gave MLB the best "What is it?" look I had.

"He's locked out of his room and he's in his underwear."
"No way."
"I'm serious."

Marlene had missed most of this until a member of our group burst out, "Um, Marlene? Can you help Harry?" And off she went. She had the fortune of getting another key (which you need by the way to make the lift go up at all) and escorting Harry back to his room in his tighty-whities...and without his toupee.

Europe

2011-07-15T16:02:00.000-07:00

Just got back from Europe. Spent time in England, France, and Belgium. Saw a lot. Learned a lot.

Over the next few weeks I plan to post quite frequently as my trip to Europe gave me much source material for stuff I can post here. So if you are now looking forward to hearing about my travels in Europe, the sights and the sounds, the places and the history...TOO BAD. I will be writing mostly about the people I interacted with. Yep, that's right--the typical cynical misanthropic garbage I usual fill up this place with.

Starting with...

Essay

2011-06-10T06:52:00.001-07:00

I found this well-written and important essay in one of the classrooms I was working today at the high school where I work that has summer school:

Drugs and the usage of some drugs should be legal.

The usage of some drugs should be legal because some help kids focus better in school, they help you relax, and they let you have a good time.

Some drugs, like weed, help kids focus more. If weed was legal, and the kids who focus more while on weed did it, test scores for some schools would go up 69% percent.

If some drugs were legal, like pot, much more people would be relaxed, and layed back. There wouldn't be as many stressed people in the world currently.

Pot should be one of these legal drugs because it helps you have fun.

Some drugs should be legal because some drugs help kids focus, help relax, and let you have a good time.

Dear Brain, I Give You the Finger, Part 2

2011-05-26T09:28:00.000-07:00

(Don't confuse this post with this one.)
[Oh, and watch for the endnotes.]

by Phyllis

When I went to the mission office in downtown São Paulo, Brazil that Monday to find out who my new companion would be, I was anxious. I was hoping he would be an American. During the last seven months I had been with an American for only two weeks(1). Obviously, I had more in common with Americans, and most importantly, an American was more likely to want to go somewhere and play basketball or some other sport on our preparation day(2). My experience told me Brazilians liked to sleep, spend all of preparation day writing letters, and they didn’t usually want to play any sports unless it was soccer. And they didn’t like the way Americans played soccer. They felt Americans were too physical and rough; we had no finesse. But all the new missionaries were Brazilians, so those of us who had met at the office to find out the assignments could now only hope our companion would be cool.
I was assigned Alves(3).
Even when I was twenty years old, I was over six feet tall and weighed over two hundred pounds(4). If I was a big person by American standards, I was a giant in Brazil. Alves was physically my polar opposite. He was, perhaps, five-foot-four and couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds(5). I shook his hand and we walked to the bus station to travel back to our apartment. I couldn’t help but notice as we walked and talked that he had a delicate step and a childlike, soft voice with very a pronounced, soft ‘s’ in his words. Something told me he would not be up for a game of basketball next Monday with the other Americans I worked with.
Alves was, I learned over the next few weeks, a pleasant person to have around. He enjoyed cooking, and when we weren’t fortunate enough to score a meal from a family we were visiting, we would come back to our apartment and he would make pancakes. They were delicious, as he would frequently mix in chocolate chips, berries, or bananas. He was also very neat, and kept his few things organized and in his own part of the room(6). We didn’t get in to arguments very often, as I had done with previous companions. He asked lots of questions, was eager to learn, and followed my instructions.
I also appreciated his musical ability. I had sung in choirs throughout high school, and could read music and sing different parts. Alves could sing as well, but his voice was pretty high, so he sang the melody. We sang a few times together at church, and at Christmas we sang a number of carols for a family we were visiting. They were impressed and asked us how much we had rehearsed. We hadn’t.
With all of Alves’ good qualities, he had some that caused me some stress. I wrote in my journal that he sat too close to me all the time, and that he was too touchy-feely(7). I dealt with these issues as best I could. But I also had to deal with comments from everybody else, too—-from my fellow missionaries most of all.
“Dude, what is the deal with your companion?”
“What are you talking about?” I would ask, like I didn’t know what they meant.
“He’s…he’s…very effeminate.” This was the most careful way it was ever put to me.
“So what?”
My buddies weren’t the only people making comments. One time I was visiting a family with another missionary; Alves had gone with someone else for the day. The family burst out in laughter when I came into the house. When I asked what was so funny, they told me about the time they had witnessed Alves and me walking along the street. As we approached a rain puddle, I had taken a long stride over it, while Alves had pranced up to it and delicately skipped over it. They even imitated what it looked like when he did it. Another time, a Brazilian in my zone, Lima, came to me to report what a family he was teaching had said to him. They had told him they were surprised to find out that the church allowed homosexuals to serve as missionaries. He had informed them that it didn’t. The family refused to believe him, saying “What are you talking about? Alves is gay!” We assured them it was not the case. But this is what it was like living with Alves(8).

I lay down one night to sleep, drained by another day walking around under the sun. I plopped myself onto the top bunk and started to relax. At some point after the light was turned off, I rolled over on to my stomach, and let my left arm hang over the side of the bed. I don’t remember how much time passed, but enough had passed that I might have certainly have fallen asleep—-I never really had trouble falling asleep in Brazil. Then something hit my hand. I could not tell what it was, but I knew it had been Alves, so I was not alarmed. It was quite possible he had rolled over, sat up, or done any number of things to explain why he bumped my hand. Soon, however, he hit it again. By this time, if I even was partially asleep before, I was now wide awake. What was going on down there? He started tapping and hitting my hand playfully, and now I was concerned. And I didn’t quite know what to do. I convinced myself the best thing to do would be to continue to act like I was asleep; surely he would notice I was not noticing and would quit what he was doing. He did not. After a few minutes in which he continued his sporadic gentle amusement with my hand, it stopped. I felt like I had successfully waited out this strange game, and could now go to sleep. Only a couple of things remained: I had to wait a sufficient amount of time before I sleepily rolled over and brought my arm with me to the top bunk. And I would have to act like I didn’t know he had done it tomorrow. I wanted to forget it, and I certainly did not want to talk about it.
That is when everything went wrong. After a pause of a couple minutes, he resumed his game with renewed courage. I felt something wet on my finger. I was completely frozen with fear at this point. There it was again. And I had gone too far down the road of faking asleep to acknowledge that I was awake now. To acknowledge to him that I knew he was doing this would be to sanction it. It never occurred to me that a natural reaction if I had really been asleep would be that such a thing might wake me up. And definitely, down deep in there, boiling up from within was the sum of all those judgments I had made, the comments I heard from others, the teasing I received. If I was going to let this happen to me, I was not going to leave any doubt. There could be no room for claims that I had misunderstood or “misfelt.” So I let him go.
The next thing I knew he was sucking my middle finger on my left hand. I was still terrified. To think about how scared I was is funny now, but I was close to crying then. Why me? What is this happening for? Why did he have to confirm every rumor against him? Why couldn’t he just be a small, effeminate boy who was good at cooking, ironing, and being polite? In any case, the second he stopped for a minute, I jumped down from my bed, and went immediately outside to wash my hands. I have never washed them as diligently as I did then; I was a doctor preparing for surgery. I scrubbed and scraped and lathered and rinsed, and did it all again. Perhaps if I repeated it enough times I could clean the past few minutes from my memory.
When I returned from washing my hands, Alves was also up out of bed, with the light on, sitting slumped forward in his chair, obviously upset. I did not speak to nor look at him. I sat at my desk, organizing papers and books, and looking for a cassette tape. He began:
“I have tried so long to overcome this. I can’t.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I am talking about!”
I did, but I wanted to hear him say it. I wanted him to admit it to me. After a few seconds of sobbing and sniffing, he did. “I’m gay, Elder.”
“Okay. Well, that’s all you need to tell me. I don’t need to hear any more. We will go tomorrow and talk to the president about it. He will figure out what should be done.”
“I know.”
Alves went home the next day.

This is what I wrote in my journal on January 14, 1992: “Last Monday when I went to bed I let my hand hang down off the side of the bed and he started playing with it. To make a long story short he started nibbling on it, licked it and sucked my finger. I left my hand hanging there as if I was asleep to see what the heck he was doing. He already went home now. Everyone is asking me what happened…” And that’s the only written record besides what you read above. The rest is in my head, “etched sharply, with unbearable exactitude.”

(1)Yes, I am going to use footnotes—well, actually, these are endnotes. Why do this? There are many reasons. I’ve never used them in a document before, and this is kind of neat. Also, I’ve read a few papers and documents that used them, and they work fine for me. After all, what form of in-text citation is the best? They all distract you from what you were doing in the first place: reading the main text of the paper. That is unless, of course, you just skip right over it and read right through. You may be only reading this now as you have completed the the rest of the post. Maybe you loathe endnotes and you won’t even read this. All of that is fine, because in any case, using them has served me a purpose in what I am writing about. For example, what was I writing about when I placed the reference to the end note? Can’t remember? Is it coming back now? Like I said, memory is a sketchy thing; sometimes we need something to jog it. Seven months straight with Brazilians, remember? Yes. Well, of the many things I write about in this story, this comes close to being a verifiable fact. I kept a written journal of my doings in Brazil and referred to it before I wrote that sentence to make sure I had the “facts” straight.
(2)We worked seven days a week. On preparation day—Mondays—we took the morning and early afternoon to do our laundry, buy groceries, write letters, etc. We even had a few hours to get some exercise. We got together with other missionaries so we could play basketball, volleyball, and soccer. But we always had to stay with our companion, so if he didn’t want to go (and wouldn’t cave to pressure) I couldn’t go, either. We did all these things on preparation day so we could spend the rest of the week working all day.
(3)Pronounced ‘ow´-veez’ in case you care.
(4)Now, that is a fact. I stepped on a scale in Brazil once after not having weighed myself in months. I was alarmed when the scale measured over ninety kilograms. Some quick math confirmed my suspicion—I was a growing boy.
(5)I know he was much smaller than me, but I never wrote in my diary what his height or weight was. I know it is possible I have constructed a memory of him as a puny person to reinforce to myself that he was my opposite in all ways. At this point, who knows?
(6)I know I liked his cooking—or at least I remember that I do. Was he really neat and clean? I think so. Most of my Brazilian companions were. But is this one of those things that I have unwittingly (or even purposely) associated with Brazilians in my brain? I cannot deny it is possible.
(7)I suppose I have taken a little liberty here, for this is what I wrote in my journal: “…Alves [i]s femmy. He’s sort of a nerd and reminds me too much of Rebouças [another missionary I had worked with]. He walks and sits too close to me.” I never wrote that my other companions sat too close to me, or invaded my personal space, but I am sure they all did at some point.
(8)I have no written record of any of these memories, but I tell myself they are vivid and that I can recall them well. How many of them are manufactured, are activated by my brain network (possible erroneously) when I recall Alves. What have I associated in my brain with him and the way he acted—and what he did to me later?

Dear Brain, I Give You the Finger, Part 1

2011-05-26T09:22:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

“As a recorder, the brain does a notoriously wretched job. Tragedies and humiliations seem to be etched most sharply, often with most unbearable exactitude, while those memories we think we really need—the name of the acquaintance, the time of the appointment, the location of the car keys—have a habit of evaporating.” I recently read that in a National Geographic article about memory, and I think I agree—-with most of it, anyway. It jives with other things I have studied, read about, and experienced. Even the part I may not totally agree with--the tragedies and humiliation part--can be interpreted to reflect how I have come to understand memory, because it says that certain important events seem to be more clear and definite, not that they in fact are more clearly remembered.
That is what I think.
What I learned about comprehension and memory in some linguistics courses I took in college seems to back this up. I don’t know how hard it will be to distill this idea in a few short sentences, but I will try: one theory about how the brain works is that comprehension—short-term memory, working memory, whatever you want to call it—relies on a huge network of interconnected “groups” of information in the brain. The groups are different for everyone, but when we hear or read words or concepts, those concepts, and all the things we associate with them, are “activated.” They are ready, primed.
For example, I say “cat.” Upon hearing or reading the word, you have activated concepts in your brain network that you associate with cats. You start to think about whatever you associate with cats: you have one and it is very important to you. You are thinking about him now, and you picture him; he nuzzles against you and purrs quietly. Or you hate cats, and all the negative associations you have with cats are brought to your mind. They scratch, they smell, they’re lazy. You can’t even claim that you have no associations with the “concept,” because everyone who hears someone pronounce the word “cat,” at the very least activates the groups in their brain that include information like: small, furry animal, drinks milk, meows. It is involuntary—you can’t help it. And all because I said “cat.” Does this make any sense?
And what about vivid memories I have? What I read in National Geographic would tell me they are because the event I remember was significant—yes, even a tragedy or humiliation. But things I have studied tell me they may be mostly constructed. Yes, we remember events, but our brain has done its best to store away this memory like it stores everything else: in this interconnected maze of related concepts, these “groups.” Perhaps the brain misfiles things sometimes. I remember, for example, losing a tooth as a child while listening to sports on the radio. With the money I got from the tooth fairy, I bought myself a present on my birthday (in March). Later in life, I tell my family the story. I say I lost my tooth listening to a Seattle Mariner baseball game on the radio (I do remember listening to a lot of games on the radio, and I can’t imagine what other sporting event it could be.) My son points out to me there are no baseball games being played in March, and I am at a loss. What part have I remembered incorrectly? How much of my memory was manufactured? Have I connected more than two memories into one? What was a “vivid” memory for me is now a hazy mess. But that’s what happens when we recall past events sometimes. We swear we remember something clear as day. And, again, we can’t help it. It’s automatic. It’s the way the brain works. But it means that memory may not be entirely accurate.
That sucks.
Because I write to remember. I want to get down on paper what is in my brain so I can remember it. I have taken great comfort in the idea; I think to myself, Self, you will read this later and be glad. Your writing will serve you when you can’t remember the details of your life, when you are grasping for a piece of your past feelings, thoughts, emotions, and desires. I am not so sure now. What will I really have? Annie Dillard writes: “After you’ve written, you can no longer remember anything but the writing. […] After I’ve written about any experience, my memories—those elusive, fragmentary patches of color and feeling—are gone; they’ve been replaced by the work.” Great. So I used to have memories; they were hazy and unclear and I struggled to sort them in my brain, but once I wrote about them, they ceased to be memories anymore.
What remains is constructed, fabricated, solid, definable…there.
I wonder then, as I think about the time I spent in Brazil, and the many experiences, emotions, trials, and adventures I had, what really happened. What do I remember and what have I manufactured? Perhaps there is no way to know. It happened nearly twenty years ago, and I was twenty years old. Keep that in mind when you read my next post.

Come On, People

2011-02-18T13:19:00.000-08:00

I was recently speaking to a secretary at a local elementary school. She told me the story of a mother who came to school to get her child out early. The secretary glanced at the clock as she began to fill out the call slip for the student. The clock read 3:40pm. School gets out at 3:45pm. Come on, people!

But we're not done. The secretary politely asked the mother why she was picking up her child "early" from school. She asked this, you know, like it was casual, friendly conversation and not school business. (To do this, by the way, takes skill--a skill I don't possess--as you must act as if you like the person or care anything about what they say.) The mother answered that she was taking her child to go see Never Say Never. So you're going to interrupt the office people at a busy time of the day, to remove your child five minutes early so you can go see a Justin Bieber movie? Come on, people!

Still not done. Mention Justin Bieber in many circles and you are bound to get a reaction. In this instance, it took nearly all the secretary's composure to stifle the roll of the eyes and the loud "Ugh!" that welled up inside her upon hearing this. Perhaps she didn't stifle well enough, as the mother felt the need to defend her decision. "Well, you know, he loves Jesus. And you don't see many other kids these days your kids can look up to that love Jesus. So, um, yeah." Laudable, I suppose, if true, but the cynical, skeptical part of me (which is pretty much the whole) throws up in his mouth when he hears that. Come on, people!

One last, unrelated-to-Justin Bieber-gripe: Today I stopped in the men's bathroom at a local junior high. My business in there was of the more simple variety, if you know what I mean. I remained on foot the whole time. However, someone (and how I would have preferred to leave it that way) was in the stall sitting down. Now it only takes me thirty seconds or so to do my number 1 business, wash my hands and leave. But the feller in the stall finished his work, hiked the pants up gain, and exited the stall while I was still drying my hands. Then came the inevitable mutually grunted greeting. Now, I ask--Why? I would never do that. And tell me I am NOT in the minority of people who will gladly wait another minute seated on the throne as long as I can avoid making eye contact with the person who has come in at such an unfortunate and inconvenient moment! I am in the minority? Come on, people!

Ten Equals Two

2011-01-25T08:43:00.000-08:00

by Phyllis

Quite some time ago, I wrote a series of posts about a series of visits to a doctor. Yes, the good Dr. Bester. You will want to start at the beginning of the story for one of two reasons: 1) You were riveted when you read them the first time and you can't wait to read them again; 2) You haven't read them and want to read something incredibly clever, interesting, and wrote good.

Have fun. Really.

But I was thinking about this the other day. I mentioned to someone that my ear hurt and that person offered the opinion I might have an ear infection. I said I doubted it. And then I thought about Dr. Bester.

Remember in part 5, how he twice tested my ability to stay conscious? And how I wondered why he would do such a thing, would subject me to that without warning or drugs or anything? I just figured out why. As you recall from part 1, he was quite astonished I was not complaining of pain when I went to see him the first time. Evidently more astonished than I had ever really imagined until the other day when I came to the realization he equates stent removal pain with ear infection pain.

Nothing ground-breaking, I know. But worth noting, I suppose.

In any case, stay tuned for a series of posts (I think I could get through it all in 15-20 of 'em) about my recent colonoscopy.

My Dad

2011-01-13T22:54:00.000-08:00

As I begin this post, it is 5 minutes to 12 midnight on the 13th of January. So it is still 8 years to the day my dad passed away. And something weird happened a minute ago: as I read my baby sister's simple post on her blog, I began to comprehend a concept I may not have before: Denial.

Because I sat there staring at his picture, his suit coat, white shirt and tie (a common outfit for him), his happy grin, those slightly crooked teeth (thanks a lot, Dad!), that thick forest of hair (compared to me, anyway), that nose, those glasses--all of it--and I COULD NOT believe he was gone. It WAS NOT true. At that moment, I would not have been surprised to see him walk through the door. As he silently squinted back at me from my computer screen, I was convinced he could not be dead. I remember too much about him, and it is all too vivid, and present, and real, that for me to realize again he passed away took great effort.

My dad was great. That may have been said a billion times by a billion people, but it makes it no less true in my case. My dad was the greatest man I have known. An example to me of hard work, patience, kindness, diligence, politeness, forgiveness, perseverance, and selfless service.

Farewell, dear Father, shall we meet again?
Please know I hold you as the best of men,
Whose noble life I aim to imitate,
Though I may fail to mimic one so great.

Maybe I Should Write Something

2010-10-25T17:42:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

It was pointed out to me a lot of what I have to say is negative. So I will try to keep my posts a little more upbeat from now one. Starting with this one:

---Is there a person in he right mind on this planet rooting for Brett Favre? Do you even like him if you are a long-time Vikings fan? Terrible. Dreadful. And not worth any more of my time. Go back to your tractors and Wranglers.

---The Yankees are out of the playoffs? Shame. And now bars and businesses will lose hundreds of thousands of dollars? Wrong. They won't lose it. They just don't get it. And who cares? It's New York.

---LeBron James thinks people should stop being angry he signed with the Heat? Now listen, King, as I am a supporter of yours. I like to see a guy do freaky things on the basketball floor so I have followed you in years past. It isn't that you signed with the Heat. It's how you did it and how you got together with your buddies D-Wade and Bosh and set it all up, like those bastards in the sixth grade who stacked the football teams during lunch recess. No one likes that. No one.

