The Ones That Made It Through The TinFoil Hat
I have some pretty random thoughts sometimes. Most of you who follow this blog regularly, or those who have access to my medical files, understand that. I’ve mentioned before that I cracked my head open 8 times before I was 6 years old; not just bumps on the head, mind you, but real injuries that required stitches and everything. It’s a shame that none of those bumps or lacerations gave me the opportunity to be the Original George Malley, but I keep banging my head against the wall and gazing skyward for a UFO in hopes that I too can be scary smart, just without the tumor and all. Uh, Oh; did I forget the spoiler alert? Well, the movie was made in 1996, so deal with it. Here’s the best scene of the whole movie: Shoot, Bob!
It’s a great movie, and if you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend it. I think you can even watch the whole thing on You Tube if you don’t mind watching it in 11 different parts and x’ing out all of those annoying ads that pop up down bottom. The main character; George Malley, finds himself in a strange situation: He’s gone from Average Joe to Stephen Hawking in the blink of an eye. After seeing something in the sky, he wakes up with incredible mental capabilities. How cool would that be; I mean, before the CIA busts your door down and sticks you in an Eastern European Research Facility? I think it would be stupendous. Well, after a while I guess it would get pretty lonely. It’d be like you were a 4.0 student in a Pre-K world. Yeah, scratch that; maybe being the smartest guy in the world isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. There are plenty of these guys walking the streets of major cities with tinfoil under their stocking caps who will tell you as much. The black helicopters are everywhere, and they’re trying to steal our thoughts. What’s the frequency, Kenneth? With that being said, here’s a list of some of my random tinfoil thoughts. Some of them you may have seen before, others, maybe not.
- My Roomba accidentally docked with my Tom Tom charger. Now I have dirty floors and my GPS gives me 87 routes that all lead back to my driveway.
- If I get Mono and it gets worse, will I have Stereo?
- Once their divorce is final, will Tiger Woods’ wife be the top money winner on the PGA Tour?
- What do you use to hang a mime; imaginary rope?
- If a man named William can also be called Will, Willy, Bill and Billy, why can’t you call him Billiam?
- What does a solo synchronized swimmer synchronize with?
- When Mariah Carey sings “I’ll Be There” is she talking about the all you can eat buffet?
Food for thought.
I Am Become Mario Kart, Destroyer Of Worlds
The NukeKids got a Wii for Christmas. Guess who is now obsessed with conquering Mario Kart and every stinking one of his unholy giant duck, cow in the middle of the road, turtle tossing levels? Yep; it’s me. I will slay Mario Kart or I will die trying. Here’s the deal: the NukeKids have played Mario Kart many times before at a friends house, but I had never seen it until a month ago when we were in Florida visiting Grandma and Grandpa (yes, Grandma and Grandpa have their own Wii, it’s just how they roll), so I’m understandably a little oblivious with the Mario Mojo. My inexperience garners no sympathy from the NukeKids as evidenced by my severe beat down by NukeGirl, who swept our initial 3 race series by a margin so great that I’m embarrassed to even tell you how big it was.
I read an article recently that said the number one cause of divorce is no longer money problems; it’s a red tortoise shell bank shot that knocks ones spouse out of first place. I can see where that can happen, based on the change in the family dynamic these last 4 days. The Nuke Family is competitive by nature; Mario Kart just may make us militant too. Fangs gnash, claws come out, audible growls are the norm; we’re hooked! Just yesterday I was told by one Nuke Child (who will remain nameless) that the throwing of a steering wheel at a sibling was “an accident.” “I was just passing it to them, gosh!” Airborne Wii remotes that hit your sibling in the head are now classified as “your turn” in my house.
I’m getting used to some of it; I understand now that while getting “The Bullet” is cool because you get to go fast and you don’t have to steer, it really isn’t that cool because what it means is that you are either in last place or pretty darn close. I already knew that if you hit a cow in the road that it would be painful, I just never realized that it would make your car do a back flip and make you yell; “Yoo-Hoo!” Squid squirt ink, knew that; dodging moving cars in the middle of the road makes your adrenaline escalate, check; and driving through mud or neck-deep snow is hard, gotcha. I know that I’m a total Mario Kart newbie, and that this may bore those of you that already have a Wii, but it’s so darn addicting that I just had to share! Here’s a short video for those of you who have no clue what I’m talking about. Look for “The Bullet” near the end. It’ll have white arms and a menacing smile. I know. Work with me here.
Survivorgirl
IF YOU THINK HE'S SMALL, YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN THE APPLE
As some of you may already know, the bravest person in our house when it comes to bugs and such is NukeGirl. She is fearless when it comes to all creeepy-crawlies except for spiders and bees; but then, who does like spiders and bees? We went to a Childrens’ museum once when they were having an “Insectopia” show or something, and they had this millipede that….well, here; just look at the picture. Read the whole story HERE.
THAT THING WAS LONGER THAN PUBERTY
It wasn’t like I had to coerce her to go up and look at the thing, she made a bee-line (that’s punny) for the table shouting; “Ooh! Ooh! I want to hold it! I want to hold it! Can I Daddy? Please, please, please?” Who was I to argue? A few days ago I heard an ear-shattering shriek coming from the kitchen. NukeMom had happened upon some sort of monster, I was sure. I rushed in with the only weapon I could find (a bath towel), ready to face the enormous, deadly, man-eating beast that I was surely about to encounter. What I saw was the little guy you see on NukeGirls finger. “Seriously?” I said to NukeMom. “It startled me! I didn’t know what it was!”, NukeMom offered. Just then, NukeGirl walked in to see what all the fuss was about. “Awwwww! He’s soooo cute!” With that, NukeGirl swept up Wormy and they watched Phineas and Ferb together before we told her it was time for Wormy to go outside. She placed him on the deck railing, said; “Goodbye, Wormy! I’ll miss you!” and went back inside. About 2 seconds later a Robin swooped down and picked up Wormy and flew away. Maybe we’ll wait another year or two before we really get into “The Circle of Life” with NukeGirl; the Lion King version is working fine right now.
Sibling Revelry
Wouldn’t it be great if everyone dear to us knew how we felt about them? I have several times in my life thought to sit down and write to each special person in my life, telling them in great detail how they have touched and bettered my time here. I have done so on occasion, and it has been met with heartfelt gratitude and appreciation. After writing one such letter to my father, he called me and thanked me for putting the words down on paper, so that he might have the chance to read them again, rather than attempt to recapture those wispy sentiments that would surely have slipped into forgotten-ville or less-meaningful-land. Anyhow, my brother, Geoff, who is master of all things that are this blog, chose to do this very thing for each one of his siblings in 2008, save my sister, Stacey, the youngest, whose birthday precipitated this wonderful, post-August tradition for praising his siblings on their birthday, and will, thus, have to wait until late next month to be lauded. We thought it fitting then, that our brother be the recipient of such a gift as he has bestowed upon each one of us. We also thank him for letting us crash his blog. -Laura-
From Leta:
HEADKNOCKER
July 23rd, 1964. Envision a small family standing in front of an elevator smiling and waving goodbye to their mom. She was seated in a wheelchair, smiling back. The father informed the small boy and slightly older girl that the next time they saw mommy they would have a new brother or sister. The girl was overheard saying woohoo! OK, now let’s get to Aunt Bonnies house so we can go swimming!!! Such are the feelings of a self-absorbed eight year old.