---Craig James, would you please give me your opinion of Boise State football? I really want to hear it. I am sure you have some fresh perspective no one has shared yet. So, please explain how BSU would do if they were in another conference. And tell me what chocolate would taste like if it tasted like something else. And one last thing: I had to go to bed early that night, so please recap the last 3 or 4 minutes of the 1980 Holiday Bowl. Thanks, pal.

Looking for a Positive Spin

2010-04-04T22:16:00.000-07:00

by Koozown

I’m guessing the typical Spin Class Instructor doesn’t like it very much when people join their class and put earbuds in and listen to their own music. In fact, I know one instructor who has threatened to throw such a person out of her class. Me? I am willing to take that risk. You see, I believe what Simon Cowell said the other night on Idol to be true (I’ll paraphrase the British sweetheart): “The world would be a very boring place if we all liked the same things.” And I hate the music spin instructors play.

In general I am opposed to Movie Soundtrack songs. That is a general rule for me. And in today’s iTunes world where I can buy a single song that I like without buying the whole album, I hope to never own another entire soundtrack. And it wouldn’t break my heart if others borrowed a page out of that book. Show some discernment people. One way or another. Example: I bought “Decode” by Paramore. Probably my favorite song by them. Ok, it is my favorite. It was released as part of the Twilight soundtrack. I have not seen that movie. I have not read any of the books in that series. I don’t plan to read any books in that series. But that song is killer. So I own it. But I don’t own any other songs from that soundtrack (ok, not entirely true, I do own the other Paramore song on it). I don’t expect everyone to like or own that song. I don’t care. I love it. I’ve been known to bliss out to it. And that Hayley got pipes. But I might hit the floor if I ever heard it in Spin Class. Instead we hear the theme song from that School of Rock movie. In what bizarre world is that even considered a song? It’s not a song; it’s a movie gimmick. Not a very good gimmick at that. But I’ve heard it two weeks in a row now.

That is precisely why I come prepared with my own tunes and my own earphones. I can enjoy “Hallie and Henry” by Say Hi to Your Mom while the rest of the poor saps spin through some dull number from the dull “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” soundtrack. Oh, I’m sorry. You liked that movie? I hated it. But I hated the experience worse. Some genius behind me in the theater kept yacking along impressing his date by pointing out all the veneer-thin references to The Odyssey. It finally got so bad I turned around and said: “Excuse me professor, would you mind waiting until after the movie is over to begin your lecture? Some of us are still trying to find a single redeeming bullet point about this miserable flop.” He was speechless at last, and a few people booed me. Hmmm…[self reflection] it appears I have never gotten past that episode.

While having to hear that soundtrack play on as the class ended and we pretended to clean our bikes might seem like the low point of my day, it actually gets worse. After class the instructor shared a moment with one of the spinners:

Spinner: I love this song.
Instructor: Oh, yeah. It’s great. The whole soundtrack is great.
S: I loved that movie.
I: Me too. Would you like me to burn it for you?
S: No thanks, I own the movie. I love the Coen brothers.
I: I meant the soundtrack. Would you like me to burn it for you?
S: What’s funny is my brother doesn’t own it and he loves the Coen brothers.
I: Well I can burn you a copy for him.
S: No thanks, I can just lend him my DVD.
I: I meant the Soundtrack.

I make a subtle move to crank up the volume on my iPod as high as it will go. Ahhh, bliss.

Some Open Memos Necessitated by Today’s Visit to the Gym

2010-03-30T09:36:00.000-07:00

by Koozown

Memorandum #1:
Dear sir watching TV and pedaling away on the recumbent bike,
I couldn’t help but notice that the headphones you were wearing were held together only by a thick strapping of scotch tape. Might I recommend something a bit tougher? Like Duct Tape?
On second thought, a new pair might be in order. Nobody really wears the over-the-head type of headphones any more (unless they on plane or they a pro afflete gettin’ off the bus for a road game). The kids are all wearing the buds that fit nicely in the ear and don’t fall out when you get your stack or cardio on. I’ve done a little research on earbuds in the past so I can speak with some authority on this point. You can get a brand new pair of earbuds at Walmart (yep, you look like you shop there) for a mere $4.88. And I’m sure they sound fine; no doubt better than the taped-up jobbies you’re rockin’. And if you feel like splurging, Walmart.com offers some sick noise-isolating earbuds for $486.82. Probably somewhere in between those two numbers will have you loving your Days of Our Lives episodes without the waste of all that clear scotch tape.
p.s. you can get six replacement rolls of transparent scotch tape at the dollar store for $1.

Memorandum #2
Dear sir,
I watched you strolling on the treadmill for a few minutes. It appeared to me that you were in some kind of pain or physical difficulty. Now I’m sure that growing up in Wilder you wore those cowboy boots everywhere you went: school, church, shopping, turdknocking, and so forth. But it is my firm opinion that you might hurt a lot less if you changed into some sneakers before getting up on the treadmill. And maybe some gym shorts instead of Wranglers? Just a thought. And before you come back to me and tell me you can’t afford sneakers or some such unlikely story, please understand I saw you exiting the facility today as well. You looked quite dapper in that gray derby, tweed sport jacket with chocolate brown elbow patches, different Wranglers, different cowboy boots, and your hickory walking stick.
Time to embrace the fact that you are a gym rat and spring for some Under Armour and Skechers Shape-Ups.

Memorandum #3
Dear sir,
What you are wearing is not a suitable workout costume. It is insulated long underwear, matching long-sleeve shirt and pants. I can tell by the huge overlapped fly in front. It just ain’t right. I’ve seen you in that same get-up four or five times now. Enough is enough. Please don’t let it happen again.
And here’s a newsflash: that young lady you are coaching through her stacks? She doesn’t love you. She might not even like you. How do I know? Because she obviously hasn’t told you how ridiculous you look.

Guest Post

2010-03-17T22:00:00.000-07:00

by Koozown

Reason #87 to never forget your earbuds when going to the gym

Today was Mommy’s Day Out at our local gym. For a mere $10, Mommy drops Princess Angel off and leaves for three hours of freedom. It’s a pretty good deal (on top of the $90 we already pay every month) and Princess Angel loves it. Today she got to go for a nature walk to gather seeds, she made a Leprechaun hat with an orange beard, she powered through her Banana Monkey Milk, and generally had a ball. And today, since Mommy’s freedom was centered around getting a new hairdo, Princess Angel pickup duty fell to Daddy the Dragon Slayer.

Due primarily to poor planning I arrived at the gym nearly a half an hour early; just enough time to swell my core before my daughter finished her craft project. However, since I hadn’t planned on stacking my abdominals, I didn’t have my iPod or my earbuds. And that is where this lesson begins.

Actually it begins on the stretching/core workout mats in the Northeast corner. So far I’m doing just fine blocking out the terrible music blaring over the PA. You know the kind of music that everybody knows the lyrics and tune to, but everyone secretly hates but still gets played all the time? Instinctively I reached down to turn up the iPod volume. Alas, no iPod. And so it was that at that moment I realized I was overhearing a conversation I would much rather not have to hear. And thinking back on it, I can’t even believe it could actually take place.

Stretching on the mats are two large male stackers who are both yoked to the besheesh. I see them getting swollen frequently; throwing up huge numbers on bench presses of all angles. Mad props to them and their puffy chests. But that is where it all goes haywire.

Here is what ensued:

Stacker 1: I was watching that Kansas team play the other night. They were playing Mississippi in the SEC tournament. Man they got a couple bruthas that just take it and dunk it in your face. Really aggressive. I picked them in my bracket.
Stacker 2: Is this week the Final Four?
S1: No, but the tournament starts this week.
S2: So there’s 2 rounds before the Final Four?
S1: No, there’s 3.
S2: Oh, that’s right. There’s the Elite Eight and all that.
S1: Well it starts with 64 teams and goes down from there.
S2: That’s right. And then the Sweet Sixteen.
S1: Well, first it goes to 32, then 16.
S2: But there’s 64 to start. Then 32.
S1: Then 16, 8, 4, then 2.
S2: Then a winner.
S1: Right.

I must’ve looked a bit odd down on my knees in the middle of the weight room earnestly praying that Kansas be kept from winning the National Championship this year. Sorry Jayhawk fans. But hey, at least you won the SEC. I guess…

Marketing

2010-03-16T13:00:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

I will admit I know very little about marketing. I wouldn't know what steps to take to make my ad or commercial more effective, reach more people, motivate them to buy. I don't even understand most of the ads I come across.

Take this one for example. I promise you the next sale they make based on that picture will be their first.

And have you heard the Head & Shoulders ads on the radio? On 1350AM I hear the same one all the time. It isn't really telling you to use Head & Shoulders to help with your dandruff. Maybe they figure they have got that part taken care of already. (MLB makes me use it [or a more suitably priced knock-off].) No, it tells you after a week you will have noticeably thicker hair. And then the disclaimer at the end clears things up: it promises these results with their product vs. unwashed hair. I have bad news for them: so much oil would be on my head after seven days, you wouldn't be able to tell that I have hair. And those of you who know me know of my ample lettuce

Then there's this ad from Capital Educators Federal Credit Union. Look at that dunce! I have it from several sources that this guy reminds them of a mutual acquaintance they all have, a person they all esteem to be one of the ugliest people they have ever known. You're not going to get a lot of business putting a picture of a guy like that up there.

Come on!

The Boise State of the NFL

2010-02-08T12:10:00.000-08:00

Congratulations to the New Orleans Saints for winning the Super Bowl. Surely people are celebrating the victory in fairly tame fashion down there in the Big Easy.

Yes, good for New Orleans. The franchise wins its first Super Bowl. And in the wake of the recent flooding and destruction there, the Saints had sort of become "America's Team," replacing the Dallas Cowboys, as millions of football fans and Americans rooted for something positive to happen for this city.

Not that I was rooting for them. Or for the Colts, either. Well, maybe. But I mostly didn't care. I would have rather seen the Colts playing the Vikings, or the Saints playing the Jets. Then I could have rooted for either one. But Colts vs. Saints didn't do a lot for me. I did enjoy the game, though, and am happy for the Saints after their win.

But they must have realized at half-time they were outmatched and had no shot of winning. They were the little upstart team nobody gave a chance to win. The Colts were better. The Colts knew it. The Saints knew it. Everyone knew it. Duh!

And being thus outclassed on the field, they had to resort to trickery. That is, you know, what inferior teams do when they know they can't win. Teams who have no business being there in the first place. They run trick plays. Plays you don't see very often, gimmicks, misdirection, deception. They don't play straight up football.

An on-side kick? Are you serious? Come on, Saints! Just line up and see who is better, faster, stronger. None of these gimmick and gadget plays. It's just a desperate way to change the momentum of the game against a better team.

The Colts don't use misdirection and deception. Peyton Manning is terrible at disguising what play they are running, and he is simply awful at the play-action pass.

So, congratulations again, Saints. Enjoy the victory. Too bad it was a fluke, though, and you could never beat them again.

Recycled

2010-02-08T08:46:00.000-08:00

This happened when he was four years old.

MLB and I were making dinner when our youngest son came in the kitchen and got the egg slicer out of the drawer and started playing with it. The game was to open and close it rapidly and repeatedly.

"Dearest son of mine!" I exclaimed. "It is my greatest wish that you stop playing with that!"

It may indeed be possible that I was neither that tender nor that polite in this request. The words "Hey!" and "Don't!" probably found themselves uttered, if the truth must be known. But I did not want him to hurt himself (or damage the device).

In any case, he did not like what he had heard, so he put the egg slicer back and slammed the drawer shut. And he stormed out of the kitchen into the other room, but stopped and turned around so he could stand there and glare at me.

"Just trying to make sure you are safe, buddy!" I said this as I returned to help with dinner again, but I could tell by the scowl on his face that he was not done with me yet.

Nearly three minutes passed before I looked up from what I was doing to glance in the other room again. He was still there and had evidently thought of what he wanted to say before running out:

"You have a fat tummy!"

Dr. Bester - The End?

2010-01-08T08:24:00.000-08:00

If you are a devoted and loyal reader of this blog (and there must be hundreds, possibly thousands of you), you may have wondered if after the last post the story was over. You are confused, thinking surely there is more to come, you will hear from me again. But then you think, wow, a lot of time has passed, and nothing. And my silence makes you start to think there could be nothing more to say. Especially after so long a break, right? So you think maybe that's it, we're through, no more. Honestly, you would be fine if you don't hear from me. In fact, you might hope you never do.

In that way you are like me. And the following story tells why:

The bills started coming after my many office visits, a stay at St. Al's, and the procedure done by the good doctor himself. And like most people I could not pay them all off at once. I did make sure to pay the hospital, the anesthesiologist, and so forth, but deliberately was slow in paying Dr. Bester. The amount was large (to me) and as time passed and I could see no improvement in my breathing (and remembering that great day in his office getting the stents out), I resented paying him.

So I paid a little at a time until I owed $522.35. The next month I wrote him a check for $22.35 and said to myself that's it. No more. Keep sending me the statements, buddy. I owe you five hundred bucks but I won't be paying soon. I determined (that determination which it seems sometimes erodes once the bills go to collections) not to pay him.

And to my great surprise, it worked! I know what you are thinking. A few months? A year? Well, since that time, I have never gotten another statement from Dr. Bester. It has now been over five years since I had the surgery.

Do you think you know why? Perhaps Dr. Bester fears us, as we have first hand knowledge of his carrying on with his nurse. Or maybe his billing system got screwed up or he lost our records. He might have felt really awful after reading MLB's letter to him in which she kindly and politely described her frustration from seeing that not only had the procedure failed to help me breathe successfully through my nose, but that my snoring (which previously had happened only when I would sleep on my back) was louder and happened irrespective of my sleeping position. Oh, wait, she wrote that letter but never sent it.

Well, I think I know why. I nosed around the interweb and it seems my man has been suspended by the Gem State's board of medicine. Why, you ask? Oh, just the result of (perhaps among other things) "complaints from various patients and the Board's own investigation regarding Respondent's training and ability to perform cosmetic or plastic surgery procedures and other issues." I don't know if getting your septum undeviated or getting a "roto-rooter job" (his words) on your sinuses is cosmetic surgery, so I will gladly throw my experience in the pile of "other issues."

So is it the end? I doubt it. Once that suspension is lifted, I expect the statements to start coming in the mail again. Maybe he will write it off if I ask him to contribute to my blog.

Dr. Bester, part 7

2009-11-10T09:56:00.000-08:00

by Phyllis

I mentioned in the previous post that I had trouble stopping the bleeding in my nose after the stents were taken out.

I even tried to rush back to work while this was still an issue. I had received the assignment to support a new site for the upcoming school year, and I wanted to be there for the meeting where I could meet and introduce myself to everyone. And I think they were all curious about their new IT guy as well. The principal gave me a few minutes to speak in front of the staff. I spent it constantly sniffing and nervously dabbing the blood dripping from my nose. I am sure they were very impressed.

After a couple more days, the bleeding had not improved and we decided we had to call the doctor. I was a little scared, because it was a Saturday, and I wondered if we would get a hold of him. To my complete surprise Dr. Bester returned our call, listened to our concerns and...dramatic pause required here...told us to come down and meet us at his office! On a Saturday! What?!?? But thanks, Dr. Bester. I'm impressed.

MLB and I jumped in our car and drove downtown to his office. We parked in the back in compliance with his instructions, as he would let us in the back door. As we started to get out, we could see one car in the parking garage below us--a woman smoking in the passenger seat with an older gentleman in the driver's seat. We soon realized we recognized the woman: it was Susie, Dr. Bester's gravelly-voiced assistant. And sure enough, the man was the doctor himself. It is important to know, however, that neither one of them saw us.

We got to the rear door of his office and soon he showed up (by himself) to let us in. Up the stairs and down the hall and we were soon in his office, sitting in the same little room we had once occupied before. Dr. Bester examined me for a minute, gave me a bunch of gauze and tape, and we stepped in to the hall while he looked through some cabinets for something.

While we stood there, me looking at MLB, and MLB looking at him, he suddenly asked her, "Who is THAT?" as he looked past us both down the hall. We turned to look. "It's Susie," MLB responded.

"Well, what is SHE doing here?" he asked. A confused MLB answered "I dont know," and the two of us looked at each other, wondering at the situation. I mean, it was clear now he was a little nervous, trying to confuse us or throw us off, but of course he didn't know we had already seen them together. It didn't work. I thought to myself, 'Seriously, Doc? That's how you're going to play that? Pretend you don't know who it is?'

Maybe he could tell it wasn't working, because now he was in full crisis mode, and he began to speak quickly and shove armfuls of medicine samples of various kinds from his cabinet into a bag for me. Decongestants, antihistamines, allergy medicines, whatever he could find. And into the bag it went.

As we walked out, he stayed at the cabinet to organize it and close up. We said hello to Susie as she was opening drawers in the main office. We told her what he had said. She looked at us and laughed. "He knows why I'm here. I came with him! We stopped by to get some money. We are going to the rodeo."

We smiled and continued out, but heard her ask him one last question before we left.

"Do you want me to just get this out of petty cash?"

Dr. Bester, part 6

2009-10-22T07:26:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

Okay, so the stents were out and I was home again recovering, both physically and mentally.

On the mental side, the scars are still there, as evidenced by my previous post. But physically I had concerns, and they were four-fold. Let me attack them one at a time.

1. My nose and sinuses still felt congested and I still couldn't breathe through my nose like I wanted to. I knew there was still some swelling and drainage (a horrible word, by the way), and an awful lot of mucus. One day after about a half hour of snorting, hawking, and gagging, I expelled a massive green mass from my right nostril. I was so impressed with its size, I summoned MLB to come have a look. Against her better judgment, she did, and I got to see a little color drain out of her face. (Please don't ask me about the time in college MLB was talking to me on the phone and overheard an embarrassing [somehow similar?] event.)

In later visits to Dr. Bester's office, he did tests to measure the air flow through my new nasal airway. The measurements proved I had adequate air flow. Fine, I thought, but I still can hardly breathe.

2. I had trouble keeping my nose from bleeding. It may have been wise to mention this last as I will not discuss everything that came of it until my next post, but it was my secondary concern at the time. But stay tuned for a delicious tale. And now on to...

3. Some people might not have the balls to share something like this, but my next concern was that my testicles were quite swollen. I couldn't figure it out. I knew all I had been operated on was my nose, and I checked the drugs I was taking for possible side-effects, but I found nothing. Yet there they were, big as Dallas. Definitely swollen and tender. I didn't like it. When I went to the emergency room for issue number 4, I mentioned this new problem of mine, and the doctor ordered an ultrasound.

The tech came and performed it, and I couldn't shake the feeling he was laughing at me silently the whole time. I bet he thought I was nuts. And sure enough, the results came back and there were no problems. And I bet I know how it was written up on the report: "Nothing remarkable."

Dr. Bester, in one of my post-surgery appointments, had an idea. He told MLB, who had come with me, I was "a little backed up." He advised MLB to go ahead and help me out. You know, marital responsibilities and all. Good old Dr. Bester. What a guy!

4. As you may know, I take blood thinners due to a PE I had when I was 29. I had to stop for the surgery, but several days after, even though I had started taking them again, I felt an unmistakable pain in my Schwarzeneggar-like calf. Soon I was limping around the house so noticeably that MLB knew what was wrong, too.

So off to the ER we went, where I had an ultrasound (yes I had two that day) which revealed another clot in my leg. But the blood thinners I was now back on were starting to do their job again, and I was sent home with a large bill and a diagnosis I could have made myself.

Seriously, stick around for part 7.

Dr. Bester, part 5

2009-10-12T08:17:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

I continued to recover at home, and even though I felt like crud, I had reason to enjoy this time. My three boys have never been so kind, caring, and loving as they were every time they came in the room and looked at my gauze-covered nose which nicely accented the miserable look on my face. Good times.

Dr. Bester had placed stents in my nose during the surgery. These were to stay in for seven days. The ironic result was that, inasmuch as they entirely filled my nostrils and extended upward to my sinuses, I could not breathe out of my nose AT ALL. I certainly looked forward eagerly to the day Dr. Bester would remove them, and I knew this would be done during an office visit, so I figured it was not a big deal. Dr. Bester sure talked like it wasn't.

So I went with MLB (a good girl, that) to my appointment and she came to the room where Dr. Bester would meet us to remove the stents. It was an exciting time anticipating my first few breaths through my newly-repaired nose. Quite casually, and only a few seconds after he came in the room, Dr. Bester grabbed the end of one of the stents and started to tug. It would not budge. He twisted it and tugged some more and anchored himself and began to bear down. It was becoming evident this was a little more than not a big deal.

As Dr. Bester began to pull harder and harder, and as I worked harder and harder to stifle the urge to scream out, my eyes began to tear up and flow heavily down my cheeks. I was still not making much more than a couple swallowed groans and grunts as Dr. Bester was in full tug-of-war mode. As he was just winning this round and the stent (how could something stuffed up my nose be more than 6 inches long?) was finally leaving my nose, I broke out in an intense sweat from the top of my head and it began to flow down and drench my face.

At or about this time MLB witnessed the manifestation of something she had only ever heard of before: all the color draining from one's face. She told me afterward it was instantaneous, very creepy, and, coupled with the deluge of tears and sweat, quite frightening to observe. But you will have to take her word for that.

Or if you can find Dr. Bester, I bet you could ask him, too. Because as disoriented and woozy as I was, I saw him a little agitated and concerned about my present state, and, with the calm reserve of a professional, he quickly and emphatically instructed me to begin an exercise with my feet: I was to continually press alternately with each foot toward the floor (like flooring the gas pedal in a car) and then release upward. I didn't and still don't know what this does, but he told me later he was certain I was about to pass out. I didn't.

So there it was folks, that day in his little examination room. The single most excruciating pain I have ever consciously endured in my life had just passed. And this without anesthesia, a sedative, or time to mentally prepare myself (if that kind of thing works). He had said nothing to me about what it would be like, perhaps because he didn't know himself. Is that possible?

And having gone through this terrible experience, panting now, mopping my head and face, feeling my racing heart slow a little, and receiving tender touches and looks from MLB, I was lucid enough to come to a terrible realization: Dr. Bester still needed to take the other stent out!

How about a sedative now, or a little time, or some laughing gas? No. As he moved in to latch on to the other stent, I tried to steel myself for what I knew was coming.

Dr. Bester, part 4

2009-10-08T17:00:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

Dr. Bester finally condescended to appear for one my appointments with him before surgery, and most (and if not most, then at the very least none) of my fears and concerns were allayed. I asked him too how my body would know to breathe through my newly-functional nose instead of my mouth as it had my whole life. His answer was so impressive I cannot now remember what he said.

Little should be said of the actual procedure in that I clearly was present but not aware of its progress and ultimate completion. My first recollection was in the first recovery room where, still a little loopy from anesthesia, I told jokes and in other ways attempted to be funny for the nurse attending to me. I can't recall clearly, but if you know me, you will agree it must have been hilarity itself.

Then came the recovery room where two dear sisters were the first to visit me. And I am not saying one of them asked me about the pain medication I was given and received a prescription for, but about the time people started visiting me this was a constant concern for everyone.

"How are you doing, Phyllis?"
"How are you feeling, man?"
"Everything go okay?"
"Hey, what did they give you for pain?"

Evidently a necessary piece of information, judging by how quickly it was always asked. And by the reaction when I told them what it was.

"Oh, sweet, dude. That stuff is awesome!"
"Yeah, that's what I'm talking about."
"Cool, I had that one time and I still have some left. It rocks."

So people like pain pills apparently. But I don't.

Whatever they gave me (and sorry, all you drooling pain pill fiends out there, because I can't remember what it was) just made me feel weird. As I sat on my couch staring at the wall, I felt like I was sitting there and also hovering about two feet to the right and above me. And I didn't care about anything. I may not have known about anything. In any case, I hated how it made me feel, so I stopped taking it and dealt with the pain. Remember I told you I have a decent tolerance for pain.

And trust me, it hurt. Try breaking your nose sometime (I was told that, in essence, this had been done in order to perform the surgery) and see how you like it.

And so my recovery went.

(I recognize this post does not deal a great deal with our beloved doctor. More on him in the next post as I continue my recovery.)

Dr. Bester, part 3

2009-09-28T09:35:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

I mentioned before that inasmuch as my workspace was in downtown Boise, it was sort of nice Dr. Bester's office was down there too, so I could "shoot over for a quick appointment and get back to work." But it never happened that way. Dr. Bester's office, in fact, helped me set personal records for time waiting in a doctor's office.

I know part of going to the doctor is waiting. I have blogged previously about it and how precious a doctor's time is when you finally see him. Dr. Bester, however, took the cake (if ever there were a cake to take). I never once waited for less than an hour to get in that little room with all the brochures. And once I waited a full two hours. No lie.

Let me digress for a minute to ask you an important question: have you ever known a meathead? Think about it. What is a meathead you ask? I think you have a good idea, but you could use as a template some of those mouth-breathers (can I of all people use that term?) you see on weekends offering witty insight and commentary about football games. Yes, like Howie Long. Ok, back to the story.

Once I got in that little room, most of the time a meathead would come to see me instead of Dr. Bester. It was Dr. Bester's physician's assistant. And seriously, the first word that came to my mind when he first burst through the door was meat. And then head. With his baseball glove hands and torso exploding out from his overly tight lab coat, he blabbered and I pretended to listen. I was waiting for Dr. Bester so I could ask some questions. The date for the surgery was fast approaching, I knew, and I had never done anything like this before. But no. "All right!" Meathead burped. "See you in a couple weeks!"

After two or three appointments like this, I mentioned to the nurse on my way out that the surgery was in 10 days and I still didn't know what Dr. Bester wanted me to do about the prescription blood thinner I take every day, and had several questions still. I had by then asked them all of Meatface but was not satisfied with the answers.

"I have breathed through my mouth all my life. How will my body know to start breathing through my nose?" I wondered.

"It just will."

"And will this help my snoring?"

"Oh, man!" Beefsteak said. "This will be so awesome. Think about it. No more snoring, no more waking up with your mouth all dry and tasting awful. Waking up refreshed. This is gonna be great!"

I seasoned everything this rump roast told me with a healthy amount of salt.

Dr. Bester, part 2

2009-09-25T08:11:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

Trust me, it is a real drag not to be able to breathe properly through your nose.

I can breathe through my nose, sure, but if I close my mouth and try to focus on breathing ONLY through my nose, I feel claustrophobic and panicky and scared like I'm drowning within about a minute or so. It is NOT cool.

It used to be this was no big deal. You know, back when I didn't know any better, wasn't paying attention to how I was breathing, back when I was a kid. For a while I didn't get it when fellow classmates would tease me for sitting there with my mouth gaping open. I knew even then it wasn't gaping, but it was open, as it was a much more successful vehicle for the intake of my precious oxygen.

But as I got older and learned nearly everyone else breathes through the nose, it started to bother me. Why can't I do this? What's wrong with me? So I finally decided to do something about it when Dr. Bester said he could fix my deviated septum and that this would help me breathe through my nose. I thought the whole idea was pretty awesome.

I started making plans and appointments with Dr. Bester now in preparation for surgery. He sent me off to get some tests done and they showed that my sinuses were all very full, congested, loaded, whatever you want. (That part I believe, by the by, since it possibly provides answers to years of congestion, ear infections, lots of boogers and earwax, and all that glamorous stuff.) So while he was fixing my deviated septum, he would be performing what he called a "roto rooter job" on my sinuses. Great, let's get it all done, I thought.

Dr. Bester, part 1

2009-09-03T09:09:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

I admit I am copying someone a little in writing a post of this sort, but that should be okay with everyone. After all, I wouldn't have made it through junior high, high school, and college without cheating consistently. Others spent their time and effort reading and studying; I spent mine getting better at passing off the work of others as my own. Very rewarding stuff.

Anyway...Dr. Bester, yeah. That isn't his real name, you know, although you could figure out what it is if you know some of my tricks for the names I give people. Maybe you don't know my tricks, and I certainly can't reveal them. But a few seem to me a little transparent. In any case, let's talk about Dr. Bester.

Dr. Bester was (is?) an ear/nose/throat/cosmetic surgery/whatever-procedure-he-wants-to-do doctor. Of course I didn't know that many years ago when I had a slight pain in my ears and looked up an otolaryngologist with an office close to my work space in downtown Boise. I wanted to be able to shoot over for a quick appointment and get back to work.

So, as I said, after several days of what I thought was moderate pain in my ears, I set up the appointment. Dr. Bester came in, asked me a few questions, and then peered in my ears. I could tell he stifled a reaction, and looked at him quizzingly. "You aren't in pain?" he asked. I said it hurt a little. "Because you have quite an infection in there. I am amazed you are so stoic about it." I always knew I was tough.

He wrote a prescription, and wondered if I had any other questions. "Yes. How come I have never been able to breathe out of my nose?" Dr. Bester took a quick look up my nose and at my palate and told me I had a deviated septum. He could fix that.

I thought about that as I left.

Long Time, No Blog

2009-08-19T14:49:00.001-07:00

By Phyllis

And I am going to break this silence by sharing my view on Brett Favre and his coming out of retirement to sign with the Minnesota Vikings. So here's my view: who cares about this? Not me. I never liked the Packers, Favre, the Vikings, or people who repeatedly retire and unretire. Maybe I will be interested at the end of the year when we see the results of this signing: 20 TDs, 18 INTs, and mediocrity in the NFC North.

I'd rather spend more time on this story. Seriously, a gender test? As the story says, there are "concerns she does not meet the requirements to compete as a woman." What, pray, are those requirements? The story does not say exactly, but apparently it is an "extremely complex, difficult" process. Apparently I missed a few days in Biology class.

And, no, we are not dealing with a Jarmila Kratochvilova situation here. Remember her? I do. That awesome year my parents got me a Sports Illustrated subscription for Christmas (including the swimsuit issue I snuck out of the garbage) I read all about her. And saw the pictures. The first thing I thought as a naive youngster was, "Hey, that's a dude!" Turns out it wasn't--just a woman roiding it up to break world records.

But I don't think dude when I see Caster Semenya. At least not for a couple seconds. And even if I do, it isn't because of roids or HGH or something like that. I mean, what is going on here? Protandry? A Pseudohermaphrodite? A sequential or simultaneous hermaphrodite? None of the above?

In any case, I don't envy Caster or those performing the tests or those reporting the results, either to us or to Caster. If Caster has cheated (however it was done) that is one thing. But as International Association of Athletics Federations spokesman Nick Davies says, "If it's a natural thing and the athlete has always thought she's a woman or been a woman, it's not exactly cheating."

No kidding, but have fun breaking the news to her.

See Hiccus

2009-06-25T07:46:00.001-07:00

by Phyllis

Look, lady, don't get upset with me because I mispronounced your daughter's name.

You will get no sympathy from me. I have had my name mispronounced my whole life. And even though any primate with half a brain could take three seconds looking at my name and realize there are only TWO possible pronunciations, somehow every person I have ever known has gone with either the incorrect of the two possibilities, or some off the board bastardization.

Plus, ma'am, keep in mind, this is my surname. You know, handed down from generation to generation? So it may look funny or foreign but I had no choice. Neither did my parents. They just gave me what they already had.

You, however, chose one of those clever, cool, alternative spellings of a common English name. What were your hopes or expectations in doing this? I couldn't possibly guess. But please calm yourself, hunker down, and prepare yourself for a lifetime of people botching your sweet girl's name. It really is your fault.

What to Make of It?

2009-06-24T07:56:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

It's a little like having your favorite Pandora station play something really stupid all of a sudden, only this happened in reverse.

I am no stranger to Adventure's First Stop. Mostly because there is a store fairly close to my home, I buy a lot of fuel for my cars there. My sons also can go through milk like no person's business, so I have made many a jaunt up to store 211 to get a couple of gallons to tide us over. (And so long as they have the 'buy one liter of Diet Mtn. Dew get one for 50 cents' promotion going on, I will wear out a path to their door.)

While either outside filling up my tank or inside browsing the many jerky selections and deciding not to buy the refillable 100 ounce soda vat, I have heard not a few good ol' songs from some of country music's "best." I can recall Garth Brooks and his Papa Loved Mama ditty and George Strait and his Give it Away (not a RHCP cover, in case you wondered). Rascal Flatts gets some love there as well. I don't know if this is because they are tuned to a country station or what. Who cares, right?

But the other day as I topped off the car, I heard "You Take Me Up" by Thompson Twins.

Should I report this to management?

Smalltalk

2009-06-13T14:17:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

I am not a fan (although I expect it will be suggested to me soon).

I don't like to make it. I don't like to participate in it. That is not to say I haven't done it--just that I have always hated it. I know it sounds negative (in a good way) to say it, but I don't really like talking to people in the first place. Well, actually, the part I don't like is listening. I can talk to you all day if you like, and will act like I am listening (not an oscar-worthy performance, I must admit), but I don't really want to hear what most people have to say.

[I wonder if someone will steal my idea for a T-shirt that says "Pretend I have my earbuds in." Great idea, right?]

So for someone who doesn't like to talk to people, smalltalk is nearly insufferable. And I had three whoppers laid on me recently and I nearly lost my cool each time.

#1 - Walking through the empty halls during classtime at one of the elementary schools I work at, I see a remotely familiar person (I have worked at this school several years now) coming my direction. I make no eye contact but soon hear her say, "You working on those computers?" "Yep," I say. Not a lot of thought went into that one, though, ma'am, I think to myself. But I realize I prefer it that way. Nowhere really to take the "conversation" and it ends there as we pass each other.

#2 - This time I am working at our district's alternative High School (you figure out what that means) removing spyware some genius has installed on his PC. (Yes, I am an IT snob.) I leave the room for a minute to go check on something else, and when I return, two students are in there working with the librarian on a paper. I seat myself at the PC again and continue working on it. After nearly five minutes, the librarian offers, "So, you're in here with us?" I scarcely know how to respond to such a question without laughing hysterically, so I compose myself for a few seconds and come back with "I'm just working on the computer." End of conversation again.

#3 - The good fellers who came and installed the fence in my backyard recently had plenty to say. My favorite had to be when one had returned from retrieving a tool from his truck ("Yeah, the bed's a little high for me but hell no I wouldn't put a lift gate on it. I'd love to lower it, though.") and gave me this gem: "Hey, man, that blonde neighbor of yours?" He tailed off as he grinned and gave me a look I can only describe as disgustingly lecherous.

Admittedly, I didn't know how to respond to this, so I gave him the best conversation stopper I could think of. "Hmmph."

It didn't work.

Bad News

2009-06-11T09:14:00.000-07:00

by Sue

Yes, it is me, Sue. I promised Phyllis once upon a time I would contribute to his blog, and then only wrote one post. So I guess it is time again. Plus, Phyllis and I were talking the other day about something, and he had plenty to say about it, but claimed he could not post a blog about it. He said at least one person he likes quite a bit might get a little sore.

And, yes, it is bad news for all you inkophiles out there. It is my contention that tattoos are not cool anymore.

Yes, I think they were at some point. It was a practice on the fringe, very cutting edge, very daring. But we have crossed over to a new era. And by my crude calculations more people have them now than don't. I am only going by what I see.

Any trip to your local WalMart will give you all the proof you need. In order to enjoy the savings and convenience of the world's most evil store, you have to sport some ink. A butterfly or other gentle creature on your ankle is fine if you are female, but you can also follow the example of every other 21-year-old girl in the world, and get the good old tramp stamp. If you are a man, go with the Kanji on the calf, bicep, or neck, or go all out and get sleeves.

I can hear tat-nation squawking already. They are telling me how cool people don't get tats like that and how they had their tattoos long ago when it was still cool. Fine, I say, but you make my point: with the WalMart riff-raff clouding the issue, you can see the practice is no longer cool; it is far too common, and, as they say, played.

If that's not enough for you, please consider my next-door neighbors: Their teenage son--the one wearing shorts so low his whole butt would be showing were it not for his colorful underpants, who buzzes around to high school and back in his Nissan Z-something listening to profanity-filled hip-hop or (c)rap or whatever it is called these days--is, like, dude, totally tatted up. So are all his buddies.

Do I need to say anything else?

TV Shows I Have Never Watched

2009-05-18T22:22:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

I hear people all the time talking at work about what was on TV last night. And it is not uncommon to see facebook 'friends' let me (and hundreds of other interested people) know they are working hard now so they can get home and catch Desperate Chuck's Bones or Dancing With Grey's Anatomy or How I Met Your Prison Nanny or something like that.

So I started to pay a little attention and keep track. I watch some network television (and I don't have cable), so I began to jot down shows networks are unsuccessfully pushing at me but apparently successfully getting everyone else to watch. So below is a list of shows I have never seen. And, yes, I have seen few seconds of some as I flip through hoping ESPN magically shows up somehow, but never have I seen an entire episode of any that follow. And I have never seen a second of most of them:

24
Lost
Grey's Anatomy
Desperate Housewives
How I Met Your Mother
Chuck
Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Numb3rs
Fringe
The Mentalist
Bones
NCIS
Gossip Girl
Supernatural
Cold Case
Without a Trace
Prison Break
Heroes
Friday Night Lights
The Bachelor
The Bachelorette
Brothers and Sisters
Dancing With the Stars
Super Nanny
Ugly Betty
Wife Swap
The Big Bang Theory
Criminal Minds
Rules of Engagement
The Unit
Survivor
American Dad
Dollhouse
Family Guy
Lie To Me
So You Think You Can Dance
'til Death
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
CSI: NY
CSI: Miami
CSI: Nampa

Web Fun, Part 2

2009-04-28T09:24:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

On to Web Fun, Part 2, but I must revisit Web Fun, Part 1 for a second. As it turns out, Darryl is desirous to make one thing clear: she who hated Prince's Batdance and made the Ada County arrests page is NOT his half-sister, but his STEP-sister. His desire to correct this error screams out clearly: "This person does not share my blood!"

Oddly, an argument could be made that she is of MY blood. How? Well, there was once a young girl (a beautiful and talented sister of mine, as it turns out) who completed that binding and sacred transaction of becoming Batdancehater's "blood-sister". To my knowledge, this bond has not been dissolved or annulled through official channels. So there you have it.

And now, a little more fun on the web. The other website which used to occupy hours of my idle time (when through a huge effort I could find idle time) was right here. From this website, you can look up various information regarding houses in our dear county. I will admit it was a little more fun when one of the pieces of information included was the last time the house was purchased and how much it was sold for. But there is still some good stuff: assessed value, square footage, tax districts, pictures. Yeah, I know--only good stuff if you are curious about stupid things like that.

A weird thing, though: if you were to look up my house on the website you would see that as far as Ada County is concerned my house is 2598 square feet. This is grossly wrong. There are over 600 square feet (I ballparked it) that are not counted for some strange reason. The report does show 664 sq. ft. that are counted as something called "Car Storage," but I am not clear on what that means.