Fast forward a few years to a bright sunny day. Picture a shopping cart and seventeen kids running around playing. Now picture one of those kids (the birthday boy) climbing into the shopping cart while the skinny neighbor shoves it off the curb and into the street. Lastly, picture older sister running into house screaming to mother that youngest brother had cracked his head WIDE open. (A footnote should be added at this point that states sister is a very big exaggerator). A quick trip to the emergency room, 4 or 5 stitches and all was well.
Circa 1985. Same birthday boy, same emergency room. The doctor looks at the patient and asks just how he received his injuries. Well the back injury occurred when the wedge he used at work, to split wood to cook bbq, slipped and flew up into the air and hit him in the shoulder blade. Second injury was later in the day. Same wedge slipped and hit him in the leg. Doctor told him it was a good thing he didn’t work all day or he may have ended up killing himself with that wedge. Patient chuckled and told the doctor not to worry. He was a little accident prone….had his head sewed up seven times before he was 3, the first time happened when this neighbor kid with a shopping cart…
Jump ahead quite a few years and read something called a blog written by none other than birthday boy. What’s this? A picture of a van….and it is surrounded by……shopping carts.
Happy Birthday Geoff!! Thanks for the opportunity to share with your readers a few little tidbits about you. One day soon I hope to have pictures of the Hoppity Hop Hill of Doom and a few others that you have mentioned along the way. I Love You, Leta.
From Steve:
YEE HAW!
So the year/years are somewhere between the late 60’s to maybe mid-very early 70’s; time slips my mind; maybe early fall, and all the guys in the neighborhood decide to go to the Circle K at the cross roads. Somehow after leaving the store all had acquired many cans of tobacco…raspberry, mint, etc. Geoff, as I recall at the time, might have been 8-9 at best. So that afternoon brought all of us back to Marwood Park and delving into the fruits of our labor. Late the next afternoon would find both me and Geoff out in Dad’s shop being confronted by Dad and wondering how on earth we had acquired so many cans of tobacco without a dime to our name. Long story short, both of us were threatened within an inch of our lives that we would never dip tobacco again or we would suffer the consequences. Jump ahead a few years to high school and big brother picking up the habit of dipping on a regular basis. Wasn’t long before little brother (maybe with a little help from me) decided that if he wanted to be cool and have all the girls after him he had to carry a can of tobacco in his back pocket. So began the family legacy of Skoal cans on the bedroom shelf. Plans were that if we could get enough cans saved possibly we might get U.S. Tobacco to send us a couple of rolls or maybe even a case if we could amass enough cans. All we had to do was spell out “SKOAL” on the football field at Zach White. As the years passed the cans grew by leaps and bounds and shortly after I moved out we had saved over 5000 cans. Unfortunately neither me nor Geoff ever did anything with those cans other than leave them as we moved on to be cleaned out by a wonderful woman; our Mother.
My brother hopefully today will be a pleasurable day for you as you celebrate your Birthday with family and friends. Here’s hoping that you experience the same joy in this day that you bring to others. I love you….Steve
From Laura:
SUNSET OVER THE STATE LINE
I could spend pages writing about my brother, what he has meant to me, how I idolized him growing up, how I longed to be included in anything he deemed worthy of his time, how I used to sneak into his closet and abscond with his favorite concert t-shirt, as if the wearing of it would somehow transport me to his level of coolness, how much I appreciated his protective shield when it came to my first forays into dating, how his musical influence on me continues to this day - but the attempt would only serve as a fruitless effort to describe him fully. I will share but one important insight into what kind of brother he was, is, and what kind of man he remains. Keep in mind that he was just 21 when he imparted the following pearl of wisdom upon me.
The most important lesson I ever learned from Geoff came to me at the age of sixteen. It was my first night working at the State Line restaurant, a place that became for Geoff, myself, and my sister, Stacey, a home away from home as we racked up almost thirty years there collectively. Geoff had been working there for over five years when he scored a job as a hostess for his little sis. I was in awe that first night. Not only was I making real money that I would have to pay taxes on, but I was able to hang out with my brother and all of his cool friends. People I had known and admired from afar, and some I had only heard about as we sat and made our mixed cassette tapes together. At the end of the shift, he drove me home. We pulled up to the house and sat in his car before going in. “So what’d you think?” he asked me, knowing full well I was about to pop with excitement. I went on and on about the evening, asking him about so and so, and what he or she was like, and were they as nice as they seemed or really secret jerks who shorted the busboys on tips when they checked out? I got nothing. No gossip, no stories, no pent up resentment for the waiter or waitress who might have rubbed him the wrong way. Absolutely nothing. Instead, he said this to me: “You know, Laura, I’m not going to say one word about anyone. I want you to meet these people and make your own judgments about them. Whether you like them or not shouldn’t have anything to do with whether or not I do. You’ll have to make up your own mind.” I remember even as he was saying it, realizing the profundity of his words, that I would carry that with me the rest of my life. And I have. Happy Birthday, Geoff. I love you mucho. Thanks for always treating me with love, kindness, and generosity.
From Stacey:
BACK IN THE DAY BEFORE THE DAY
My brother Geoff has always been the life of the party and the comedian in the family. He has a knack for making friends and making people feel comfortable. He is a loving, devoted father and husband, the likes of which I have rarely seen. When it comes to his sisters, he is fiercely protective and known not to budge when it comes to demanding respect of them from others. I am lucky enough to be one of those sisters and have always loved having my big brother looking after me. Our family is very close and always has been. We have been referred to as, “the Walton’s” by those who are not as fortunate. To us, this has always been a compliment.
Growing up, Geoff was a “cool” big brother. He was a handsome, Tom Cruise look alike that all the girls had a crush on. He was an athlete as well and played on the Coronado football team. This was a very cool thing to do. Because he was on the football team, he would have to sell “spirit ribbons” each week before a game. Of course, he hired his little sisters to help him with the task. I was in junior -high at the time and would gladly take his spirit ribbons to school with me in an attempt to help him out. Believe it or not (I’m not making this up) girls would buy these ribbons from me because my brother had TOUCHED them. That’s right, because his hands had once held them. Can you imagine?
Even with such adoration from females and a genuine respect from every male in school, Geoff never let it go to his head. He has always been a sensible, down to earth guy. In his 20’s, Geoff became the manager at a very popular restaurant in town. He got me my first job there. My first night of work, someone made the mistake of commenting on “the cute new girl” to my brother. It was quickly made very clear that this person would in no way be allowed to get close to me. About five years later, this person and I had begun dating. We had to call an emergency meeting with my sister Laura to figure out how we were going to tell Geoff. After much discussion and a few cups of “liquid courage,” Geoff came in. We explained to him that we had been dating for a while and that we were serious about each other. We waited with apprehension to get “approval.” Geoff gave us his blessing (what is this, the Godfather?) and we were together for a very long time. It still brings a smile to my face to think about that night. It wasn’t that I needed his approval, but I wanted it. C’mon, he’s my big brother!
I have so many great memories of you Geoff, that I could go on forever. I remember playing “socks off” and “trip” when we were little. We didn’t need to buy games, we made them up. Remember 52 card pick up? I remember you teasing me with the promise of giving me your “Beth” 45 in order to get me to do just about anything. I remember being in Santa Fe and that you and Laura were the only friends I had—and that was GREAT! I remember sitting on the back porch playing Yahtzee while we listened to the “new” Fleetwood Mac album. I think back to having you home with us and seeing your beautiful children and I smile.
I am so blessed to have you for a brother. I love you more than you know and I know that I don’t say it enough. I also know that I am the worst at staying in touch, but I hope you know that I think about you always. I hope that this birthday is the best one yet and that you are truly happy. I love you big brother, for all that you have taught me, given me and protected me from. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!! Stace
From NukeDad:
Thanks guys! Wow! This beats expensive presents or cards filled with cash anyday! (mostly) Here are links to my posts on Leta, Steve and Laura; Stacey, yours will be up in about a month. Leta, I even linked the Hipptiy-Hop story for you. I love you all.
Wedding Beer Blues
Well, I figured I’d better get something up here since I’ve been home for more than 24 hours. My trip back home to El Paso was great; I got to see family and old friends and I gained some family and friends while I was there. Little sister Stacey and Alvaro (the bride and groom) are now basking on the beaches of Mexico in their haz-mat suits and masks, walking gingerly through the villages and beaches trying to avoid the Swine Flu, or H1N1, or whatever the heck they’re calling it this week. Is it still a pandemic? Isn’t it supposed to wipe us all out quicker than Captain Trips in The Stand? I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop but the first one isn’t even tied yet. They say it’s a pandemic, then they say don’t offend the pigs in Arkansas by calling it The Swine Flu. I guess it’s OK to offend the letters H and N, though, they don’t have any lobbyists in Washington, D.C. looking out for their interests. Where’s Johnnie Cochran (Jackie Chiles?) when you need him? Oh, yeah; that’s right, he’s in the middle of re-negotiating his representation contract with Michael Jackson.
It was a fabulous time and I’m sure you’ll be hearing plenty more about it in the near future. I was glad to get home to NukeMom and the NukeKids On The Block; I missed them terribly. We are already planning a trip back for next summer so they can all enjoy the best Mexican food in the world just like I did. And BBQ. And Michelob Ultra. Well, maybe no Ultra for the kids, but NukeMom would probably enjoy one or two. Or thirty; like I did. OK, OK; it wasn’t thirty, it just felt like it. I learned a couple of things about Michelob Ultra while I was home: 1) Ultra sounds very similar to ‘otra’ ; which means; ‘another’ in Spanish. The bartender; Moises, spoke limited English, so my journeys to his domain turned comical (I thought I was being funny) when I would say; “Otra Ultra, Moises!” and would walk away with one, or sometimes two beers. This became problematic later in the evening when I was trying to remember how many beers I had had and whether or not I should order ‘otra’ one. I lost count when I had to take a shoe and sock off and decided that one more wouldn’t hurt anybody, which brings me to realization number two. 2) Michelob Ultra presents itself as a ‘light’ beer that can be consumed while playing a round of golf, working in the garden, or even running a marathon. Put a six-pack in your pockets during your next Triathlon. Being that I haven’t partied like it’s 1999 since, well, 1989; I was a bit rusty on the execution. My math dilemma notwithstanding, Ultra can pack a punch if it is consumed in even numbers or small groups. I don’t drink beer anymore; well, not in any quantity at least. An occasional beer or two on the porch every couple of months is about the extent of it for me. That being said, I guess you could classify me as one of those ’social drinkers’; one who only consumes alcohol (in limited quantities, mind you) at office parties, dinner parties or the occasional neighborhood get together. With that in mind, understand that I will not allow you to say that I was “drunk” at my sisters wedding no matter what WeaselMomma tells you (Click on my favorites). If you’re going to accuse me of anything, accuse me of being too social. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Try and reply to a tweet at 1:30am after consuming copious amounts of Michelob Ultra and your fingers will swell to the size of Johnsonville Bratwursts and the keyboard keys will look like Pez candies. Nope, typing after that many Michelob Ultras isn’t recommended. Realization number 3) If you go to a party and the bartender only speaks Spanish and they have a choice between Ultra and Bud Light; I’d go with the Bud Light. The math is so much easier. Trust me on this one.
Sunshine (and dirt) On My Shoulders
NUKEMOM & NUKEBOY1
One camping trip last week coupled with a trip to the New River in Foster Falls, Virginia today has led me to my present state: banging out this post while listening to John Denver. I know, I know, Dr. Isaid No is laughing hysterically right now, and that’s to be expected, but I’m secure enough in my musical manhood to type that out loud; JOHN FREAKIN’ DENVER! Yeah! Dan Fogelberg is cued up after that, so there. Where was I? Oh yea, 1975; so anyway, I’ve been on this whole granola-back to nature-mother earth thing lately. Don’t worry, I’m not turning into a cap and trade tree-hugging hippie, I’m just appreciating and enjoying the outdoors a little more these days. NukeMom isn’t as impressed, but that’s probably due to the fact that I haven’t bathed in a week. My argument that “The pioneers sometimes didn’t bathe for WEEKS!” isn’t working; which would explain the open suitcase sitting next to the unopened bar of Dial soap. The ball is clearly in my court. Maybe I’ll just pick up the NukeBeagles and we can all three jump in the tub tomorrow and make everyone happy. I don’t know what they’ve been rolling around in out in the yard, but at this point, I could probably use it and call it cologne.
It hasn’t really been a week since my last bath encounter; we went to the water-park yesterday, and then there was that rainstorm I got caught up in last week…I guess a little soap never hurt anyone. Maybe those “Cute, but he’s scratching his head” looks will abate as well. I hope you don’t really think I’m that slovenly, I’m not, it’s just that summer is here, and, well; bathing is more of a choice now than a mandate. Some days I take a shower, some days I don’t; some days I take 2 or 3 showers, it all depends. Wake up at the crack of noon and stay inside watching TV all day? No shower required. Have your sewer line break while you’re standing over it? You may need to just fill your pockets with quarters and hop in the back of your buddy’s truck and head on down to the carwash. This post had a point before the smell sidetracked me towards John Denver and personal hygiene, I just can’t remember what it was. Oh well, just know that John Denver’s music is still relevant if you’re a stinking mess and want to sing his songs in the shower. Calypso always works for me during the rinse cycle. I can hit those high notes like no body’s business.