It is all quite confusing. I remember looking at houses in my neighborhood, and each was advertised as having bedrooms, bathrooms, living rooms, etc. But all of them were also said to have a 2- or 3-car garage. I don't know what this is. These areas are clearly meant to be part of the house, and should be counted in calculation of square footage. They are ideal for putting all the gross, disgusting, broken-down, and useless items we don't want dirtying and cluttering up the bedroom, family room, or kitchen. Right?

Adding to the confusion is another misnomer used to describe the paved part of one's property that leads directly to this "car garage" thing. Why is it called a driveway when it is obviously a location for storing one's automobiles? The unfortunate use of "driveway" falsely leads some people to think of driving across this area and into the garage. But why on earth would you do that?

And names like "road" or "street" or "avenue" don't help either. Many of these near my home should be renamed to "driveway" or "lot" for it is clear this is another place to store vehicles. Looking out my front window it looks like that area right outside Bronco Stadium, and I believe it is called a "lot." How about some consistency here?

Alas! I must confess I am adding to the confusion. Upon first driving to our new home, I drove our cars into this poorly named 3-car garage thing and left them there. I found it highly convenient to have them there and have been flouting convention ever since. I know I am wasting several hundred square feet of space by choosing to keep the vehicles cooler in summer and warmer in winter, and I am grossly negligent in helping my "street" look like the parking lot it should be.

Sorry about that.

Not Even Close

2009-04-18T12:09:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

It might not seem like a big deal, but I will admit I spent more than a couple minutes in 1993 thinking about music as I thought about my impending nuptials with MLB. No, I was not concerned about what we would hear playing in the background or who might perform at the reception. (This was decided for me, and as it turns out, although I have a musically talented family, some girl I didn't know played the piano and and another unknown sang a song.)

But I was thinking about the kind of music I like, and what MLB's tastes were. Trust me, people. It's an important issue. Seriously, what if she had been a devotee of Rush, or Def Leppard, or Phil Collins? Suppose she really liked Vanilla Ice, had been to several Exposé concerts, or had all the Garth Brooks CDs? Honestly, how is such a person to be worked upon?

Fortunately we had no huge issues and found we had similar tastes--truly a key ingredient in the recipe for wedded bliss. Even some of the slight differences in our musical tastes have been reconciled over the years. MLB has begun to like some music I like, and I have followed her lead, as well.

There is one band I like, however, that was a source of confusion for MLB: The Icicle Works. She never had an interest when I would listen to them, and didn't put forth much effort to understand who they were. As a matter of fact, she repeatedly referred to them as Icehouse, a travesty and disgusting untruth which made me as angry as Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Each time MLB said it I would set out 'at once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.'

"How could you confuse those two bands?" I would bellow, and soon we would be discussing Icehouse's ridiculous "Crazy" video. (Go ahead and watch it all, if you want some good laughs. A few key items to enjoy: the woman's utter ecstasy after making her song request, the hat, the worthy and powerful mullet, the pants--wow, it's all nearly too much!) But, alas! a hilarious video and the king of all mullets do not a good band make.

So I would play a song for MLB by Icicle Works, "The Cauldron of Love" for example. What a great song! So I would ask her: "Do you want to hear more? A Factory in the Desert, Little Girl Lost, Walking With a Mountain, Evangeline, Hollow Horse, Who Do You Want For Your Love? Clearly there is no comparison." Surely MLB would remember from now on, right. I sure hoped so.

Last week a horrible thing happened. I was enjoying the Icicle Works station I created on Pandora. It was cycling through some good stuff, you know, New Order, Echo & the Bunnymen, Tears for Fears, Aztec Camera. Then one sweet tune ended and a terrible cacophony began to assault my ears. I quickly maximized the Pandora window and stared in amazement: it had queued up "Crazy" by Icehouse!

Bad job, Pandora! Are you confused, too? Thumbs down!

Unacceptable

2009-04-03T14:09:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

Forgive my digression from Web Fun for a moment, but I must speak. The following is a portion of an e-mail that was forwarded to me recently. (The name has been changed.):

"As per our convo, Betsy Warner is not able to see her computer displayed thru the projector. The DVD works and everything looks like it is hooked up correctly. Can you please ask the IT folks to check it out. Keith"

No.

I am aware that "combo" is used as a shortened form of combination. And I can accept that. But give me a break with "convo" already. Do you mean to tell me "o" is now an acceptable shortening for the last three syllables of all words that end in "-tion"? Try again. Or let me make an obso about this. It would bring many complos to our language. People would find themselves needing to give an explo or even a defo of what was just said. Frankly I think it is an abomo, so please let's take this practice and give it a good defeno.

The only appropriate use of ridiculous shortenings of this type is for humor. Any of you who saw the 30 Rock episode where Josh's agent helps him with his contract know what I mean. That was hilar.

Other unacceptable shortenings:

sitch
vacay

And many others. What have I forgotten?

Web Fun, Part 1

2009-03-31T12:47:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

Several years ago, before such colossal time-wasters as blogs, youtube, and facebook were popular, I occupied some of my interweb time surfing up some pretty splendid netpages and such. At least I thought so.

I used to look daily at Ada County arrest reports, a five day report of which can always be found here. Every so often I would hit the jackpot and see someone I knew or knew of. I saw mugshots of an old business associate my dad used to have, a waitress at a local sushi joint we all know, and even Darryl's half-sister (she was not a fan of Prince's Batdance, in case you were wondering). I saw lots more people, of course, but it was best when I saw someone I knew.

But I had to stop visiting the site. For one, MLB started to get on my case. "Why do you get on that website every day?" she would say, and I couldn't answer honestly. What could I say? "Too see my fellow man at his worst, his most bummed out, his lowest. You know, to feel better about myself." I don't know if that was entirely true anyway.

I also stopped because I started to recognize repeat offenders, know their weaknesses, and probably why they were arrested. One time at work I saw some co-workers visiting the site and they called me over. "Dude. Check out THIS guy!" They almost fell over when I came back with "Oh, Steven Richard Archambeau is in jail again? What is it this time, possession of drug paraphernalia?"

Confession

2009-03-14T21:47:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

This is very difficult. I mean, I have done many things in my life I am not proud of. It's just that I get angry at myself when I repeat the same mistake. I know I shouldn't do it, but I cave in. Yes, I know I am human, but it still sucks.

And the thing I am talking about is something I promised myself I would never do again. It made me feel bad. I mean really physically ill, know what I mean? I can't take it back now and it has had devastating results. Aside from feeling sick inside, my self esteem has taken a huge hit. I struggle with self esteem anyway, so this just made me feel worthless.

Okay, enough of the cryptic prelude: last Tuesday, I went somewhere I shouldn't have gone. This place is like my own personal Mos Eisley, because I really believe, like Obi-Wan said, "you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy." Okay, so the people there aren't villains, I guess, but what they are doing is wrong. It is NOT healthy, and they need to stop. But when I look at them, I can see they are not as disappointed with themselves for being there as I am. The smiles on their faces tell me otherwise. And that adds to how bad I feel. It is just SO wrong.

But I need to let this out, so I am no longer hiding a painful secret, so someone will reach out to me and help. Please don't hate me and DO see this as a cry for help. And here it is:

Last Tuesday, I went and had lunch at The Great Wall Restaurant.

Something's Wrong

2009-03-03T10:18:00.000-08:00

by Phyllis

There's something wrong with me. Seriously.

I don't care how to get Michelle Obama's toned arms, I don't need a running commentary on Chris Brown and Rihanna, I am not interested in whatever Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt, and Angelina Jolie are or are not doing or saying to each other.

I have never watched "The Bachelor" or "Wife Swap" or "Dancing With the Stars" or really anything of that ilk. I get no pleasure from looking at outfits or reactions from The Oscars. And yet it seems millions of Americans do all these things.

Me? I am quite tired today because I stayed up last night and watched a semi-grainy re-broadcast that started at 11pm of a basketball game played in Las Cruces, New Mexico, of which I already knew the outcome!

Hubbub

2009-02-04T09:02:00.000-08:00

by Phyllis

This story is completely made-up:

A local elementary school was turned upside down yesterday. Word has it a former star football player from the local university worked for part of the day at the school. This had the result of creating erratic, silly, and juvenile behavior by many people there. There was gossiping, running in the halls, and nervous giggling. Still others were just resentful and bitter. And none of this was done by students.

Upon his checking in at the front office to start the day, Hal O. Fane (as I will call him) was recognized, but not by MLB. (How MLB and her husband could be so far away from each other when it comes to sports, caring about sports, knowing anything about sports, or even caring whether sports exist or not, is perhaps a discussion for another time.) Hal was recognized, yes, and even as he left the office, word began to seep through the school. Many a "Really?" or "Omigosh!" or "Teehee" could be heard in all parts. Then came the silliness.

Teachers were seen stealthily peering around corners and creeping down the halls to the classroom where Hal was, in order to sneak a peak. Others merely strolled by the room, "discreetly" peering in as they passed. Still others called the front office, requesting from MLB such necessary information as "Is he single?" and "Is he cute?" and "No, seriously, give me a number between 1 and 10!"

MLB soon knew who Hal was. She had consulted with the writer of this post, and then with Koozown, who claims a familiarity with Hal. MLB realized she had sampled some of Hal's work (not from the playing field) and Koozown then got word to Hal who MLB was. They made the connection, and it appeared now to everyone else that they were tight. MLB even fed the mania, giving anyone who cared to see the sign language letter 'r' with both hands.

There was resentment, too. Some were heard to say "Hal who?" and "Fane Shmane!" The writer of this post, upon hearing of the tumult caused by this appearance, had a hard time, as well. "Tell them I come there all the time," he told MLB to remind the staff. "And I dunked it once in an intramural basketball game in college!"

Nice Work, Andy!

2009-01-27T21:13:00.000-08:00

by Phyllis

You may be aware that I wrote recently (don't split verb phrases, you know) about Andy Pettitte and his rejection of a one year, $10 million offer from the New York Yankees. I wondered how it was that a man could do that. And I didn't get into many numbers, but now I will. Because Andy Pettitte, people, has earned over $100 million dollars in his career, and his salary last season was $16 million. So this is what he had to say about the pay cut he was offered:

"Heck, the bottom line is I'm a man, and I guess it does take a shot at your pride a little bit."

Yeah, Andy, I get you. Totally. Those cheap bastards! How dare they make you feel like less of a man! How dare they chip at your self esteem like that! Make them pay for it. Surely there are some other teams out there lining up for your services. Drive the price up by flirting with them, and then come back to the Yankees and cash in!

On a related note, I read in an article today that Andy Pettitte signed a one year deal with the New York Yankees. One year, $5.5 million. There are bonus clauses in his contract, so if he doesn't get injured, pitches enough innings, and isn't lousy enough for them to give up on him, he can earn another $6.5 million.

Hmmm. Turns out there weren't other teams interested. Pettitte on the contract talks: "It just got to the point where Randy [his agent] called me and said, 'I think this is it, buddy.' It didn't take me long to decide because I knew that was where I was going to play."

Well played, Andy. Really. Great maneuvering.

And seriously, Andy, good luck this year. Break a leg!

Wait, no, don't do that. If you do, you'll only earn $5.5 million, and I don't know if you could feel like a man earning that.

Rules

2009-01-23T19:36:00.000-08:00

by Phyllis

I made these up:

Don't open the front door without looking out of the windows (we have no peephole) to see who it is. I love to follow it. And although I try to be discreet when I look, you know, so the knocker or ringer doesn't see me, it doesn't deter me from following another rule I made if they do:

Don't answer the front door if you don't recognize the person. So, yes, I have looked straight in the eyes of a stranger knocking on my door and then turned and left without answering. It is my house, I say, so I answer the door if I feel like it. If you are a stranger and are offended that I didn't answer the door when it was clear I was at home (we did share a meaningful glance, after all), please don't knock on my door. Or get to know me first. But I don't know how you are going to do that.

Another rule related to answering the door (which I had to create one day when a friend of MLB called and said she would be right over so when the doorbell rang minutes later I opened it without looking first): Don't buy anything that is sold door to door. So, no, I don't have a 'no soliciting' sign on the door. I hate solicitors but I simply say (sometimes after they have made their nice little pitch), "I'm sorry, I don't buy anything that is sold door to door. You know, it's just a rule I have." They don't often get it, but I have found that if you repeat the phrase up to seven times, they get the hint.

I will admit that the number of telemarketing calls I get has gone down over the past few years. But when they sneak through I use a strikingly similar rule to the last one I mentioned: Don't buy anything (or contribute to anything [or agree to anything]) that is offered over the phone. And use the same repeating techniques if necessary.

Another rule: Do not give your business to someone who has misspelled a word or used incorrect grammar in a flyer or coupon or something. Or if they just said something that annoyed you, marginally qualified grammar and spelling snob that you are. For example, I don't need to refinance my home loan, but rest assured when I do I will not be using the company whose commercial on the radio claimed they would "shoot straight from the hip" with me. They used this phrase to compare themselves to some of the other local lenders who might not be totally honest with me. So while I would indeed like my lender to "shoot straight" with me, I struggle with the connotation of "shooting straight from the hip." I infer it means you will be honest with me, but will do it quickly without considering the possible effects. And honestly, Clearwater Mortgage, I don't know if that will serve our best interests. And please take the food out of your mouth while you read the commercial.

Because I follow the previous rule, I will not use Lifelock to make sure my identity is safe. You see, their radio ad tells me that "At Lifelock, we work to prevent identity theft BEFORE it happens." (And, yes, the emphasis is theirs.) You work to prevent identity theft before it happens, eh? You mean you won't prevent it if my identity has already been stolen? Fine then. Forget you. You should have known the rules before you made your commercial.

Some Cheer-you-up News!

2009-01-06T16:07:00.000-08:00

by Phyllis

Obviously I am aware of the free agent signings in Major League Baseball this off-season. I have previously blogged about a couple. So I know the amount of money that is being thrown around. But I wanted to write a little about one little news story today in the abstract. Or at least somewhat in the abstract.

Andy Pettitte today rejected a one-year, ten million dollar contract offer from the New York Yankees. Take a minute to digest that. Don't look up what he made last year, don't think about what other players make. Just reflect.

What? Someone offered him $10,000,000 for one year's salary. He (well, actually his agent) said no. How can this be? What kind of a world do we live in where a man can be offered that kind of money and refuse it? The only explanation that will make me feel better inside, and that only slightly, is that he is planning to retire, he is not up to the rigors of next season, he can't do it anymore. (He is 36, you know. And by the way, he does plan to play next year.)

Forget it. Even assuming that, it all makes me ill. It really does. Sick to my stomach. Depressed. Dissatisfied. And disappointed in my fellow man.

Not just at Andy, either. How have we as a society enabled this kind of thing to be? Can't we make this stop somehow? Yeah, I don't think so either. And it makes me ill. Have I said that already?

In all seriousness, what would you NOT do in order to earn ten million dollars over the REST OF YOUR LIFE? It's a pretty short list for me.

"Hey, Phyllis, money's not everything."

Reading a story like that sure makes me want to believe you.

That's Quite Enough, Thanks

2009-01-05T18:54:00.001-08:00

by Phyllis

I like college football. I may even love it. But there are certainly a few things I could do without.

1. The running, jumping chest bump (or 180 spin back bump). Seriously. Find another way to celebrate. Go back to the good old high five.

2. The DB who gets up and waves his hand across the front of his helmet (like a windshield wiper or something) after he has just broken up a pass. (Most of the time he really had nothing to do with it; the ball was overthrown or dropped.)

3. The book, chapter, and verse from the Bible written in the eye black of every member on the team. Just write the whole verse on there, please. We all have HD.

3a. The offensive lineman with his whole face painted black or like Putty's face on Seinfeld. If it doesn't scare me, it is not scaring that freak across the line.

And lots of other stuff. Honestly, I just want to see these guys play football. Oh, and another thing. Keep showing Colt McCoy's family. That's very interesting.

Okay That Sucked

2008-12-23T21:03:00.001-08:00

by Phyllis

Okay, that sucked.

More Predictions...Sort Of

2008-12-23T10:15:00.000-08:00

by Phyllis

Remember the Spindoctors? They had that lead singer who looked like Shaggy (ask me to do my Shaggy impression sometime) and had a couple of "hits" in the early 90s. You know, "Two Princes" and the one that was just playing on my Pandora station, "Little Miss Can't Be Wrong." What a stupid band. What does this have to do with anything? Nothing at all.

I went 3-2 on my predictions for the first five bowl games. Not bad, but those were not hard games to call, so I probably should have gotten them all. Nice to see that I called the BYU game almost perfectly.

As I sat there at Slave's house watching it, I mentioned how frustrating it was to be a BYU football fan. I know every time I watch them play they will put the ball on the ground repeatedly and probably have a few unsportsmanlike penalties and horribly inopportune times. And their defensive secondary is always exposed. Oh well, I knew what was coming. Maybe I should stop being a fan. But I went there and I guess it is just a part of me now.

I also went to BSU and graduated from there, you know. And this is not a team that disappoints on the football field. They actually have won several games I expected them to lose. So as I have contemplated how to call tonight's game, I realize I believe in them, believe they can get it done--again. So here goes:

BSU vs. TCU in the Poinsettia (How DO you pronounce that, anyway? Geez!) Bowl. I take BSU in a (relatively) low scoring game: 27-23.

Sheraton Hawaii Bowl, Hawaii vs. Notre Dame. Have I ever mentioned how I feel about Notre Dame. It mirrors the way I feel about the NY Yankees. So even if I thought they would win, I would nae pick them. And I think Hawaii will be geeked about this. Hawaii wins, and Notre Dame's bowl streak continues.

Motor City Bowl, Florida Central vs. Michigan Atlantic. Wait, that's not it. Florida Michigan vs. Central Atlantic, right? Who knows, but I'll take whichever team is from Michigan, since they are playing in Detroit.

More later, but I have to figure a subtle way to remind Slave I need him to let me let my boys destroy his downstairs again just so I can watch the BSU game.

Bowl Predictions #1

2008-12-19T16:55:00.000-08:00

by Phyllis

Before I get going on a few bowl game predictions, let me give you one more idea of a Christmas present to get for me. Go here. That's what I'm talking about, and it's the gift that keeps on giving.

And just so you know, I will be predicting who will win the game, not who covers the spread or whatever. Straight winners.

Bowl #1: EagleBank Bowl, Wake Forest vs. Navy. By the way, they played during the regular season, so here is your second chance at a yawner. Feel free to take a nap, since you had to set your alarm to get up in time to watch it. Anyway, Wake Forest doesn't turn it over 6 times and wins, probably 31-21. (Who I want to win: I don't care.)

Bowl #2: New Mexico Bowl, Colorado State vs. Fresno State. Another yawner, with 5th place teams from the WAC and MWC against each other. Proof there are too many bowl games. "Congratulations on a crappy season! Come to New Mexico for a bowl game!" Colorado State wins 31-28 (unless they call the game after 17 OTs without a winner), giving tens of people ammunition for their argument that the MWC is better than the WAC. (Who I want to win: CSU.)

Bowl #3: magicJack St. Petersburg Bowl, Memphis vs. South Florida. More proof. Memphis comes to St. Pete to play a Florida team. I don't know how Memphis can possibly win this, but I am picking them anyway. I am certainly not picking the 6th place team from the Big East! How awful do you have to be to place 6th in that league? Anyway, Memphis pulls off the shocker, and congratulates themselves with fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches for turning around a season that started 0-3. (Who I want to win: I don't care.)

Bowl #4: Pioneer Las Vegas Bowl, BYU vs. Arizona. Even before the game starts, we are in for a delicious treat: "The Most-Watched TV Star in the World" will be singing the national anthem. And you know, BYU should just put this game on their released schedule every year. My predictions (yes, I made it plural on purpose)? Arizona 38-28 this year, BYU 35-21 over Cal next year. (Who I want to win: BYU.)

Bowl #5: R+L Carriers New Orleans Bowl, Southern Miss vs. Troy. A whole team against one guy? That doesn't seem fair, even if the team is Southern Miss, who sucks. So Troy wins. (Who I want to win: Troy.)

And yes, 4 of these first 5 bowls should not be played, this one included. But believe me, if I had cable, I would be watching them all. As it is, I will have to invite myself somewhere to catch the BYU game. I am secretly hoping to take it in at my buddy Slave's house (no, not that Slave), but he doesn't know it yet. Or that I plan to watch the BSU game there, too.

That's it for the first batch of predictions. I will post again before BSU and TCU kick it off. I need the time until then to decide if I think BSU can pull this off. My brain says no, but I didn't think they would beat Oregon, either.

Big Ten + Two BCS Bowls = Two Bad Bowls

2008-12-15T18:26:00.000-08:00

by Phyllis

It isn't that I'm bitter. Honestly. I am bitter a lot, I admit, but not now. Not about this.

I know it makes more sense for a BCS bowl to take Ohio State. More viewers, more traveling fans, more money. And I don't think Boise State wants any part of Texas or Alabama. (They will have all they want with TCU.) So once Utah went undefeated, I knew what would happen. Ohio State to the Fiesta Bowl. Fine. My only problem now is with the matchup. I mean, is there a rational person outside of the state of Ohio that thinks OSU can win this game? They won't. I know it.

I am very sure about this. Just so you know how confident I am, I will list a few things of which I have equal certainty:

1. The sky is blue.
2. Grass is green.
3. Eggplant is inedible in any form.
4. Demi Moore is a horrible actress.
5. A.J. Burnett will flame out in New York. Yes, I will consider his being injured for the duration of his contract flaming out. I don't just mean he will suck. Which he will. Give a lifetime 87-76 pitcher $82 million dollars over five years? Brilliant. Can you say Carl Pavano? (And seriously, is there an easier team to hate than the Yankees? Nearly $250 million in offers to the first two players they tried to sign. I have ZERO respect for any player who signs with them. Would I personally take one million dollars to go pitch for them right now? Yes (and, no, I would not respect myself). But if I were a ten-year major leaguer and could get $12o million from the Yankees and only $60 million from the Royals? I sign with the Royals.)
6. Britney Spears has no soul. She sold it to Satan. We all know what she got in exchange.

So, yeah, Texas will beat Ohio State in the Fiesta Bowl. And if you question me, you're glib. You don't know anything about college football. I've studied it. I know.

UT 34, OSU 17.

Stay tuned for predictions for the winner of every bowl this season (even the Motor City Bowl). Who won't be tuning in to that one? One hundred Schrute bucks if you can name a team playing in it without looking it up.

On Being a Peacemaker

2008-12-02T11:30:00.000-08:00

By Phyllis

I am a Peacemaker. Seriously. Roger Clyne tells me as much every time I see him.

You may have heard Roger's band, The Refreshments, in the late 1990s. I remember hearing them on the radio. I had just moved to Boise from Texas in September of 1996 with my wife, MLB, and our three-year-old son. There was this "new" radio station in town, said my brother Koozown (and some other people, too), that actually played a few decent tracks. Not the usual crap. And for sure, this station had a different style. (I want to say the station was 100.3 "The X" but I am not sure. It sounds right, though.) I heard a lot of PUSA, Geggy Tah (and what a stupid and unimaginative song "Whoever You Are" was), CAKE, Sneaker Pimps. I also heard "Down Together" and "Banditos" by The Refreshments from time to time.

One night I was driving in my car (a la the aforementioned Geggy Tah) and heard "Down Together" again, and a DJ (who knows, it could have been Gary McCabe?) started babbling in his golden-throated way about The Refreshments' album, Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy, and how it was great from start to finish. I wondered if what he said was true but didn't immediately put his claim to the test.

Anyway, The Refreshments enjoyed a small taste of success circa 1997 (if success can be measured by exposure on MTV and the fact that they wrote and performed the theme to the new animated television series King of the Hill) and then they broke up. Roger and his drummer (P.H.) wasted no time, however, in recruiting a few guitar slingers and forming a new band: Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers were (was?) born.

That is enough of a history lesson. The only other thing you need to know is that since they formed they have toured extensively. That is how I have seen nearly ten shows (MLB is pushing 30!). So let me shift the focus of this post and propose something to you: you should see them the next time they are playing in town (I mean Boise). I don't care who you are. And of course I am serious.

I know what you are thinking; I have been there (or close) before. You are thinking how lame it would be to see a band you scarcely know. I understand. But trust me. Do it. Here are a few reasons why:

There will not be a huge crowd there. I have seen RCPM at the Big Easy (I guess it is the Knitting Factory now) several times and even if you don't go early to cement your spot right in front of Roger (like MLB) you will have a great spot for the show. Third or fourth row of standing people. You might even get some sweat cast off onto you.

"The Whole Damn Night" will be there. That's what we call the grey-haired and -bearded chap that comes and chants his name (or at least the one we gave him) periodically throughout the show. They might even play the song in which his name is a lyric. In any case, watching him will be good for a laugh or two. Hopefully, on the night you go he will not be silently belching throughout the show, reminding all within a twenty foot radius that he had hot dogs earlier.

It will be a great show. I have seen Echo and the Bunnymen, Social Distortion, and even Brian Setzer at the Big Easy (and other bands at other places) and RCPM delivers the best show. No lie. I will not say that I like RCPM better than Social D. or EATB (because I don't), but the show they put on is better. And it's not really close.

There is a good chance members of the band will come out after the show. (See if that's the case with whoever your favorite band is. I mean, I went to an Echo and the Bunnymen show once where my brother (not Koozown) got us backstage, and Ian couldn't wait to get away from us. It's okay; I couldn't understand him, anyway.) And even though Roger will have downed several shots during the show, he will be completely lucid and pleasant. He will talk to anyone who wants to (even all the annoying drunk people) and he is humble and down to earth and pleasant. You tell him 'nice show' or something and he will genuinely thank you and ask your name. It's pretty cool and you can't help but admire him (especially if you are female, apparently).

So when they come around again, pick a few Refreshments or RCPM songs and get to know them (MLB or I can suggest any number that are sure to be played at the next show). It will make the show even better for you. You won't be standing back there thinking everyone is lame for bouncing up and down and throwing their hands in the air. You will be doing it yourself.

Life Lessons

2008-11-26T20:16:00.000-08:00

By Phyllis

Some very important people have shaped my ideas of the world over the years. Let me share a few of the life lessons I have learned from these great men:

On the importance of the political process: "You can't change the world, but you can change the facts. And when you change the facts, you change points of view. If you change points of view, you may change a vote, and when you change a vote, you may change the world."

One the futility of figuring out one of life's great mysteries: "I've read more than a hundred books, seen love mentioned many thousand times. But despite all the places I've looked, it's still no clearer; it's just not enough. I'm still no nearer the meaning of love. Noted down all my observations. Spent an evening watching television. Still I couldn't say with precision."

On whether it is okay to tell lies: "You'll see your problems multiplied when you continually decide to faithfully pursue the policy of truth."

On keeping centered: "Be responsible, respectable, stable, but gullible. Concerned and caring, help the helpless, but always remain ultimately selfish. Get the balance right."

On what to tell my wife when she gets frustrated that I won't see things her way: "Take a look at unselected cases. You will find love has been wrecked by both sides compromising, amounting to a disastrous effect."

And perhaps my favorite, which is pretty much my credo: "Quickly, I remember. Fused and saw a face before. Timing, reason, understanding. Like association whore."

My only question is why these great men are ripping off these guys.

Come again?

2008-11-22T22:36:00.000-08:00

By Phyllis

Yes, I am up at 11:30 watching the Hawaii-Idaho game. What else am I going to do?

Hawaii is up 42-10 and Idaho is looking a lot like...well, Idaho. Anyway, Idaho just ran a play and was half a yard short of the first down. So on 3rd and 1 they came out, lined up, and a couple of the offensive linemen jumped. Flags flew and whistles blew and players from both sides started pointing fingers--you've seen it before. Then the referee came out, clicked on his mic, and, arms akimbo, said:

"Disconcerting signals...on the defense. Five yard penalty. First down."

I.T. Snob

2008-11-04T10:08:00.000-08:00

by Phyllis

It can scarcely be debated that IT professionals can sometimes come across as snobs. Today I am talking about the ones that come to your desk and fix your "computer" "problems" for you. Picture Jimmy Fallon as Nick Burns.

Even though I manage servers and networks, part of my job does include traveling to the workspace of the end user to see what is wrong. So count me as one of those snobs, with a few differences. You can't really get away with being really snotty and condescending (and least in person) or the big boss man (seriously, he's like 6'6' and 270 I would guess) will hear about it.

But beware, my beloved end users, I will be judging you, and mocking you, and thinking you are stupid, and talking about you with my co-workers later. We will laugh. Hard.

And here are a few of the questions and criteria I will use to judge you:

Do you have the google toolbar installed? I will admit that this was a valuable tool--nay, essential--several years ago (which in PC years would put it in, what, the Jurassic age?) but now it is a nuisance and a pain. All it really means is that you don't pay attention when you are installing something, taking the defaults always, not caring what comes along with whatever you wanted in the first place. Additionally, the fact that you have the google toolbar increases the likelihood that you have even more of these ridiculous wastes of space: Yahoo toolbar, mysearch, ebay, weather channel, etc. Don't worry about it though; you probably won't ever get infected by spyware.
Do you double-click on hyperlinks? The fact that there are people still doing this amazes me. But then again, it is always good for a (delayed) laugh, so I guess it's fine.
Are you using the double-wide, stupid-looking, and utterly useless WindowsXP start menu? You know, not the classic one that we set for you on all our PCs. You deliberately changed it from the classic look to the new look? I am amazed for two reasons: you thought it was better and you figured out how to do it when you need my assistance to install a printer.
Almost hand in hand with the last question is this one: did you move the taskbar to either of the sides or (worse yet) the top of your window? (And please don't let me set that you set it to auto hide.) This is one of the all-time stupid things to do. It shows me that you think you are smart and skilled enough to know what you want and that you have found a better way to operate, only you are decidedly mistaken. Put it back where it belongs, genius.
Did you just say "Foxfire" to me without winking or chuckling, or elbowing your buddy? No? Learn to read. I mean, you do realize what you do for a living, right? And that goes for all you "Systematic" antivirus users out there.

Pop quiz: What do you call the picture you chose for your desktop background?

a. my screensaver
b. the screensaver
c. a screensaver
d. the desktop background

If you chose a, b, or c, congratulations! You are wrong! If you chose d, then I doubt you really are one of my end users. I would have also accepted 'desktop wallpaper' if you had been so bold to attempt a write-in vote. (And speaking of voting, I don't need to ask who you are voting for today. I already know. You talk to me about it like I share your opinions. I don't. Seriously, not in the least. Only I am courteous enough (in this case, anyway) not to tell you what I think about your views, even though you have just finished telling me what you think about mine. Thanks. You are a model of tolerance and understanding, just like you preach.)

There you go. A few things to think about. Forget it--who am I kidding? You will not learn, or even try to learn, as long as someone like me will be coming around to help you do the most simple task with your modem-or-monitor-or-processor-or-hard-drive-or-screen or whatever other name you have chosen today to call your PC.

Calças Marrons

2008-10-02T13:41:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

"All this happened a good many years ago." - Maugham

I was young, maybe thirteen or so, the first time I saw the movie Halloween. It had been a couple of years since it had been shown in the theaters, and I watched it one night when it was broadcast on television. After I finished watching the movie, it was late and time for me to go to bed. I sleepily loafed around upstairs for a few minutes, and then trudged downstairs to my bedroom.

My brother Joey also had a bedroom downstairs; the rest of the family was upstairs. Joey had watched most of the movie with me, but I didn’t see him after it was over. Perhaps I should have known what was coming.

I got to the bottom of the stairs, made the right turn to cross the large room with ugly orange carpet, and neared the hall, where the wall from the family room jutted out to make the entry to the hall about the size of a doorway. The hall was dark, and the instant I crossed the threshold into it, my brother jumped out from behind that jutting wall, wearing a ridiculous white plastic Halloween mask. He yelled “Ha!” or something like that.

Please keep the following in mind: In the first place, I had just recently finished watching the movie, so the images and scenes were fresh in my mind. Secondly, the mask, while not at all a close match to that worn by the killer in Halloween, was at the very least white, like in the movie. Thirdly, my brother appeared suddenly and mysteriously when I least expected it.

So my reaction, very vivid to me more than twenty years later, was extreme. But also strange. I was immediately aware that this was my brother playing a trick on me. As tired as I was, my brain quickly synthesized important information: the apparition I now saw was nearly six inches shorter than me, and he was wearing a silly plastic mask of an old man with a melted face. His hair was thin, stringy, and white, just like the mask I had seen (and worn myself) hundreds of times before in our home. Notwithstanding all of this, I was scared nearly senseless. I shrieked--yes, shrieked, so picture what that sounds like--in horror, but instantly moved toward him, calling him by name, while pathetically and miserably crying. “Joey! Joey! Tell me it’s you! Say it is you! Say my name!”

As I continued to walk toward him, I reached for him, and grabbed on to him, desperately hugging and bawling and begging for him to allay my fears. The more he spoke, now scared himself at such a reaction by me, the more I calmed down. But this continued for nearly half a minute, as I labored to convince myself of what I indeed already knew, and had known from the start: this was only little brother Joey.

Nowadays I don't get frightened by "scary" movies. I mean, come on, people, they just aren't. But Halloween scares me. Still. And if you ask me what some of my favorite movies are, I will include Halloween in them. But sometimes I wonder if that is true.

Lucky #7

2008-09-23T10:33:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

I read a blog recently here, and I felt almost compelled to respond. Well, not respond, so much as I felt I had a story of my own to tell. And, oddly enough, it is about #7 as well. I, too, had to bid him a (not so) fond farewell. In a different way.

Like Koozown (my name for the author of that post), I lived in a town with a very popular orthodontist. Indeed, I cannot get past the feeling I know the town he is speaking of. Only this man never put braces on my teeth. I am relatively certain I needed them, but it never happened.

And I don't really know why. I am sure my parents were much like Koozown's: nice, middle-class folks living in a small town, probably had their share (or more) of children. I imagine they lived in a fairly large house with a big back yard, a pasture maybe, and perhaps a few farm animals. Just a guess.

But my parents decided not to get me braces. I watched all my brothers and sisters (all six, mind you) get braces--the complaining, the pain, the retainers, the replacement retainers for lost or broken ones, the retainers used to cut popsicles to pieces--and thought I hadn't missed out on much.

Except that in high school I started to notice something: I used to stick my finger in my mouth. Don't ask me why--I supposed it was just a nervous habit. A bad habit, maybe, but not the worst thing that could be done with a finger and a mouth. But I would place my left hand index finger directly behind my two front teeth. And if I turned it sideways I could just feel the edge of #7 and whatever number is on the other side of your front teeth on each side of my finger. Only as I got older, this gap was narrowing. I didn't have to turn my finger all the way sideways anymore. And then finally, not at all.

I had said farewell to #7. Or rather, he had said goodbye to me. But he is still in there, chilling out behind the front line, poking my tongue everyday. Look closely--he's back there.

So, yes, I pity Koozown; I don't want pain, pus, or a root canal with a limited warranty. But I have gone to dentists and requested that #7 be pulled, and no one will do it. They claim that sort of problem can be fixed (only at my age it would require oral surgery and breaking my jaw and palate--no, thank you), and I can assume from Koozown's experience there could be other issues down the road.

Indeed, for some of us, #7 has not been so lucky.

Jay Clocker

2008-09-10T20:48:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis

And you know I have no bias when it comes to this.

Ten things the end of the BYU-UW game made me think about:

1. Jake Locker threw the ball high enough in the air that anyone would expect a penalty to be called. Take away the situation (end of the game, [potential] tying touchdown) and would that call be made? Yes.
2. He did not throw the ball in the air when he scored a touchdown in the first quarter. So he knew not to.
3. The emotion and situation caused him to throw it up 25 feet in the air? Please.
4. People who are saying it is a stupid rule and shouldn't have been called are missing the point: it IS a rule.
5. Come on, teams out there. You have to make him throw the football. He will kill you running it. He will not even hurt you throwing it. Try it and see.
6. Hey, Washington placekicker, you are welcome to make the PAT, even if it is from 35 yards. But to do so, you might want to get the kick at least three feet off the ground. I'm serious. At the trajectory he kicked it, the ball might have been going down when it was blocked.
7. Please, BYU, could you at least once blow out an inferior team? And if you do suck out a victory at home against UCLA, would you mind NOT losing to UNLV or SDSU later in the season?
8. Tyrone Willingham is a wussy. At least be planning to go for two. Ride the momentum and emotion and beat the favorite when you can. Seems like a team from a school I went to did that once.
9. Jim Caple is a wingnut and a whiny homer. Check out what he said here: "It was one of the absolute worst calls I've ever seen in football." Really? Then I hope you never saw the Oregon-Oklahoma game in 2006. This is a good one, too. And that only took me five minutes.
10. The pass Locker threw after he scored the last touchdown is the most accurate pass I have ever seen him throw. For reals.

English Degree

2008-09-02T15:25:00.000-07:00

by Sue Modray

Yes, Phyllis asked me some time ago if I would post on his blog and I am sorry it has taken me so long. I am nervous and afraid that someone will think what I write is dumb. I am afraid of offending someone, too. Phyllis has assured me his readership is small, possibly less than ten. I don't know if he is serious but it makes me feel better. He also told me he was not going to post again until I did. I thought he was kidding, but I think I believe him now. So here goes.

Phyllis asked me to write about going to BSU. He has posted about how we met in one of our first classes, and saw each other frequently as we both worked toward a degree in English literature. We are a lot alike and wanted about the same thing from our educational experience, only he likes Maugham and I love Austen. My only real problem with Phyllis is that he uses colons and parentheses too much in his writing. He is also always correcting people in their pronunciation and grammar. I am not sure he is always right.

I am not really sure I know what Phyllis wants me to write about, although we talked a lot about what the experience studying English at BSU was like. Maybe he means for me to write about how I felt so different sometimes. I did not fit into the group of 19-year-olds apologizing to each other before class started for forgetting to record Smallville, or how much fun it was last year to dress up as Hermione and go down to Borders for the release of the latest Harry Potter book.

Am I supposed to talk about the skills we were being taught in our English classes? We read many novels, short stories, and plays, and our instructors taught us skills to interpret, criticize, and respond to the works we read. But it seemed my interpretations and criticisms were only valid as they fell in line with those the instructor had. I wondered at times if the interpretations of my instructors were really theirs or just those of some great professor from long ago. It reminded me of The Wizard of Oz, almost complete with loud crashes and flashing lights. "Who are YOU to question to Great and Powerful Oz?!??"

But I was not a sponge, like, I believe, many others I saw. Just because the professor liked Evelyn Waugh, or Salman Rushdie, or D.H. Lawrence, I did not decide to. And even though we were assigned to read only one small piece by Nietzsche, I did not immediately latch on to "God is dead" and announce my intention to change my major to Philosophy and explore my new-found atheism.

I don't know what I expected studying for an English literature degree. I love reading and found many new authors and books to read. But I did not so much enjoy the interpretation and criticism. It seemed forced and planned out. I wanted more history and biography of the authors. I don't suppose that kind of English degree really exists, the one where you read a lot, learn a lot about the authors, and talk about it with others. No, not a book club. A way to become an expert about a certain author, know his works, know his characters, know him. And then move on to the next author.