A Whiter Shade Of Pale
I’ve found the ultimate diet plan. You’re guaranteed to lose 12 pounds in 2 1/2 days. It’s called; “The Scout Camp Diet” and it works. I should know, because I invented it over the latter part of last week. All that is required to make this diet work is to hike 12 to 15 miles per day in 90 degree heat. Results will increase if you start the plan in the rain and end it in 60 percent humidity. Night chills and subsequent night sweats are just part of the exultation you will feel while on this plan. Need to lose 3 pounds before dinner? Easy, just hike to dinner. Need to knock off a few pounds before bedtime? Basic, just hike the 39 percent grade up the hill to your campsite after dinner. Still feeling a little thick around the waist? No problem! Just hike to breakfast tomorrow, back to your campsite, then to the other side of the camp, then all the way BACK to the dining hall for lunch, over to the other extreme border of the camp, then BACK to the dining hall one more time for dinner. See? Easy as pie. Don’t worry about what kind of pie it is, because you’ll be sweating it off as you eat it. And don’t you fret about the time commitment; it’ll only take you from reveille at 7am until taps at 10pm to accomplish your goals. Who needs all those fancy fad diets when you can just have your kid join the scouts? Call now and receive our bonus “How to Survive Camp on Just 6 T-shirts a Day” video. Operators are standing by.
BOULDERING ROOM
Truth be told, it wasn’t that bad. Don’t misunderstand; I did lose 12 pounds, that wasn’t an exaggeration, and I did sweat like a pig in a Louisiana bayou, but I sure had fun doing it. NukeBoy2 had the time of his life. I never went to any kind of camp when I was young, scout or otherwise, so the experience was new to me as well. The venue was Camp Raven Knob in the foothills of North Carolina near the Virginia border. Beautiful area. The scouts have about 3,200 acres to call their own up there, and I think I saw every single one of them. OK, that was an exaggeration, but it sure felt like I hiked the whole thing. There was archery, rappelling, bouldering, mystery meat, BB gun range, nature trail, aquatics, something that resembled chicken and fishing. NukeBoy2 learned how to shoot with a bow and arrow, I learned that tree roots get taller in the dark. NukeBoy2 learned which leaves come from which trees, I learned that daddy long-legs spiders can hide under a toilet seat and crawl upside down across your nether regions. NukeBoy2 learned how to rock climb sideways, I learned that a herd of carpenter ants, with the right motivation, can find their way into a tent no matter how well you zip it up. No, I didn’t leave food in the tent, I’m not that much of a newbie.
NUKEBOY HOOD?
The efficiency of the camp blew me away. Three times a day they would move over 1,000 people through the dining hall, feed them and have the place cleaned up and empty in under an hour. I’m not kidding. It was unreal. The Boy Scouts that were working the camp worked their butts off. They were teaching the Cub Scouts during their sessions, working the kitchen line or floor during meal time and manning the counter at the trading post and snack bar. It was a great experience; NukeBoy2 is already talking about our “next” trip up there. He thinks it’ll be next summer, I haven’t told him yet that it’s actually going to be in November. I’ll post then about the wonders and excitement of hiking and sleeping in snow. The best part of it all is that we got back in time on Saturday to see this:
NUKERINA?
NukeGirl had her dance recital on Saturday. Her dance academy covers all age groups and ability levels. The recital was over 3 hours long and it was great. The competition dancers were incredible. Some of those girls must have changed costumes at least a dozen times. We know a few of the girls dancing and are anxious to ask the parents if a second mortgage was required to purchase all of those costumes. NukeGirls group danced to a couple of Disney tunes whose titles escape me right now; namely for the fact that I think I heard every Disney song ever recorded during the recital. NukeGirl was absolutely beaming when NukeMom handed her post performance flower bouquet to her. She watched the older girls dance in complete awe and then backtracked on her statement earlier that she didn’t want to do dance again next fall. We’ll see if her motivation holds through the summer. That’s the best I can do for now; my foot blisters are calling for attention. I’ll give you more of a heads up before the next camping trip so that you can buy stock in Gold Bond Body Powder and Mennen Speed Stick. The Aquafina and Granola bar cartels might make a few bucks off of you as well.
I Wonder How Many Cup Holders The F-22 Has?
The NukeFamily was back in DC this weekend for the Andrews Air Force Base Joint Services Open House. That’s a great Washington DC generated name for the event, but I think most civilians would call it what it is: showing you where all of those tax dollars went. I can tell you it was money well spent. Admission was free; they weren’t going to charge you to see where you’re money went, and the show was awesome. I’ve been to a gazillion Airsho’s, but as soon as they’re over I’m ready for the next one. I love watching the military jets fly. The older planes are cool too, but there’s nothing like hearing a jet engine screaming as the pilot takes it through its paces. We got to see the FA-22 Raptor fly. This is the plane that is replacing the F-117 Stealth Fighter. All I had was my little Kodak camera and I had to use the video option on it, so this video isn’t the greatest, but it’s the sound I want you to hear. This thing is awesome!
Now, if you want to see it up close doing that turn, then click on this link. The video is much better than mine, but it doesn’t sound as cool. The pilot is pulling 9G’s when he makes that turn; that’s the equivalent of 9 times the force of gravity, so if he weighs 165lbs, he’s going to feel like he weighs 1,485lbs. Put yet another way; it would feel like eating 17 Big Mac combo meals then sitting down to watch Season 3 of Seinfeld all in under 20 seconds. Ouch. My best time ever is 3 minutes 20 seconds and only 2 combo meals. I, of course, didn’t remember about the video capability of my camera until AFTER the Thunderbirds had flown, so I borrowed this video for you. It’s called; “The Sneak Pass” because the 4 Thunderbirds flying in formation take your attention up high and then off to the right and then #5 comes screaming over your head from the left. It’s usually good for some extra sales for the guys working the Kleenex tissue booth.
I’ve seen them do this many times and it still catches me off guard. I couldn’t wait to see the look on NukeBoy2’s face. I didn’t catch it right at the moment that it happened, but here is a pretty good re-enactment.
He and NukeGirl actually had their fingers in their ears more than they had them out. When the Raptor flew, everyone in our group had their ears plugged except me. Wussies! I love the sound, feeling the vibration in my chest, having the fillings dislodged from my teeth. We had taken NukeBoy1 to an Airsho years ago in El Paso, but he was only 4 or 5 and wasn’t old enough to appreciate it. He thought the coolest thing he saw that day was Robosaurus; the only thing that didn’t fly. Well, the jet powered truck didn’t either, but it could if it wanted to. It has 3 jet engines on it with 3G’s of thrust; that’s the same ratio as the Space Shuttle. In other words, if he could stand his truck on end and point it towards Mars with a reasonable amount of certainty that it would fly straight, he could launch himself into space.
At the end of the day, we had 3 NukeKids who had a blast. NukeBoy2 and I walked around and looked at the C-5, the B-52, the M1-Abrams tank and too many helicopters to count. He got to talk to pilots and sailors. He got the autographs of 3 of the Thunderbird pilots and when it was all said and done, he had a whole new slew of heroes to look up to. That’s a successful family excursion in my book.
Like A Summer In Juneau
OK, maybe it’s not Chicago weather, but we got blasted with a decent snow storm Sunday night into Monday morning. We got about 4 1/2″ here at our house, but some places nearby got as much as 7″. School was cancelled Monday and Tuesday, Wednesday we had a 2 hour delay. The kids had a blast and the washing machine was in overdrive. As I write this (Friday morning), it is 46 degrees with an expected high of 67 degrees. It could hit 80 degrees by Sunday. March definitely came in like a Lion; will it go out like a lamb? Who knows. Here are some pictures for you to enjoy from the “Carolina 8 Hour Blizzard”.