Now I just need to find a graduate program that offers that. Or I can just do it myself.

Wife Gone

2008-07-28T22:41:00.000-07:00

by Phyllis Miller

Just got done watching Nicholas Nickleby on hulu.com a few minutes ago. I was reluctant at first. I have sworn, for no good reason that I know of, to dislike Dickens. I mean, Chuck doesn't write the most uplifting stuff (yes I am aware that was part of his purpose). And the one Dickens novel that I did read, Hard Times--for my 19th century British novel course at BSU--did nothing to change my mind. I hated it and felt good about hating Dickens.

But I liked this movie. A lot. I daresay I will watch it again. It is definitely better than Pitch Black, Weird Science, 28 Days Later, or The Phantom the Opera, all of which I have watched (for the first time) in the last half-fortnight. (Yes, I never saw Weird Science when I was a kid. It seemed everyone else had, but I was able to avoid it somehow. What a pile of garbage! Honestly one of the stupidest movies ever, right?)

I almost feel like I need to read Nicholas Nickleby now, just to make sure it's nothing like the movie. But if your tastes in movies are anything like mine (here's how to tell: if you have seen or plan to see Wanted, you don't share my taste) watch this one. It is disturbing and funny at the same time. Oh yeah, and set in England in the 1800s. What more do you want? Here is a snippet:

I swear this is Christopher Plummer's best role since he was General Chang in Star Trek VI. Maybe even since he was Captain von Trapp.

Okay, did it seem like I was stretching it a bit when I used the word "best" right there? I did it on purpose. I get tired of hearing that word. I know the MLB all-star game is a fortnight past, but it has taken me that long to get over a few things. In the first place, Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia was voted as the starter. I try not to have an issue with that, since he is sent by fan voting, right? But please. I had to hear announcers rave about him, using words like "best."

And then, during a Yankees game on TV recently (since apparently Yankees and Red Sox games are the only ones fans want to see) I heard the announcers talking about Robinson Cano, the Yankees second baseman. Evidently, he's the best, also. Um, no. Not even close.

Now you think you know what is coming, but you're wrong. I am not going to claim that Brian Roberts in the best second baseman in the AL, but maybe a look at the numbers and a few other facts might help.

As of today:
Roberts: .286 average, 39 doubles, 8 triples, 7 HR, 35 RBI, 27 steals, 54 walks.
Pedroia: .315 average, 31 doubles, 1 triple, 9HR, 48 RBI, 11 steals, 28 walks.
Cano: .267 average, 23 doubles, 1 triple, 9 HR, 48 RBI, 1 steal, 17 walks.

Sure, Pedroia is hitting for a better average, but with the walks Roberts has a better on base percentage. And of his 116 hits, nearly half are for extra bases! Cano is not even close. Now consider the lineups that surround all three players. Mind you, I like the guys on my team: Markakis and Huff both have over 30 doubles, making it three Orioles in the top 5 of that category. But they don't have the names the Yankees and Red Sox do. Trust me, pitchers would rather face Markakis and Huff before Rodriguez, Jeter, Ramirez, Ortiz, no matter what the numbers say. So Pedroia is going to get some pitches to hit. Oh yeah, and he also has that wall ten feet past the infield that turns a can of corn into a double. What would Roberts do with that?

Besides, Ian Kinsler has better numbers that any of them. But he made the all-star team (only the announcers were a little less effusive with their praise). And I have soft spot in my heart for someone who has to play half his games in Dallas.

None of this helps, of course; the Orioles are last in their division. Another painful year of losing. There are promising moments, but we are soon smacked down once our hopes are up. Surely it can't keep going for much longer. I can't take the pain. The unfulfilled promises. The outlook is bleak. What can be done? Will it ever change? It's just too awful.

Okay, I need to stop. This is starting to feel like a Dickens novel.

Pulmonary Embolism

2008-07-08T19:06:00.000-07:00

By Phyllis Miller

One of my favorite phrases was used on the radio again today. Erik Kuselias was in for Mike Tirico during the Tirico and Van Pelt show on ESPN radio. EK was working today notwithstanding suffering from "flu-like symptoms." Awesome. Not the flu, not a cold, not allergies--flu-like symptoms. I had only heard it before as the reason some athlete was missing his next game. "Kwame Brown will not play and is in street clothes tonight; he is suffering from flu-like symptoms." I am glad to see it has jumped from athletes to radio personalities. I plan to adopt this type of speaking myself in everyday parlance, you know, speech-like talking. So enjoy reading the rest of my blog-like ramblings.

This whole thing reminds me of the time I had blood-clot-in-the-lung-type symptoms. It took a while for the various doctors I saw to narrow it down (maybe on another occasion I can blog about my respect and admiration for these fine professionals, but a small taste can be found here). First I was told I had bronchitis-like symptoms; I knew that wasn't it. Next, I was told I had some strange form of asthma-like symptoms and got an albuterol inhaler. Finally, after I was feeling fine again (no more nights sitting in the bathroom crying and breathing in and out in as shallow a manner as I could, while feeling like a chinese star was loose inside my chest) an internist-like doctor sent me for a CT-like scan. And there it was: a clot-like formation in my lung.

The weirdest thing I learned in my week at St. Al's is that my blood clot has something to do with my testicles. It doesn't make sense to me, either, but of course, I'm not a doctor.

I say this because once in the emergency room-like area, the ER doc checked my prostate as I lay there nearly prostrate (prostate vs. prostrate and lay vs. lie in the same sentence!) and then he examined my man-parts. (Note: the ER doc's response to my obvious chagrin when he had informed me he would be performing the above-mentioned tasks was excellent: "Believe me, pal, it isn't the highlight of my day, either.")

I was checked in to the hospital and assigned a room. Since I was a healthy young man in his late twenties, doctors were at a loss to figure out why I should have this ailment. A urologist was consulted. He came to my room, asked me some questions, and told me to make an appointment to see him when I was out of the hospital. I said I would. Before he went, however, he did me the favor of performing another testicular exam. I would have preferred if he had consulted with the ER doc first.

The next day, a doctor entered and explained that she was on call for my vacationing internist. She asked almost the same set of questions I had answered in the ER, and then performed another check of my nether region! Come on! What is going on here? But as much as I was tired of these testes-tests, it was her comment after the few light squeezes that bothered me the most.

"Nothing remarkable."

Sue Modray

2008-07-02T10:07:00.000-07:00

I have a friend I have asked to contribute to this blog, so here are a few words of introduction.

I met Sue Modray when I returned to BSU to get my English degree. She was in one of the first classes I took, and after chatting a bit, we realized how startling similar we were. We could not help but become soul mates. She is very nearly my mirror image.

Look at the similarities:

Sue had never finished college when she got married, started a family, and started working on getting old. After a few kids, she settled in to a nice little career quite by accident. Sue had recently moved with her family to Idaho from Alaska when she got a temporary job through one of those staffing service companies. What started out as a little data entry to make a few bucks turned into a career. Her data entry job was at a company that designed websites, and after a few years grinding up the ranks from temporary data entry clerk to secretary to website contributor, she soon was designing websites herself. She had managed to get this (fairly decent paying) job not from experience or schooling; she simply rubbed shoulders with others doing it.

She parlayed this experience into another job with the state department of education--a totally sweet job. No supervisor breathing down her neck, freedom to come and go as she pleased, and good pay. Sue soon realized she was at liberty to return to school and get the degree she never got. An English degree.

Like me, Sue had not originally studied English at college, but had found an author she loved (Austen, as it turns out; there are precious few who revere Maugham the Master) and wanted to study more literature. So there she was at BSU starting to do it in 2004. And I was there, too. We followed a similar path toward our degrees and saw each other in many classes. Her literary tastes are nearly identical to my own.

We had many discussions about the education we received in the English department at BSU, and we share many if the same ideas. I have asked her, as her first contribution to the blog, to talk about her journey. Hopefully you find it entertaining. If not, stay tuned, and Phyllis will post again soon.

[I have asked Sue when she posts to leave her name at the beginning of the post, so readers can know right away without scrolling to the bottom of the post who is writing. I will also try to do the same. But I might not; it is my blog, after all.]

Idiot Clown

2008-06-27T10:03:00.000-07:00

I don't wear a wristwatch.

So when the clock in my car stopped working the other day, you might think I lost the ability to keep track of time. Not so. That's because before my clock stopped, I learned how to tell time from the driver in the Jeep in front of me. On one of the hottest days of the year, he had his driver's side window rolled all the way down. And every five seconds he would extend his left arm out the window and give a little flick--a few tiny ashes fell off each time and disappeared in the wind.

Twenty-two flicks is a long time to be stopped at a red light. But even though I was fortunate enough during the wait to get a waft of his numerous exhalations (through closed windows, mind you) I was not upset at him. I made an effort to understand and tolerate someone who has a habit I find wholly revolting and inconsiderate. (Perhaps I have a few myself.)

But then, after we started moving again and forty more subtle flicks elapsed, he gave one mighty flick; the cigarette butt made a large arc and hit my car on the driver's side of my windshield. No damage caused, obviously, but I was really upset. If you promise to believe me, I will say I did not swear at him (multiple times, including one last, more emphatic blast right as I turned left and he continued straight.)

I had time to reflect during the rest of my drive home (I estimate it was thirty-six flicks) about how much I have changed. Or perhaps it is the world I live in. See, in the late 1980s, when I was near the top of my game, I would have reacted differently to a cigarette butt hitting my car.

One time I was driving home after an enjoyable summer day topping corn, with my brother and a friend in the "Screamin' Blue Demon." (That's what my friend called my pickup. It was blue all right, and I guess screaming is what you would call the sound it made when I would get to 40mph without shifting out of first gear yet.) After ascending Canyon Hill on Marble Front Road, I was stopped, waiting to make a left on N. Georgia. Anyone who has made that turn knows why I was stopped. Apparently, the driver in the car that came up behind didn't.

She went around me on the right, gave a little honk on the horn, and said, "There's no stop sign!" as she turned right and headed away. I was not about to let this misdeed go unpunished. I whipped the steering wheel around and tore down the street after her. I was tailgating her most of the way, but she had to stop at Hillcrest, so I pulled up next to her (there was not another lane there) at the stop sign and started yelling.

"Hey, you clown, did you happen to see the car coming towards me on Marble Front, you clown!?! I know there isn't a stop sign there, you clown; I live on that street! I was waiting there for the car to pass so I could make the left turn, you idiot! YOU are the clown that needs driving lessons!" I yelled another minute or two at her and her passenger, and threw in a few more 'clowns' and 'idiots' for good measure.

Or how about the time I was riding with a friend home from Nampa, when someone cut us off? My buddy Darryl sped up along side the car (there was one guy in it this time) while I draped myself out the window and let him have it. I may have threatened him, I may have sworn, I may have yelled the Pledge of Allegiance at him--I can't remember now.

We stopped for gas and then decided to hit Wendy's for a square burger. In the parking lot a car came racing at us; there were more heads in it than I could count, and the guy I had berated earlier (now a passenger) was wearing an evil grin. We sped away, took to the interstate, and got off at the Middleton exit, with the car full of hoods following us the whole way.

After fifteen minutes of running, we darted down a side street, turned off the lights, and grabbed a tennis racket out of the back. If we were going to go down, we intended to do some damage. Fortunately, they never found us and we made it home safe.

Fast-forward about twenty years, and here I am. Other drivers still bother me, but I don't pull up along side and yell at my fellow drivers anymore. A few "big words" muttered to myself are enough.

Uncalled For

2008-06-14T23:59:00.000-07:00

Let me first address some allegations that have been laid at my door, which are wholly without merit. They come from an evidently devoted reader of my blog; you have heard from him before in this post. He writes again (and still needs a your/you're lesson):

"Hey Phyllis. Your still an idiot, and I have figured something else about you too. Your a hater, man. I have read all your posts and you bag on the New york Yankees, New England Patriots, Duke basketball, Notre dame football, even the Red Sox. Get a clue and stop hatin'."

I assume from this then that because I despise these teams--these teams with lots of success (some not very recent)--I am a hater. I guess I understand. I know there are people like that. Hate the team that wins, the team that everyone likes. But that really isn't me. And now I'll prove it.

I want the Lakers to win the NBA championship. And I'm not lying. How can I be accused of being a hater now? Because outside of the Yankees, there might not be another team that polarizes people like the Lakers. You love 'em or hate 'em. You think Kobe is awesome or just a ballhog. The 'Black Mamba' or the 'Black Hole.' So at the risk of alienating you true haters out there, I'll admit I like Kobe. And I want him (them) to win.

It's going to be hard, though. How was that epic collapse in Game 4? I am glad I watched it because it's the only way I would have believed it could happen. And as ugly as it was (and devastating to their chances), it helps me make another point about officiating. Evidently ex-referee (and convicted felon) Tim Donaghy claims past NBA playoff games have been fixed. Oh, you mean refs have made some bad calls, Tim? Really? No way!

I contend that every sports fan following his team has felt the pain of getting a bad call or a no call. Think about football--the holding calls/non-calls, pass interference, bad spots short of the first down. You have baseball with the balls that should have been called strikes and some of those bang-bang plays at first that needed to go your way. And, oh, I don't know, maybe a fan interference call that didn't get made. I've written about that before. So spare me with the bad calls garbage. We all feel the pain.

And if the NBA was conspiring to make the playoffs more interesting (interesting here meaning going seven games), they can't be happy with the Lakers looking like they will fold in five to the Celtics. I mean, where were the refs to step in and save the game for the Lakers? If anything, they were probably tempted to start making calls for the Celtics, so they could be a part of such a monumental gag-job.

Besides, some of the bad calls make for great entertainment. Go watch this. That is good stuff. I mean, you can't write comedy like that. And I'm for the Lakers, remember.

On an unrelated, yet important note: It is now 12:49am, Sunday, June 15--Father's Day. I must give props to my Pops, who left this world five years ago. He is the greatest man I have known and I miss him very much. He was a So-Cal kid, so maybe he would root for the Lakers, too.

Hockey pucks and dog turds

2008-06-05T08:04:00.000-07:00

I have recently been wondering something.

Who is the girl in the 'free-college-info' ads that are all over Yahoo!? Just kidding. That's not what I was wondering. Why would I care about that, anyway?

I have pondered the great enigma of how it is that a guy like me could not be in to hockey. I have been known after all (when I still had cable), to watch almost anything remotely relating to sports. And I will watch games again, you know, re-broadcasts that I have already seen. I will watch teams I hate (New York Yankees, Notre Dame football, Duke basketball, you get the picture) just in case I might be able to see them lose (hopefully in a big way). If they were to broadcast a loogie-spitting contest on ESPN9, I might call around to a few friends to ask if I could come over.

And with all that, I don't watch, or really even follow, the NHL. The Stanley Cup, crushing checks, guys who don't shave for two months. Means nothing to me. Maybe I don't know what I'm missing. Is it blissful ignorance?

You know, like the kind I enjoyed as a kid. My family moved in to a house when I was very little, and the house came with a dog (who ever heard of that?). The perfect dog, as it turns out. We never fed her, she only pooped in the neighbor's yard, and one day when she got old she simply left and never came back.

In case you missed it, yes, she had been trained (how else can you explain the habit?) not to defecate on our premises.

As a child, the significance of this was lost on me until I went to a friend's house one day. His mom came in to the room where we were playing and said, "Darryl, you need to go do your chores." And one of his chores was picking up dog crap in the back yard. I watched him with great curiosity (but no pity) as he scoured the place, using his little spade to collect the offensive brown lumps into a five-gallon bucket. I don't know what he did with it after that. All I knew was I was happy not to have to do that at my house.

Now I have a dog of my own, and I have picked up the dukes she drops. And I appreciate my childhood dog even more, now.

But I don't appreciate the NHL--still. Obviously I was exaggerating before; I have seen my share of hockey games. And after watching the last two games (in their entirety, mind you) of the NHL playoffs this week, I am still 'not on board' (to steal a phrase from an eccentric local blogger I know).

Don't get me wrong, there are things I like about hockey. If you look at the box score, everyone player suited up (with the exception of the backup goalie) gets significant playing time; it is truly a team sport. Not like basketball where the last few guys on the bench (even in the NBA) are scrubs. And the swift, yet many times very physical nature of the game is fun to watch, at times.

But I have two major problems with hockey: First, many times the correct play, you know, the right thing to do, is to send the puck in to the zone by the back boards, without having a teammate there to receive it. It turns in to a race to see who gets it first, and the defense wins most times, or the play stalls as several players slash at their feet to get it out from underneath themselves. So the correct play ends most times in what I consider a turnover. Sorry, I just don't like that idea.

Next, when you watch a game, either on TV or in person, you lose sight of the puck at all times whenever it is being played up the near boards. You see players skating after it and swinging at it, but the wall blocks your view. I don't usually have a problem following the puck around, even after shots and ricochets, but I can't see through a wall.

Believe me, I have tried to see through a wall, and failed. I also tried to watch Tay Zonday's "Chocolate Rain" all the way through. Couldn't do that, either.

Miscellany; or, der Wortmetzger

2008-05-28T07:16:00.000-07:00

In a previous post I raved about Sirius satellite radio, but I have still not pulled the trigger. So in the meantime, as I drive to and from work and from school to school when I am at work, I listen to 'terrestrial' radio. And, as you are aware, the chore of listening to any of the FM stations is wholly insupportable, which forces me, notwithstanding the dearth of anything entertaining on the AM band, to take what I can get. I settle on 1350. You know, KTIK, the Ticket! THE Sports Station (imagine the gravelly yet golden-throated voice-over guy saying it).

My "favorite" is Idaho Sports Talk, if only for the daily demonstrations of idiocy displayed by Caves and Prater. But Caves has an upside that makes him truly entertaining, for which I have nicknamed him "der Wortmetzger." (It isn't that hard; figure it out.) Yesterday, he was mentioning Yannick Noah and his reaction to his son being busted for pot and alcohol, "and the subsuing controversy." Subsuing. I loved it. I wonder how long until he uses "ensequent." Anyway, tune in and see what word he butchers today.

On the subject of words, albeit not the carving up of existing ones to create new and entertaining gems, I looked on my fridge today and saw a magnet-with-notepad-attached. My "realtor" (or should I say "realator") sent it to me so I could remember him the next time I want to sell my house. On his card I noticed a title he has now that he didn't before: "Relocation Specialist." Nice. I love clever stuff like that.

Okay, not really. I hate it. So here is your homework: come up with a clever new title for my job. I am a Network Administrator or IT guy or Computer Dude, depending on who I talk to. What should I call myself? Come up with something good, and remember, it has to be clever.

You know, clever, like the radio commercials from Netflix. Have you heard these? Awful. And stupid. And above all that, they don't make sense! If you haven't heard one, I will do my best to paint a 'word picture' for you now. (I hate the pseudo-intellectual term 'word picture,' by the way.)

Netflix commercial: We hear a man's voice saying (with a drum roll in the background), "...and now, for the bonus round. What is the square root of January 13?"

Contestant: "The Ides of March!"

Host guy: "Correct! Next question: (Insert an equally 'clever' and nonsensical question, like the first one, here.)"

Contestant: "(Another ridiculous, uninspired, and many times confusing answer here.)"

Host: "Correct! Now, how many movies have been delivered to satisfied Netflix customers?"

Contestant: "Over one billion!"

Host: "CORRECT!" Crowd cheers and Netflix voice-over guy makes his pitch.

All right. Now I admit I am a guy who likes patterns and for things to make sense. So when the commercial juxtaposes the third 'legitimate' question and answer with the two previous phony questions which try to be funny and 'clever,' it doesn't work for me. The pattern set for me by the first two questions make me feel like the third one is a bunch of crap, also. It's stupid, not funny, and not smart.

I am not a Netflix customer, in case you wondered.

Ben Walrus

2008-05-19T10:00:00.000-07:00

Did you watch game 7 of the Boston-Cleveland series? I did. I was rooting for the Cavaliers on account of I am a LeBron James fan. Plus I have hated the Celtics ever since the Bird/McHale/Parrish/Walton/Sichting/Johnson days. Always liked Danny Ainge, though. And Greg Kite. What a stud he was.

Anyway, I think I like LeBron because he has flaws, notwithstanding him being a freak of nature and all: He struggles with the outside shot (I guess you could call him LeBron Ames, 'cause he ain't got no "J."), and is less than stellar at the free throw line. But when a guy scores as much as he does when the other team is paying ALL its attention to him, I find it impressive. Seriously, Cleveland could have been playing with two guys on offense. The other guys sets a screen for James (which the Celtics help on, switch, or quickly recover), and then gets out of the way. My favorite play is when the guy setting the screen is Ben Wallace.

Ben Wallace. Are you familiar with this guy? He developed quite a reputation over the last several years for being a great defender and rebounder. He got huge money when he left the Detroit Pistons (where he made nearly 35 million in six years) to sign with the Chicago Bulls before the 2006-2007 season. He made 16 million in his first season with the Bulls, and 15.5 million his second season, during which he was traded to the Cavaliers to help them compete for a championship--you know, with his great defense and rebounding and whatnot.

So here is why I am sure I will never be qualified to run a professional sports team: you don't pay that kind of money to a guy who "defends and rebounds" when he can't score. And I make a distinction here between can't score and doesn't score. There are teams who have a big guy who plays 'D' and hits the boards and doesn't score a lot--doesn't need to. This is because there are other scorers on his team; no plays are run for him, but he can make a shot if he needs to. But not Ben Wallace. He can't score. Can't. If it isn't a dunk, it is not going in for him. I guarantee that if there was a wall four feet out from the basket that he could not pass in order to attempt a shot, his scoring average would decrease four-fold.

What is Ben Wallace's career scoring average, anyway? Six-point-five points per game! Yes, you can count on Ben for three buckets every night. Except, wait, some of those points come from the free throw line. Some. Because while Big Ben was in Detroit making a name for himself as an important big man in the league, he was becoming popular for something else: he is THE WORST FREE THROW SHOOTER IN THE HISTORY OF THE GAME. Career average: less than 42%. Here is another guarantee for you: I could shoot a better percentage at the line than that with my eyes closed. And I am not talking about getting to the line, receiving the ball, dribbling a couple times, eyeing the rim, and closing my eyes to shoot. Put me at the line, give me the ball, and then blindfold me. I will shoot a hundred foul shots that way, and will make 42 at least.

So if I were LeBron James, I would be pissed. I would be in management's office this morning saying, "I want you to keep Delonte West, Daniel Gibson, and Joe Smith. Get rid of everyone else. Even that guy with all the S's, Z's, and C's in his name. I want to play five-on-five next year."

Don't Wanna Know

2008-05-12T12:45:00.000-07:00

Chute plopped himself onto the top bunk and tried to relax, drained by another day walking around in 90-90 (ninety degrees, ninety percent humidity). The light went off a few minutes later, and Chute rolled on to his stomach, while letting his left arm hang over the side of the bed. After a few minutes more, as he lay there in that confusing dim grey area between sleep and consciousness, something hit Chute's left hand. He could not immediately tell what it had been, but he knew it was Slave, the occupant of the lower bunk, so he was not alarmed. Chute figured Slave had simply rolled over, sat up, or adjusted his bed sheets.

Soon, however, Chute felt it again. Now, had he been partially asleep before, he was wide awake--and wondering. What was going on down there? Seemingly in answer, Slave started tapping and hitting the hand playfully, and Chute began to be concerned. And he didn't quite know what to do, but decided the best move was to continue to act asleep; surely Slave would notice and would quit what he was doing.

He did not.

After a few minutes during which Slave continued his sporadic gentle amusement with the hand, he stopped. Chute felt he had successfully waited out this strange game, and could now go to sleep. Two things remained: he must wait a sufficient amount of time before sleepily rolling over (so as not to give away the idea he had NOT slept through it all); next, he must prepare to act like he didn't know this had happened tomorrow. He wanted to forget it, and he certainly did not want to talk about it.

Evidently, Chute waited too long: After pausing a couple minutes, Slave resumed his amusement with renewed courage; the result was that Chute felt something wet on one finger. He became completely frozen with fear. Fear. And there was the wetness again. Chute was screwed. He had gone too far down the faking-asleep-road to acknowledge now that he was awake; to do so now would be to condone, to sanction this...this thing. And for sure, down in his gut, it was there at a full boil, the sum off all the judgments Chute had made, the comments he had heard from others, the teasing he had received because of Slave. If Chute was going to let this happen, he was not going to leave any doubt. There could be no room for claims he had misunderstood or misfelt.

So he let Slave go.

The next thing Chute knew, Slave was sucking the middle finger of his left hand. (And in case the pronouns are confusing, Slave was NOT sucking his own finger.) If Chute had felt fear before, he was terrified now. Close-to-crying, I-miss-my-mommy terrified. Why him? What was this happening for? Why had Slave now confirmed every suspicion, every rumor against him? Wasn't it possible Slave was just a small, effeminate boy who excelled at cooking, ironing, singing, and being polite?

As he lay there stock-still, yet flailing in the maelstrom of these awful questions, Chute noticed that Slave stopped sucking. Chute immediately jumped down from the top bunk, and went directly outside to wash his hands. Never had he washed them as diligently and desperately as he did then; he was a doctor preparing for surgery. Three surgeries. Or four. He scrubbed and scraped and lathered and rinsed, and did it all again. If he washed his hands enough perhaps he could clean the past few minutes from his memory, from his life.

When Chute returned from washing his hands, Slave was also out of bed, with the light on, sitting slumped forward in a chair, visibly upset. Chute did not speak to nor look at him. Instead he sat at his desk, organizing papers and books, looking for a cassette tape. Slave began:

"I have tried so long to overcome this. I can't."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I am talking about!"

Chute did, but he wanted to hear Slave say it. He wanted him to admit it. After a few more seconds of sobbing and sniffing, he did: "I'm gay, Boss."

"That's all you need to tell me. I don't need to hear any more," Chute returned. "You're fired."

"I know."

Slave went home the next morning.

European Swallow

2008-05-02T14:01:00.001-07:00

I was not late for my 3pm appointment. Still, it was 3:37 before I was summoned from the waiting room, where I had been alternately reading Adam Bede and a several-months-old Sports Illustrated. I was shown to a room to wait for the doctor, my second appointment with Dr. Blach (with the 'a' pronounced like "ah" and the 'ch' all German-like, you know, the sound like you're hawking up a loogie).

I went to see Dr. Blach after I started having trouble swallowing. "Food?" he had asked. No, just in general. On Super Bowl Sunday after I had enjoyed a couple of creme sodas I was sitting on the couch hoping the Giants would win. (Really I just wanted the Patriots to lose.) And just sitting there on the couch not eating or drinking or anything, I couldn't do it. I couldn't make it turn the corner going down. Like it was stuck.

The first few days this happened I was quite stressed out. When something you have done for your whole life without thinking suddenly requires focus and concentration, you will stress out, too. I am somewhat used to it now. I relax, try to salivate a little, and try again. Most of the time it works. But I chose to go see a doctor to figure out why this was happening.

Okay, the second appointment. It was not 3:38 yet when I sat down in the examination room, and this time I just read Adam Bede. At 3:59, Dr. Blach rolled in to tell me the results of the esophagram: not a lot really remarkable, no lesions, no tumors, no stricture. (Nice to know all of this, of course, but a little depressing not to find some explanation of my problem, or why I have always "choked" on food my whole life.) Then he stared at me blankly for a second. I guessed it was my turn to speak.

"You know how you asked me during my first appointment if I had acid reflux or heartburn? Well, like I said then, to my knowledge I have never had them in my life, so I don't know how I could tell you if I did [on account of I don't know what it feels like], but I have been paying attention lately to what I feel in my throat. I do think it's food. It doesn't burn or anything, but I feel it there."

"Yes, yes!" he said back. "It could be that. I will give you a prescription for Prilosec. And come and see me in two months."

I took advantage of his (apparently) precious time and asked him about my "fixed" deviated septum, and why I still couldn't comfortably breathe out of my nose. He briefly peered in both nostrils and said, "Well, next time you are here, I will numb you up and look a little further down to see if there is any obstruction."

His nurse handed me a piece of paper and sent me off to check out (really, pay). As I walked toward the counter to cough up my $40 copay (my insurance will pay the other $70), I glanced at my phone: 4:04pm.

Roger Clemens: My Hero

2008-04-30T17:49:00.000-07:00

Ten things I believe about Roger Clemens:

1. He has never used performance-enhancing drugs of any kind.
2. The fact that his wife has admitted using HGH doesn't hurt his argument that he never used performance-enhancing drugs.
3. Andy Pettitte (who admits using PEDs) did in fact "misremember" a PED-related conversation with Roger Clemens.
4. He gave his boys really cool names (Koby, Kory, Kacy, Kody) that don't reflect any self-importance.
5. He thought Mike Piazza's broken bat was a ball when it came flying toward him in the 2000 World Series.
6. He thought he was playing wiffle in the back yard of my childhood home when Mike Piazza's bat--I mean ball--came toward him. (See, when I played with my brothers as a child, you could pick up a batted ball and throw it at a baserunner. If you hit him between bases, he was out.)
7. He did NOT have an inappropriate relationship with that woman, Miss McCready, even if she says he did.
8. The success, adoration by millions of fans, and nearly incalculable riches have NOT gone to his head and skewed his view of his fellow man; we will believe what he says because he said it was the truth. Why wouldn't we believe him?
9. He has a cool haircut and is a smart dresser.
10. He earned his salary in 2007 for the Yankees. For the record, his salary was $28,000,022 (and how clever it is to negotiate your jersey number as the last two digits of your salary!) for the year, prorated to $18.5 million for the part of the season he did not play. He made 17 starts, went 6-6, and pitched almost 100 innings, with a 4.18 ERA. Who wouldn't pay $18.5 million for that?

No Offense, but Cowboy Up!

2008-04-22T18:49:00.000-07:00

"No offense, but..."

I know I am not the first to make this observation--I have heard others before me. But this whole 'no offense' thing really kills me. Apparently, as long as you preface what you say with those words, you are free to offend. You can say anything. Well, there do appear to be limits. I've never heard, "No offense, but you're a completely worthless waste of human flesh. Go away. No one likes you." Not yet, anyway.

But I did hear this: Guy runs into my wife--his high school classmate--while she was visiting some friends in Texas a couple of years ago. They had not seen each other for years, and I don't doubt it was good for him to see her (and vice versa). I am sure the butterflies started flitting in his stomach as he began to long for the good old days. And then he stammers, "No offense to your husband, but you are looking hot!"

When I heard this I was not offended. Should I have been? Who was he offending? Me? Come on, I share his opinion. What I think he should have said is, "No offense to you, but..." She should have taken offense, if anyone. I mean, what's she supposed to say in return? "Thanks! You, too! Want to go to the prom?"

But that's not really what I am getting at. Because as much as I think the use of 'no offense' is lame, I am taking advantage of it now: No offense to anyone who may possibly be offended by what I write next--misusers of the verb 'to lie', hacks, cowboys, the Boston Red Sox--but this is how I feel.

I saw a bumper sticker on the rear window of a pickup truck recently that read as follows:

"Are you going to COWBOY UP, or just lay there and BLEED?"

First things first: While I understand that the whole lay/lie thing is difficult to grasp (apparently), could someone, somewhere, at some point going forward, please get it right? Is it too much to ask? Sure, 'lay' is now "acceptable" due to its overwhelming use, but it is non-standard, nonetheless. I never hear someone say 'lie' when they should. Never. I know I am a pain about this (I understand from the look my wife gave me the last time I corrected her that the "acceptable" form is just fine. But she won't be mad if she reads this--I said "no offense" already!) but I would appreciate someone on my side. Put in the time, figure it out, and use it properly. And don't correct me when I use the verb correctly. (I can't tell you how many of my English major peers at BSU would correct my "as I lay in bed last night" to "laid" when commenting on my papers. Also, use 'have lain' sometime and watch what your listener does.)

Next, it's a rip-off! I don't know if the writers of Tombstone coined "You gonna do somethin', or just stand there and bleed?" or not, but it highlights one of the best scenes in the movie (the one that starts "Is that 'Old Dog Tray'? That sounds like 'Old Dog Tray' to me" is right up there). In copying this phrase, the creators of this bumper sticker have shown lack of originality and also lack of cleverness in their bastardization of such a fine question. Come up with something else, fellas.

And does "cowboy up" mean something, really? Be tough? Um, no. I mean, be a cowboy if you want. That's your choice. But I don't want to be a cowboy, I don't want to be associated with cowboys, and I don't look to cowboys as a model of toughness and grit. When I think of cowboys, I think of those scumbags from high school who discretely chewed tobacco in class (I know I never could tell what that lump was and why they always pursed their lips) and who stopped mouthing off at someone any time they were outnumbered. And riding a bull and roping a goat don't make you tough; it takes grit to get up off the football field when you get your clock cleaned just like it does when a bull eats your lunch. "Oh yeah? A bull might stomp on you and break your bones." Well, bones get broken in other sports, too. And in both cases, you are done for the night (or longer).

Finally, the fact that the Boston Red Sox used "Cowboy up!" as a rallying cry in 2003 is utterly stupid. Yes, Red Sox players, shake off the adversity you are going through! It must be really hard to be paid obscene amounts of money to play baseball every day in beautiful weather. Baseball! Those guaranteed contracts must be a real pain. Elaborate post-game meals and personal trainers and massage therapists are annoying, too. You have it rough, and it must really hurt. I know you want to give up (and still collect your salary). But hang in there. Cowboy up!

Or you can just lay there.

Mexico and Movie Reviews

2008-04-14T15:37:00.000-07:00

Yes, I am spending a few days by my lonesome in Mexico. I left for Mexico on Friday the 11th and, whereas on April 9th it snowed in Boise, it is plenty warm here, in the 80s on Monday the 14th. I have gone to the beach for several hours every day, so as to get my sunburn on. So far it is working. I have made three promises to myself since I got here, and I intend to keep two of them. They are: go to the beach every day, not stop to rest when walking up the hill back to Casa Miramar (and mirar the mar it does), and start a workout regimen when I get back home in order to develop my arms and upper body. Now if I can only decide which two to do.

My daily schedule is quite simple: I roll upstairs around 8:30 every morning, and have breakfast. After loafing around, reading, or checking e-mail for a few minutes, I pack up my things and head to the beach. The first few minutes I am there are spent digging the hole directly in front of where I place my mat. You see, I dig a large hole, about two feet deep, so I can put my feet in. This makes it like a little chair for me as I read (right now Tess of the d'Urbervilles), watch in a detached manner my fellow man, and eat fish on a stick with little tortillas. I intersperse a few trips in to the ocean to catch a wave or just cool off. I never go to the bathroom in there. I am sure no one else does, either.

After a little while I pack up my gear and begin the grueling seven minute trek back to Casa Miramar. By the time I get there I am ready for a dip in the water again. Fortunately there is a pool right outside my door. Dinner is et at around 6 or 7, and then I read and chit chat with the folks here for a bit. Then it is back down to my lodgings. I read some but have watched one movie every night I have been here.

The first night it was 'La Otra Mujer Boleyn' or 'Las Hermanas Boleyn' or whatever it is in English. (Funny how this is already on DVD in Mexico, when I believe it is still in theaters in the states. And they don't bother cluttering up the disk with any artwork; all it says on it is 'DVD-R' and '8x' and I don't think that has anything to do with the movie.) Anyway, here is a newsflash to anyone who didn't know this: Natalie Portman is not British. Neither is Scarlett Johansson, but she is a tad better at the accent than Padme. And they cast a nice looking, trim fellow to play Henry VIII. Funny. I always heard he was fat. My review of the movie? Four street dogs (out of ten possible).

Next night was The Lost City. Seen it? Andy Garcia directs and stars in this film about the revolution in Cuba that put Castro in power. Okay, so it appears this was a very personal thing as he was in fact born in Cuba and left for the US as a child, but stick to acting, buddy. Take out some of the 'fluffy' scenes and stick to the story. And quit making it seem like it is over, only to continue on and on. And on. Also, a lot of the characters were Hispanic, which is nice, but some of them weren't, and they had to fake Spanish language accents, which was lame. I mean, the entire movie is in English, and they all talk with accents. What is the point of this? Either make the movie in Spanish and provide subtitles or have the thing be in English with no accents. For me, a little of the reality was lost when Batista and others, including Castro, were speaking English. My rating: six roosters crowing in the afternoon (again out of ten).

Last night: Persuasion. I missed this a couple of times when it was on the local public TV channel, you know, 'Masterpiece' or something like that. Actually, I saw it was on, tuned in, lost interest, and tuned out. Now I don't know why. I really liked it, which is not hard to believe. Only a couple of strange things about it: whoever directed it kept having Anne look cleverly into the camera at different times. Not sure what he was going for. Also, when she finally tells Captain Wentworth she will marry him, the scene shows her leaning and stretching and reaching up to kiss him for about twenty seconds. And it looks like she is going to eat him. Really. Watch it and see what I mean. But really this one had no chance of me not liking it. England. Estates. Snobs. Silly people. Decent people and creeps alike getting what they deserve. Gotta love Austen. Rating: nine cinder blocks.

By the way, the O's are still in first place. It won't last long so I am relishing every second.

NCAA Championship

2008-04-07T21:06:00.000-07:00

I wrote the following about the NCAA tournament in a previous post:

One more [prediction]. Four of the ESPN experts have Kansas winning it all: read here.
Won't happen. Mark it down.

Apparently no one marked it down, 'cause it just happened. And I found myself, simply because I had predicted they would not win, rooting against Kansas when I don't like Memphis, either. I probably would have rooted for either UCLA or UNC, but KU and Memphis bug me. Oh, well...the first few rounds were exciting enough. I don't care who you are, watching Davidson storm through three rounds and then give Kansas all it wanted was pretty awesome.

On an unrelated note, I think they should end the Major League Baseball regular season right now and send whoever is ahead in each division to the playoffs. I don't even know who that would be. Like, in the American League East, who is in first place right now, anyway? Don't click here. Whoever it is should be crowned division champs right now. I don't have the patience to wait through 156 more games.

I know you are all chomping at the bit for more, so stay tuned: I will have another post up here within a couple days. Peace.

More NCAA tournament...and Utah!

2008-03-21T10:49:00.000-07:00

Just got back from a little Spring Break trip to southern Utah to see some kinfolk, so into my thoughts about the NCAA tournament so far I will sprinkle in some items of interest (to me, anyway) from our journeyings in Zion (literally).

First, we went down to Avis to rent a mini-van during the break from games on Friday; I was home in plenty of time to see BSU get clobbered by an impressive looking Louisville team--admittedly more impressive now after they trounced Oklahoma as well. When we got to Avis, we were informed they had no mini-vans. The nearest thing they had was "one of those SUVs you see out there in the back row. Will that be all right?" It was. So we drove the Chrysler Aspen (check it out here) on our trip. Very nice--had 900 miles on it when we got it, room for eight, fancy interior, and Sirius satellite radio.

Sirius satellite radio. I know, I know, it is old news by now, but those of you who know me know I tend to be a little on the cheap side (for which I am sometimes treated as if I lived in Cheapside, if you know what I mean. And if you don't, go read your Austen!) So I don't have Sirius (yet). I may have it soon. No more listening to Colin Cowherd, Caves and Prater, the Budlightidahosteelheadshockeypregameshow, or any of the other stupid crap on the only Sports talk station in town. And FM radio? Please. I can see Sirius in my future. And driving my car more than I currently do.