Two Tales Of A City: Part I
My hometown of El Paso shares a common border with it’s sister city, Juarez, Mexico. Most cities have to look to Europe to find a sister city; ours was just a stones throw away. You didn’t need to have a great arm for that rock toss either. The border between the 2 cities/countries is the Rio Grande river; the subject of Old West folklore and many mythical tales of it’s might. My friend Pee Wee of Pole Dancing fame tells the story of his Grandmother coming to El Paso to visit for the first time. She was ecstatic to finally be able to see the mighty river she had read about in her elementary school books. When they drove her across it, she cried. Not with awe and reverence; but with sadness and disbelief.
Back in the day, I’m sure the Rio Grande was the mighty river of folklore; but early in the 20th century, it was dammed up to provide drinking and irrigation water for southern New Mexico and West Texas cities and farms. The river was turned in to a ditch. Even north of the Dam, up in northern New Mexico around Albuquerque and Santa Fe, it still isn’t a raging river. So I figure that either the dinosaurs exaggerated, or the Conquistadors used waaay too much peyote. The fact is; during the winter when the river is low, you can walk across it on the sandbars. I used to do it when I was a kid. Even with water, it isn’t much more than 8 to 10 feet in the deepest spots; most of it is knee to waist deep. That isn’t to say that you can’t drown or be carried away by the current, you can, my point is; when it comes to being an International border, it’s hardly a deterrent. Here’s a picture:
The vantage point for this picture is from the UTEP campus looking across the border (river) into Juarez. Most of the houses (if you can call them that) that you see in the hills are made out of scrap wood, old tires, mud and cardboard. Most of the roads are dirt, as are most of the floors in their homes. The conditions there are 3rd world by anyone’s estimation. The paved road you see is Interstate 10; running from Los Angeles to Jacksonville, Florida. The United States Government finally put a large green sign up that read “International Border” with an arrow pointing at Mexico so that those driving through wouldn’t mistake the ramshackle houses as being part of El Paso. The average daily wage for the people who live in those shanty-towns is about 3 dollars a day. They are victimized by a Government that for years has been run by corrupt politicians who wire money to Swiss bank accounts as fast as it comes in. Just last summer they got a little bit of it back. If that isn’t enough, they have been losing their daughters at a rate of over 35 a year.
Since 1993, somebody(s) has been preying on the women of Juarez. 530 young women have been murdered so far. 86 were murdered last year alone. That’s just counting the ones that they’ve found. Estimates of how many are still missing range from 100 to almost 800. One expert on serial killers says there may be as many as 3 serial killers in the area. Others suspect the police, the drug cartels, cults and even organ harvesters. The point is; no one knows for sure what is happening to these young women, and the local, state and federal officials in Mexico are seemingly powerless to do anything. Rampant corruption, actual participation in the crimes, bribery and cover-up are all possibilities. Two excellent sources of additional information can be found here and here if you want to read the whole story. It’s hard for me to comprehend: living in a country where justice is sacrosanct can be just yards away from a country that treats it as a hindrance.
I remember visiting Juarez all the time. Well, not all the time, but the bars there never closed. El Pasoans would go out until the bars closed at 2am, and then either head home or cross the bridge into Juarez. You could dance the night away at the clubs, have a sandwich at Fred’s, sip a Tecate at The Kentucky Club or do Tequila shots at The Submarine Bar. The Sub, as it was affectionately called, was a storefront door that opened to a downward staircase; that was it. No stairs up, no store, no nothing-just a set of stairs that took you down to the bar. They tore it down in the late 80’s and put in a parking lot. Wow, Joni Mitchell could write a song.
Some of the things that never changed about Juarez were the kids selling gum on the street (”Chicle? Senor, chicle?”), the taxi drivers who promised to take you to the “Donkey Show” (Yes, it’s exactly what it sounds like, and no, I never went) and would then show you a picture of Farrah Fawcett and say; “Shees juon of zee ladies!”, and then, there was the picture guy. There were actually several picture guys. They would roam the bars with their camera and offer to take your picture as a keepsake. The more people you got together for the picture, the cheaper the price would be. Everything was negotiable in Juarez. They didn’t use Polaroids because the film was too expensive and you’d end up posing 20 times, but what they did have was a darkroom in each bar. He’d take your picture, you’d tell him how many copies you wanted, he’d collect the money first (trust isn’t a virtue in Juarez) and then go develop your pictures. 10 or 15 minutes later he’d come out and you’d see these:
The pictures usually set you back 2 or 3 dollars, but they were worth it. Each one of those pictures is over 20 years old, and I can name every person in all of them. Well, except for one guy who kinda jumped in at the last second; a friend of a friend of a friend. They remind me of a more innocent time in Juarez, before the Serial killers and the Drug Cartels showed up. Don’t get me wrong, it was never completely innocent and safe, it was a foreign country, but that was part of the allure. Kind of like East and West Berlin, but with a Mexican accent. Making sure you had enough money to pay the toll at the bridge on the way back was always a good idea. Driving over was NEVER a good idea.
I have plenty of fond memories of Juarez, as do most of my family and friends; but not one of us would set foot across that bridge today. It’s another world now. The slaughter and subsequent discarding of over 500 women in their city should shame the authorities to take action, but they don’t. Maybe that statement isn’t completely fair, as there are other forces at work across the river. I’ll tell you about those next time.
Can You Believe These Clowns?
I know, I know; you’re expecting one of my political rants, right? Too bad, this is all about the Circus. Since we are now Upper Middle Class Rednecks, we get sporadic access to the luxury box thru NukeMoms employment with a large multi-national company. But you knew that already, didn’t you? Maybe I should quit bragging about it and just show you some pictures. It was dark, and I’m no Ansel Adams, and since he took outdoor pictures and we were inside, this analogy is about as good as buying a vowel on Deal or No Deal. Suffice it to say that it was much better than I expected. It was a new show called “Zing, Zang, Zoom” that leaned more towards magic and acrobatics than it did to clown cars and motorcycles on cables overhead. Here’s a picture of probably the NukeKids favorite part: the Opposing Swings of Death. That’s what I call them, I’m not sure what the Barnum & Bailey people called it, but it was cool. The acrobats all looked like Ivy-League gymnastics team members who didn’t make the Olympic team. They were unbelievable.
These guys (and gals) were flying higher than a 2nd grader with a new box of markers. They made it look so easy too. Falling out of the sky from 3 stories after being launched off of the swing. That’s why they call them gymnasts, I guess. If I tried it I’d be called artillery. Or catapult fodder.
It was twice as good as last years show. Don’t get me wrong; they still had standard Circus fare like the elephants, tigers, dogs thru hoops, etc., but the magic they were doing was like something you’d see in Vegas. Putting a clown in a glass cage suspended in the air, raising a curtain for 2 seconds and when it comes down there’s a white tiger in the cage. Putting clowns in boxes and shoving flaming sleds full of swords through the box, and when the box opens the clown isn’t a shish-k-bob; he’s gone! I don’t know whose jaw hit the ground more often; NukeGirls or mine.
They had people walking on the ceiling (yes, dancing too-cue Lionel Ritchie), 2, count ‘em, 2 human cannonballs, zebras, an elephant who could paint and a light show that made me think I was at a Pink Floyd concert. It. Was. Awesome. Check the link above to see more about the show, and check here to see if they’re coming near you; it is well worth it. Your kids will never forget it. I know my won’t.
CSI: Appalachia
By now everyone knows that Flat Weasel Momma; heretofore referred to as FWM, came to visit The NukeFamily a while ago. OK, so it’s been quite awhile ago. You’ll find out why she hadn’t been sent on her way until just recently as the story unfolds. Still, it’s not like it’s been 6 months or something, right Busy Dad? Don’t give me a hard time, I can call him out because he held FWM hostage longer than I did; but then, he did negotiate for pizza, cash and a hijacked plane to Orlando. 911 wouldn’t even return my calls; not, that is, until things got really bad. Well, here; let’s do it this way: I’ll just post the notes that I was gathering for this post as the series of events unfolded, that way you can be more in tune with the raw emotion (trauma?) of the siege occupation blitzkrieg visit.
Day 1
FWM is here! It’s about time! The Microblogologist certainly took her sweet time getting her here. What was it, like, 37 FWM posts over there? FWM and Karen at the pool, FWM and Karen with a cold (Well, DUH! You’re in Iowa! It’s winter! Don’t swim!), FWM and Karen go to the Doctor, FWM and Karen OD on cough syrup, FWM and Karen go to rehab and meet LiLo and then start dating chicks, blah, blah, blah. I just think it was rude to hang on to FWM for so long. I know that I’ll be the perfect host and then get her on her way in a timely fashion. Some people, I swear!
Day 3
Whoo hoo! NukeMom scored the luxury box for the Monster Truck Show! Wait a minute; the Monster Truck Show? Not Springsteen? Or Rounds 1 and 2 of the NCAA Basketball Tournament? Oh well, who cares! WE’LL HAVE OUR OWN BATHROOM! I hope FWM likes loud noises and inhaling jet fuel.
Day 4
Despite being given a bedroom upstairs (the NukeBoys are sleeping on the floor), FWM refuses to sleep there. She spends all of her time on the couch watching TV; like she’s on vacation away from lots of kids or something. My God, has the woman never seen satellite TV before? She’s up until all hours of the night. If I have to hear that SpongeBob song at 3am one more time…. I got up this morning around 6:30am, and this is what I saw on the couch:
Should I thank her now for breaking into the $30 bottle of single malt? I thought she said she liked beer? She reminds me of my friend who used to come over with a 4 pack of Milwaukee’s Best and then spend the afternoon drinking my Sam Adams. Better call her parents so they can get their charm school tuition refunded. I think the combination of Monster Truck exhaust fumes and single malt scotch has done something to FWM, she’s acting really, really weird.
Day 6
OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD, OHMYGOD!!! I can’t believe what has happened! The NukeKids and I just got back from the store and found an empty bottle of Scotch in the driveway and THIS:
What kind of animal would behead Santa Claus? The NukeKids On The Block are devastated! 2 days before Christmas and THIS happens? I told the NukeKids that Santa must have been on a scouting mission. I don’t know if they bought it or not, and at this point, they’re almost inconsolable.
Day 7
I’ve searched all morning and come up empty. This afternoon I followed a blood trail through the bushes, then the woods, across the highway, down a storm drain and finally to the edge of a spillway of a very large, very tall dam. Funny; I’ve never noticed this damn before. Or the river, but regardless; it seems that FWM leapt from the top of this dam like an innocent surgical Doctor who has escaped from a prison bus that was hit by a train, or something. I called in reinforcements (pictured below) who started screaming about hard target searches, boathouses and outhouses. The redhead says he’s from Miami. He’s pretty cocky, too. I like the guy from NY, but he walks like he’s got magic metal legs or something. The curly haired guy from Vegas just keeps punching people with cameras.
Day 8
After a whole day of collecting evidence, the CSI team headed home. They found the murder weapon underneath the bushes next to the driveway. They also found some Coors Light cans with Doritos crumbs on it which obviously had to have come from FWM. They were able to lift some good latent fingerprints, but the point is moot as we all know who killed Santa. I’ve been told to keep an eye out for anything suspicious (ya think?) and if FWM returns, to try and subdue her right away. I got business cards from all of them and the redhead from Miami also gave me his hairdressers card. He wanted to give me his agents card also, but I told him I thought his agent had done enough damage for one career. Seriously; Kiss Of Death? Leave NYPD Blue after the first season? What was he thinking? He should’ve dumped that agent long ago.
Day 9
The NukeBeagles had been going nuts all morning. Then, all of the sudden they stopped. I peeked out the window and saw them both munching on Doritos. She’s close; I can feel it. I checked the garage and sure enough, there was FWM trying to hotwire NukeGirls Barbie jeep. “Going somewhere?” I asked. She spun at me with a broken Subway cup, but she missed horribly. I got her in a half nelson. Then I got her into a full nelson. Then I called the neighbor; Bobby Nelson, to help me get her inside. The CSI team left me appropriate clothing for FWM should I capture her:
I had to think fast, as she was about to regain conciousness. I yelled for the NukeBeagles and they helped me drag her into her makeshift jail cell. They could smell the Doritos on her, so it wasn’t hard to get them to cooperate. Buddy stayed with her to stand guard and lick the orangeness off of her fingers.
Day 10
The CSI investigators are on their way to pick up FWM. They plan to transfer her to the SuperMax prison facility in Colorado. I’m glad this ordeal is almost over. I was in the bedroom when Buddy came sauntering in. I scratched him behind his ears and then realized; if he’s here, that could only mean….I dashed for the kitchen and was able to snap this picture before FWM broke out the kitchen window and jumped to freedom.
Can you believe this? Grabbing a slice of pizza as you make your escape? I ran outside only to be held at bay when FWM jumped from behind the mini-van holding the murder weapon and staring me down with those cold, frightful, heinous, murderous eyes.
She laughed wickedly and jumped into the back of a passing pick-up truck with Canadian plates. I’m no detective, but I think she picked that truck for a reason. As the truck made the corner I could heard FWM yell; “I KNOW Big Bad Daddy has Doritos! And I’m a hungry, hungry Momma! AH HAHAHAHAHAHAH!”
The Danger Bug
The Danger Bug is alive and well in our house. Our old friend Bob the Virus couldn’t make it this year, so he sent his apprentice. The Danger Bug has been passed around our house for a while now. My asthma has flared to the point that the local Community College has asked me to teach next semester’s Lamaze classes. NukeGirl is on day 3 of home leave for her patented “From 98.6 to 101.4 in 20 Minutes” fever spike. NukeMom came home early yesterday, and not for a quiet afternoon at home with the family, but to seek out bed, pillow and Nyquil. Yesterday was a snow day as well, seeing as how we received almost 3/4 of an inch of snow that stopped at 6pm; the school board saw fit to call us at 10:44pm to inform us that school was cancelled the next day. The NukeBoys enjoyed 30 minutes of making mud angels and slush balls.