Which brings me to this: What was the best decade for music? Don't waste your time, because there is not a counterargument you can make that will sway me. The eighties. Period. Don't react, don't resist. Accept it. Because when I say "best" I mean everything: the best stuff you like, the best garbage, and the best utter crap. It has it all. Get Sirius and listen to the 80s channel or "The Wave" during a ten or eleven hour drive. You will be convinced. I can't even begin to describe the true enjoyment I had listening to Sirius radio over the last few days, but here are a few high(and low)-lights:

"I got Spuds McKenzie. Alex from Stroh's. They won't leave my dog alone with that Medina, pal." - Tone Loc "Funky Cold Medina
"Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto, himitsu wo shiri tai" - Styx "Mr. Roboto" (I defy you to youtube that song and listen to it in its entirety without laughing out loud. I mean, someone seriously wrote, composed and released that song?)
Skid Row "I Remember You"
Adam and the Ants "Stand and Deliver"
Missing Persons "Walking in L.A."
Loverboy "Lovin' Every Minute of It" (Nice subtlety, guys.)
That's enough. You figure out ones I like and which ones I didn't.

On our trip we drove through Zion National Park, where I saw something interesting:

The part I find interesting is "If attacked, fight back." Never seen that before. And it makes me want to ask the animals of the world to come to some agreement about what to do when startled by a human. We play dead if chased by a bear, and fight back against mountain lions. If I come across something that says I should run toward an animal to scare it away, that will be too much. I might get confused and rush a bear, or play dead for a raccoon.

Now, more NCAA tournament. I guess I picked a few too many first round upsets, but I didn't get hurt too much. As you see below, I have 13 of the 16 left. And I am especially proud of Villanova and Davidson in the Midwest making me look like Nostradamus.
I am tempted to make new picks based on what teams are now left and how they have played, but I will stick with what I have. I am afraid of Louisville vs. Tennessee, and West Virginia looks good vs. Xavier, but overall I like what I have. I tried not to pick with my heart too much (see? I picked BYU and BSU to lose) but I may have overdone with Wisconsin over Kansas (I hate them). And although Arizona laid an egg, I am glad someone bounced Duke. I still like UNC in the East and all the way to the title, but who knows what will happen in the South. Any of the four still in it could come through and I wouldn't be surprised. Just hope Michigan State doesn't screw things up for me. If Memphis can get through, I think they will beat whoever comes from the West. UCLA had to work too hard against A&M for me to believe in them. And Xavier playing for the title? Doesn't sound right, does it? That's why it won't happen.

I will be planted on my couch for the games again tonight (and Friday and Saturday and Sunday). Wish me luck. Or tell me why I am crazy.

NCAA Tournament

2008-03-17T10:41:00.000-07:00

I got this e-mail from someone who was apparently not very impressed with my last post:

"Hey Phyllis, your an idiot. Nice call on Boise State there. WAC tourny champs, baby! This team has the talent to do some damage in the big dance. I see them making it to the sweet 16. Go broncos!"

So let me respond: First of all, I think I said I couldn't see how BSU could beat Utah State. That's right. I couldn't see it. I doubt anyone else saw Garner coming out and killing it like he did. Dude hardly plays all year, comes in and scores ten points in about five minutes, and then promptly returns to obscurity on the bench. Crazy. If he doesn't do that, they don't win that game. Period.

And notice that Greene did not play in the USU game? Good call, Graham. So not only did "Nascar" Greene not put in his 10-15 minutes of substandard play, Garner took his place and excelled. Amazing.

I guess I am glad I made no prediction about the New Mexico State game, since I would have been doubtful BSU could pull it off in Las Cruces. But pull it off they did, and I am duly impressed. The one area of concern from that game (which will help me answer the e-mailer's claim BSU can make some noise in the tournament) is that the bench scored a whopping six points in fifty-five minutes. I maintain that having five good players is nice, but I think they need some support (perhaps someone will come in and pull a Garner in the tournament) in order to beat anyone they might face in Alabama. Again, I will be rooting and hoping and yelling, but the bracket I filled out says "LOU" right below "St. Joe's." (For the record, my two youngest sons stepped up and picked Boise State in the first round--let's see what happens.)

Ahhh...The NCAA tournament: I look forward to it all year. I put in for time off at my job so I can soak it all in for twelve hours two days in a row. I will order some pizza, put on my sweats, and stare at college basketball in HDTV until my eyes burn. But although I am excitedly waiting for Thursday to get here, I know what will happen. "Alas! how far the promise of anticipation exceeds the pleasure of possession!" Rosalie Ashby said that to Agnes in Anne Brontë's Agnes Grey, and something similar will happen to me. Teams I hate will win, others I want to win will not, and I will be mad at myself at how much I eat. Then Friday's games will be over and I will survey the carnage that my brackets have become. Then there is the friend issue: I have none, so I will be doing all this by myself in my living room. My family doesn't even really like to watch any of the games, either. So I am trying to really enjoy these last few hours I have anticipating the pleasure before I experience (or possess) it.

A few quick predictions before I sign off: You already know what BYU will do. And I won't bore you with my whole bracket, but I have picked the following first round upsets (10 seed or higher winning): St. Joseph's over Oklahoma. Villanova over Clemson. Davidson over Gonzaga. St. Mary's over Miami. Western Kentucky over Drake. Baylor over Purdue. Arizona over West Virginia. Yes, I am a fan of the underdog. Who do you have?

One more. Four of the ESPN experts have Kansas winning it all: read here.
Won't happen. Mark it down.

Career Change

2008-03-14T10:36:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking I need one. It occurred to me the other day when I was listening to Colin Cowherd on the way to work. (What a nimrod, by the way. And couldn't he have changed his stage name at some point? I cringe every time I hear it.) Anyway, he and Doug Gottlieb (now there's a name) were talking about the NCAA tournament. It got me thinking.

I've given a couple of careers a got shot: I've worked for more than ten years now as a Computer Technician/Network Administrator/IT Guy and have learned a great deal. I know how to reset passwords, plug things in properly, and believe someone when they say they had nothing to do with what is currently the problem. But can I say I love what I do? Not really.

I worked for a few years in Texas as a long-haul truck dispatcher, too. That was an education unto itself. I listened to gravelly voices on the phone say, "Come on, man, I don't get paid to sit. I get paid to roll." Or "Gimme something with lotsa miles and not a lot of drops." I even heard more than I cared to about the goings on of some seedy truck stop somewhere. But aside from the pager going off in the middle of the night and the stress I carried around wondering if all the loads where going to be delivered on time (for some reason, I was responsible to Sales whenever a driver was delayed or if our Shipping department was behind), it was the trip out to our scales to see why a truck was overweight on his tandem axle that told me to get out of there. I sat and watched as the driver locked up his rear brakes while his buddy crouched under the trailer to remove the locking pin for his sliding axles. He stood under there holding the pin out as the driver gassed it gently (if eighty-thousand pounds can be moved gently) to slide the trailer forward. That was enough. Let's get back to Idaho, I said.

So what do I want to do? I am not certain, but I know this: I bet I am in the vast minority of people who watched all four games from the WAC men's basketball tournament yesterday. Yes, all of them. I will allow that my willingness to watch the games, in and of itself, is not qualification for a job. But I am, I daresay, able to speak intelligently on what I see--more intelligently than some of the wingnuts I hear on the radio (or those broadcasting the WAC tournament. Is 'fustrated' a word? Is a Mack truck the only object that can be used to describe the space between an open player and his defender?)

And I wouldn't be a complete homer, either. I live in Boise and graduated from BSU, and although I want them to win, I don't see how they can beat Utah State tonight. A few reasons why: Have you seen Jaycee Carroll shoot? My man is nasty. He appears to have only two offensive shortcomings: He cannot make a basket if he is (a) punched in the face or (b) kicking the ball toward the goal with his left foot. USU's bench seems to be far superior, as well. BSU has guys like Greene (or as I like to call him, 'No Right Hand'), Cunningham (well, he takes up a lot of space), and Sanchez (Spazzy). BSU's starting five is good, but it takes more than that to win.

One more piece of evidence I'm not a homer: I went to BYU and I would love to see them do well. But although they are a 'lock' to go to the NCAA tournament, you can pencil them down for a first round exit. Count on it. I will watch the game and root for them and get excited when they get ahead, but I am not deceived. They will lose.

I had to type this quickly--you know before the game starts. But I also gotta go, gotta focus on my job, my career. But someday I will have a job that has something to do with sports. Count on that, too.

[Rest assured that if either of my "predictions" fails to come true, I will come back and edit this post to make it look like they did.]

Scoring

2008-03-02T19:42:00.000-08:00

I made the varsity basketball team in high school. See, looky here:

You go ahead and figure out which one is me. But also, if you can, figure out why I am pissed I got no playing time that year. Perhaps "no playing time" is a stretch; I probably played a total of twenty minutes during our whole season: garbage time during our first few losses. After about the eighth or ninth game, I never saw the court again. And it wasn't just me; about four other guys were in the same boat. It became almost comical. We would race after time-outs to make sure we got our favorite seat on the bench. And I am pretty sure we all got worse as basketball players during the course of the season. Why was it this way? Simple.

Our coach sucked.

For the purposes of this blog we will call him Kreg Gimball. Anyway, Coach Gimball was in his first year as head basketball coach at Caldwell High. Apparently winning the conference title and tournament when you are the smallest school in the conference isn't good enough to keep your job, because that's what the previous coach had accomplished in his last year. Admittedly, the previous coach did have some decent talent to work with: Danny was 6'8" and went and played basketball at Boise State; Mac was a good athlete who played football at BSU. Even made honorable mention at linebacker for BSU's all-time team: http://boisestate.scout.com/2/421948.html.

[I am not going to take the time right now to detail how I hooked up with Mac's girlfriend Bev during my junior year. Ah, the cold weekday nights and Saturdays parked out at Lake Lowell listening to Depeche Mode and The B52s in her yellow Honda Civic. And not just listening to music. We multi-tasked. Mmmm, the late nights at her house: she would make faces while talking on the phone with him while she carried on her own conversation with me. I saw it as all as quite an accomplishment. Bev was older than me and I totally dug her. She was, you know, a real clean cheese. But I said I wasn't going in to that part.]
So Coach Gimball came in to take over a program bereft of talent (and height, as you see. There was about three inches difference in height from the shortest guy on our team to the tallest. "Which one of you six-footers wants to play post?") But instead of constantly running all eleven guys in and out of the game--you know to wear the other team out with our quickness and conditioning--he played the same five guys the whole game every game. Even after he figured out our team sucked. We only won a handful of games and got killed in many others. But even then he left the same guys in. We could all see them totally spent and nearly delirious during every time-out, but I guess he couldn't.

My proudest moment as a Coug came when we were shut out in the third quarter by Bonneville. Yes, our team went an entire eight minute quarter without scoring a point. And still Coach followed his plan. Of course I am bitter about it. I look at it this way: how much better were the guys playing than the ones on the bench? We are talking about a high school basketball team in Caldwell, Idaho for crap sake! Maybe he was afraid his team would go 3 and 20 instead of 5 and 18.

So when I went to college and found I had decent game, it came as a surprise: my senior year in high school had consumed all my confidence. And for that I thank Coach Gimball.

Man Crush

2008-02-22T08:20:00.000-08:00

I admit it—I have a man crush. And no, I’m not talking about Justin Timberlake. (Why does everyone think I’m kidding when I ask for a life-size anatomically correct J.T. doll every Christmas?) The tender dude-feelings I have are directed toward someone else. And I have even talked to him.

I reckon I’m a pretty simple feller. I was born and raised in Caldwell, Idaho, so I have not had many brushes with certain types: the famous, the rich, the actor, the professional athlete. So when Dude (that's what we will call him) moved in down the street from me, I was pretty stoked (the seeds of man crush were planted, you could say). See, I found out Dude was a pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals. At first I wondered if that meant he was on one of their minor league teams, or threw BP or something, but it was the real deal. Starting pitcher for the Cards. The 25 man roster and everything.

After meeting him one night down at a pick-up basketball game at our church, it was decided Dude would come and play on our church basketball team. Not a very big deal or anything. Just a lousy 'league' with a bunch of riff raff, hacks, and guys who had wrestled in high school. But with Dude on our team the games were no contest.

One night Dude was straight killing it from outside. He must have made fifteen three-pointers. The other team was pissed, and not for the regular reasons (too many fouls, bad refs, people saying "Crap!" too much). They were actually angry at Dude because he kept raining three-pointers. Our team would get a rebound, throw an outlet pass, head up court, and look for Dude. And once he got it, he was money. It was sick. Never saw anything like it before. But I didn't know I was crushing yet.

There was a mid-season tournament for our league as well. One Friday night, we played the first two rounds--the rest of the tournament would be completed the next day. After our Friday night games, Dude said, "Hey, let's all meet at Perkins tomorrow at 6 a.m." Maybe I need to clarify here, but we are talking about six-in-the-morning-on-a-Saturday; this is a sacred time for me. I will be sleeping at this time on any Saturday of the year. But at 6 a.m. the next morning I was there, throwing down my pancakes and omelet, and I am pretty sure Dude paid the bill. He was reeling me in.

Apparently Dude thought enough of my "skillz" on the court that he asked me to play on his city league team that year. I felt like a high school girl getting asked to the prom. I used to hate the way Dude liked to warm up for the game, though: he would throw the basketball overhand to me from about fifteen feet away. His arm was so strong it hurt me every time I caught it, but I never said anything. I didn't even complain when Dude recruited a couple of former players from Boise State's men's team; my playing time diminished greatly, but I was happy to be there.

It finally hit me one night when I got a phone call. It was Dude, and he just wanted to shoot the breeze. As we talked I found out he was drafted by the Orioles and pitched for them in 1996. How cool is that? He knew several of my favorite players on the team. He didn't like Davey Johnson (I forgive him that). He was thinking about moving to Florida. Anyway, we chatted for a while as I lay in my bed next to my wife, and when we hung up I sighed with satisfaction. I looked over at my wife and she was laughing at me. She never said a word, but I could tell from her look she thought I was ridiculous. And then I knew.

So, yes, Dude moved to Florida, but he is back in town now; I have seen him a few times on TV and heard him on the radio. And I am still waiting for him to call.

This should clear things up

2008-02-16T11:00:00.000-08:00

Okay, okay. Slow down! I have had hundreds of readers e-mail and demand an explanation for the name of the blog--especially after seeing that the first entry was sports-related. So here goes:

I like W. Somerset Maugham. Heard of him? I had read most of his novels, plays, and short stories when I decided to return to college to get an English degree. I live in Boise so I enrolled at Boise State. I planned on reading a little more Maugham, and learning more about him and his contemporaries; I figured I might like some of them, too.

Wrong: I learned that academia despises Maugham as trite. And it hurt. I had learned so much and been so many places and felt so many things as I had read his words. What would I be learning over the next few years? Would I still like Maugham when I finished my degree? Well, in my studies I have come to love British literature (well, novels, anyway) from the two centuries before Maugham. There was only class in which I read anything at all by his contemporaries--20th Century British fiction--and I hated what I read. Woolf, Waugh, Lawrence? Please. I've had more satisfaction reading the side of a cereal box.

Now I am done and I still like Maugham, and my blog has his name. I will write about Maugham here, but--know this about me--I am a sports fan. And I love the Orioles. I can't explain why--since I was born and raised in Idaho--I just do. I check the box scores almost every day, and my wife always knows when the O's blow a late inning lead: I am in a bad mood the rest of the night. And if they blow a late inning lead to the Yankees? Cover your ears.

So on this blog I will write about my two passions: sports and English literature. I figured two things so closely related should naturally occupy the same space.

[I reserve the right to write about anything else I feel like, as well. Just thought I would make that clear.]

Whose fault is it?

2008-02-15T20:52:00.000-08:00

Don’t blame Peter Angelos. He’s a lot like the rest of them. He is very smart and made a pile of money (as a lawyer) and then bought a baseball team. Then he figured because he was smart and successful in one career that he naturally could run the team instead of just own it. So he has been involved in plenty of the decisions made by the Baltimore Orioles since he bought a majority share in the franchise in 1993. And as the owner, yes, he has the right to decide what the team does. But how about hiring a “baseball person” as the general manager or president of baseball operations or whatever you want to call it? Get someone who knows how to make good baseball decisions and then stay away. But he hasn’t. So I can see why you might want to blame him for the rough ten or so years Orioles fans have endured.

The Orioles are a team with a successful history. No, really. The St. Louis Browns moved to Baltimore to become the Orioles in 1954, and in 1966 they were world champions. The Orioles played in the World Series three years in a row starting in 1969, winning in 1970. From 1968 to 1985 they never had a losing record and won ninety or more games thirteen times over that span. They lost to the Pirates in the 1979 Series but were champs again in 1983. A few lean years followed (I try to pretend sometimes that 1988 never happened; they started the season 0-21…) but by the early nineties things were looking up again. And along came Angelos.

Sure, he had his hand in some of the bad decisions that were made: I am sorry, but you do not let Davey Johnson resign over a tiff with you after he has taken the club to the ALCS in successive years. Kiss and make up and keep a good thing going, jackass! And don’t piss off Mike Mussina to the point that he won’t re-sign with the team he came up with. (Especially if he is going to go sign with the Yankees, for crying out loud!) Don’t give Joey…er, Albert Belle sixty-five million dollars when his best years are behind him. Don’t sign other aging veterans in a vain attempt to…nevermind. I told you it wasn’t his fault, anyway.

It’s Rich Garcia’s.

Yes, Rich Garcia. The right-field umpire in Game 1 of the 1996 ALCS. Baltimore had just mowed through Cleveland to face New York for the pennant. Game 1 was in New York and the O’s had it won. Until, of course, Dick (that’s my friendly name for him) Garcia was forced to make a quick decision in front of thousands of screaming New Yorkers. Instead of making the correct call on Jeter’s can of corn to right field in the bottom of the eighth inning, Garcia awarded the rookie a home run when a fan interfered with Tony Tarasco’s opportunity to catch the ball. Satan’s—oops I meant Garcia’s—gaffe tied the game and the Yankees won in extra innings. (Baltimore won Game 2 in New York, but folded after that. But had they won both games in New York…)

My favorite part is that Dick admitted after the game that he blew the call. That is nice. Thanks for that. Don’t bother getting it right when it matters. In describing his first reaction to the play, he said he never saw anyone reach out and hit it. Right. Yes. And I prefer eggplant fillets instead of meat. Why did Tarasco immediately start going crazy and pointing to the stands? You can’t youtube the video anymore because Major League Baseball yanked them all, but google ‘Jeffrey Maier’ or ‘1996 alcs’ for images and several photos (especially the side view shots) help tell the story. Or just go to this page from MLB’s webpage for the Yankees: http://newyork.yankees.mlb.com/nyy/photogallery/anniversary/1954_2003/page_13.jsp
The little blurb says it all. The fact is Garcia chickened out, realizing he might not have made it out of Yankee Stadium alive; he confessed his blunder only when it was safe.

Since then, almost everything has gone wrong for the Orioles. Yes, they made it back to the ALCS the next year, but could anyone expect them to win? And after that it has been more than ten years of utter suckfullness. (I know I don’t need to remind you that 1996 was the first of the four Yankees championships. I blame Rich Garcia for that, as well.)

So, yes, I am with those who want Peter Angelos to sell the team and move on. But I don’t expect anything good to happen for the Orioles. Rich Garcia won’t allow it.