I also had a Danger Bug when I was in High School. My little sisters were cursed with it after I finally escaped the clutches of the evil beast. It was a 1971 VW Beetle. Not the Super Beetle, mind you, with an actual dashboard; just a Beetle-with the windshield closer to my face than my eyeglasses are now. My father had bought it for me with the intention of passing it on to Laura and Stacey when they became drivers. He had the best of intentions, but pride wouldn’t allow him to admit he had been defeated. See; he had owned two Beetles previously: one was his, the other was my older sister Leta’s. Both of them were reliable and never caused any problems. The Danger Bug was like the Ebola virus in sheet metal. That thing never ran right; not ever. The right rear wheel would rattle and shake when you made a left hand turn. The exhaust hoses in the engine compartment needed to be replaced on a monthly basis, lest I wanted to take the proverbial CO2 dirt nap. It would sputter and pop and grunt and groan like an old man trying to get out of bed in the morning. It was really annoying. So I did what any 16 year old boy would do; I sank $400 of stereo equipment into it so I wouldn’t have to listen to the racket.
I started off with a Concord deck with a pair of Pioneer 6×9’s in wooden boxes behind the back seat. But I could still hear the rear tire rattle. Then I added 5 1/4 inch speakers in the front doors. I could still hear the engine cough. I added 2 more 6×9’s in the back, mounting all 4 on a board that spanned the entire trunk. But I could still hear the grunts and moans. I finally bought a new board, mounted (2) 6×9’s in it for the back, took out the 5 1/4 inch speakers in the front doors and replaced them with 6×9’s. That’s kind of like trying to drive while you’re wearing Ronald McDonald’s big red shoes. I got the 6×9’s to fit in the front doors, but you had to really slam the door if you wanted it shut. This last configuration was almost perfect, but I could still hear some of the awaiting repair jobs whispering to me. So I bought an 80 watt booster/equalizer to help me over the hump. It worked! Within the first 3 days I couldn’t hear anything from the engine compartment! Or from my teachers! Or my friends! Or my parents! (Please enter your “Our amplifiers go to 11″ jokes here) I was able to rupture both eardrums with that stereo system. My father once came OUT OF THE HOUSE to tell me to turn my stereo down when I was sitting in front of the house. That’s power. Kids today drive around with their sub-woofers and bass boosters that rattle their trunk hinges to look cool, back then I did it to deaden the sound of my car falling apart. OK, I wanted to look, and sound, a little cool too, I guess.
I’ll never forget hearing Just What I Needed by The Cars for the first time in the Danger Bug. The bass notes were exploding in my chest. It was like laying on a washing machine during the spin cycle with an uneven load. Not that I would have any experience in that, it just seemed like a decent analogy. Paranoid by Black Sabbath almost cost me a rear window and my left eardrum. Hell’s Bell’s by AC/DC did cost me my left eardrum and a 32oz soda that wasn’t secured properly. In the 4 years that I was in possession of the Danger Bug I did forge some fond memories, but they were more musical than auto related. I see some of the old VW Bugs on the road every now and then and it brings a smile to my face. I think of the Danger Bug and the incredible sound system I had in there, and remember a more innocent time. Then I think of all the engine trouble and say a silent prayer for those who still own one. JC Whitney rejoices.
In The Clearing Stands A Boxer
We had house guests this weekend. Wil and Nancy (you read about their wedding in this post) came to visit. The NukeKids got to visit with 2 of their cousins as well. A and B challenged NukeBoy1 and NukeBoy2 to a soccer match in the front yard. Still don’t know how it turned out; the ball remains out there under a bush and I didn’t hear any taunting at the dinner table. Maybe it was a draw. The NukeBeagles (Buddy and Penny) got to visit with their cousin also. Belle The Boxer made the journey south with her family. The problem was that nobody informed the NukeBeagles. Having never met, the initial meeting was a little touchy. It went something like this:
NukeBeagles: “Who the Hell are you? What are you doing in our den? How come you get to stay out there while we’re stuck in these crates?”
Belle The Boxer: “Deal with it you little punks; where’s your food?”
NB: “You better stay away from our food, or we’ll snip at your ankles all weekend!”
BTB: “Yawn. What’s a girl gotta do to get some kibble in this joint?”
This exchange was translated by B who claims to speak a little Yelp and is fluent in Bark. At least that’s what they told me happened; I slept through it all. They got in around Midnight on Friday; and while I’m usually a night-owl, the previous few days had kicked my butt sufficiently enough to send me to la la land before they arrived. What a host I am. That’s OK, though; I think they forgave me Saturday night after tasting the Brisket I cooked. Oh, yeah; I’m the BBQ legend don’t cha know? Belle and Penny had an Oakley showdown:
Clearly they were both thrilled to be participants. Buddy just hung around the perimeter, occasionally dashing in for a quick sniff of Belle’s posterior like some maniacal doggie OB/GYN. She tolerated it for a while. I’ll tell you about when she’d had enough in a minute.
One of the reasons for the visit was so that Wil, Nancy and A and B could see the NukeBoys play basketball. NukeBoy1’s team lost a heart breaker by 1 point, but he played a great game defensively and had 8 or 10 points, I can’t remember which. NukeBoy2’s team was victorious, winning comfortably. NukeBoy2 played excellent defense and had 8 points and a few rebounds; which for him is great, considering he’s one of the shortest kids on the court. After they came home the NukeBoys went for a walk with NukeMom, Nancy, Wil and Belle. Why didn’t I go? I had a brisket to cook, of course! Instead of walking, the NukeBoys took their bikes. About 5 minutes into the pilgrimage there was an accident of extraordinary magnitude. NukeBoy2 accidentally turned his bike right into NukeBoy1’s. NukeBoy1 went down like Kate Moss diving for a fallen carrot stick. This is the result:
If you look at the tire dead on it looks like the infinity symbol; not exactly conducive to circular motion. It certainly could have been worse, though, and we’re thankful that it wasn’t. NukeBoy1 sustained a bump on the noggin’ and the realization that a helmet can sometimes be a benefit, regardless of what Father Muskrat says and NukeBoy2 came away with a bruised psyche and a small dose of guilt. Both manageable afflictions. The wearing of helmets is a fence that I’ve been on both sides of, but I’m just thankful that today we’re not spoon feeding apple sauce to our own little Gary Busey. Someone should teach that man how to say Endocrine System.
Buddy The NukeBeagle will now be known as Buddy Balboa. The name change is due to his ability to continually get his butt kicked and not stay down. I mentioned the quick incursions into Belle’s “personal” territory earlier. As the day wore on, Buddy became more and more brave. He began following Belle so closely that he looked like he was bucking for a promotion. If Belle had stopped short even ONCE I’m sure the fire department and the Jaws of Life would have been necessary. Finally, Belle had had enough and whipped around and gave Buddy a hearty WOOF! Buddy took it as the worst insult he’d ever incurred, and proceeded to growl, nip and gnash his teeth at Belle. It was obvious that he knew he had back up as the adults quickly pulled them apart. This continued throughout the day with Buddy taking shot after shot from Belle only to come back for more. Right about bedtime Buddy forgot to check for his back up and got taken to the canvas. Belle took him down with her paw and then, for good measure, wrapped her massive jaws around his frame and shook him to and fro to make her point. He yelped and dashed for the back door, left paw held up high. Like he was hurt, or something. We checked for a massive flesh wound and found only dog saliva and a small piece of kibble. He was faking. Obviously he was trying to play on Belle’s sympathies, but she was having none of it. Right before I dozed off for the night I could’ve sworn I heard Buddy bellow: “Yo, Adrian! I DID IT!” (Cue Maynard Ferguson)
It’s Official: We’re Rednecks
It almost happened a few months ago when the Lynyrd Skynyrd belt buckle found it’s way into my cart at the Pawn Shop. A few days later the NukeBoys asked if they could TiVo Friday Night Smackdown. What? Then just last week NukeGirl came downstairs dressed for school in a white tank top and a CAT Diesel cap. This stuff is infectious. Tonight? It was the Monster Truck Show at the Coliseum. North Carolina is starting to wear off on us, I guess. I’m afraid that on my next trip to the dump I’ll bring back more than I took. Can’t wait until the NukeBoys ask if they can take a siphon hose to school for show and tell. Apologies to Mr. Foxworthy.
We actually had a really good time. The closest we had ever been to seeing anything like this was when NukeBoy1 got to see Robosaurus at the Airsho in El Paso. Tonight it was 8 Monster Trucks; each probably costing more money than I’ll ever make in my lifetime. This isn’t your Daddy’s Monster truck. NukeMom works for a large multi-national company that has a luxury box at the Coliseum. It. Was. Awesome. THIS is the way to see an event. No wonder everybody hates rich people. Parking pass? Check. Private entrance to building? Check. Padded Seats? Check. Flat screen TV’s outside in case you miss any action from the best seats in the house? Check. It’s an indoor/outdoor suite with a TV inside on which we watched the Panther’s getting pummeled; and 12 plush seats outside with the “little people”. Peasants. It wasn’t catered or anything, but we had a PRIVATE BATHROOM, which is like having a portable water fountain in the Sahara. Six combined trips to the bathroom for the NukeKids which would have taken at least a half hour out in the realm of the commoners took only a few minutes. And they could go solo. Bonus! There was also a mini-fridge, ice maker, microwave, table with 4 chairs, and coffee table with 4 more chairs. Just picture Heaven with really loud engines. Here’s a look from the outside.
It’s not the best picture, but you get the idea. That’s NukeBoy2 holding up his initiation pennant as part of the Grave Digger Nation. Did I mention that it was loud? We had been told that earplugs would be a wise investment, and they were. NukeGirl had fun, but even with the plugs she still had to put her hands over her ears a few times. Know who obviously wasn’t a redneck who had forked over some of the rent money for tickets? This guy.
He read through the whole show. That’s spending quality time with the kids. He was seated just outside of our kingdom. We were in the front row of the outside portion of the suite (in our padded seats), he was just over the rail you see there. “The Rail of Aristocracy” I think I’ll call it. I sure am being haughty after the recent realization that I could, in fact, be a redneck; don’t you think? NukeBoy2 made a sign to bring with him to the show. Check it out:
He likes to draw skulls. His inspiration comes from a combination of pirate books, The X-Files and Alien Autopsy; Fact or Fiction? I think he nailed it. The hit of the show for NukeGirl had to be Monster Mutt. Melisa at Suburban Scrawl would have loved him too. His tongue worked. It moved in and out in a panting motion, his big ‘ole floppy ears flew around and so did his tail. It was like a beagle with a 454 under the hood.
NukeBoy2, as I’ve already mentioned, was partial to Grave Digger. Both Monster Mutt and Grave Digger are North Carolina based Monster Trucks (go figure) and were definitely the crowd favorites. NukeBoy1 thought they were all pretty cool, “But is the game on yet?” We lost him to the inner sanctum of the suite soon after kick off. All in all it was a great night; the NukeKids had a blast, NukeDad and NukeMom got in touch with their inner redneck, and we got to see (if only for a little while) how the other half lives. Well, until the bailout money runs out.
A Photographic (After) Christmas Story
Well, Christmas was a hit at the NukeHousehold. After cleaning up 3 different times, we were left with this:
We decided to get the kids out of the house for a little while and thought we would play some sports. NukeBoy2 rode his new skateboard while NukeBoy1 showed off his new customized and personalized Carolina Panthers jersey. The neighbors played some badminton. I don’t know who Mr. Minton was, or what he did that was so horrible; but maybe it was his idea to make the shuttlecock this big. The game ended in a zero to zero tie after the ambulance left.
The kids thought they might have more fun at the park, so we took a ride to the playground. I was enjoying some time to myself on the park bench when I heard some noise. I decided to switch benches after I looked up into the tree above me and saw this:
It’s rare that you see a sniper before they strike, so you can bet I’m thanking my lucky stars today. NukeGirl came over to me with pouty lips and explained that a little boy wouldn’t share the Panda with her. It was then that I realized that this Dad obviously didn’t get what he was expecting from Santa:
We got back home and decided a trip to the mall was in order so that the NukeKids could start spending some of the bazillions of dollars that they received in cash and gift cards. We checked the weather before we left on my new weather station. It’s guaranteed to be 100% accurate!:
The NukeKids were having fun on the way pointing out all of the Holiday decorations. Inflatable Santas, reindeer horns rolled up in the rear windows of cars and wreath’s on the grilles of cars and trucks. I looked up and noticed that even though I didn’t know him personally, it appeared that somebody got some sticks and coal in their stocking. I don’t think Steven had this on his Christmas list:
When we got to the mall, it was apparent that the Holiday Cheer of most retailers was running low. I guess the bad economy, less than stellar Holiday sales, long hours and demanding customers had taken it’s toll. Almost every store we went into had this sign on their front door:
We already have 3 dogs and the NukeKids LOVE coffee ice cream, so we didn’t take any chances. NukeMom and I had the NukeKids by the collars and reminded them that although it was their money; we were holding the wallets. The dour mood of the retailers was further confirmed when I had to use the bathroom:
I decided maybe I’d just wait until we got home. The NukeKids got some great toys and learned the value of spending aimlessly with free money. NukeBoy1 justified it this way: “We can always ask for a bailout”. NukeMom and I found some great cups for the Nuke Neighborhood’s New Years Eve Blowout that will ensure that everyone adheres to the strict “One Drink” rule. It’ll be easy this year. Here’s a picture from the display rack:
Yep, the Holiday’s are in full swing! Hope that you all are having as much fun as we are. If you’re interested in the cups, I’m sorry to say that we got the last package. You might check on Ebay under “Swimming pools and accessories”. That’s where the Sigma Nu pledge I met at the store told me they had to get them last year. “Good thing I shopped early this year!”, he said. Those college kids are so smart.
Almost As Good As A Cup Of Coffee
While putting NukeGirl’s socks on for her today, she looked up at my shirt and said; “Daddy, what does your shirt say?” “It says ‘World’s Best Dad’, honey”. She looked at me with wide eyes and open mouth and exclaimed; “YOU’RE THE BEST DADDY IN THE WHOLE WORLD? AWESOME! How did you win that?” She was so completely convinced that I had won some huge designation as World’s Best Dad that I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was just a T-shirt. I think I’ll bask in the adulation for awhile. It reminded me of another innocent soul who still doesn’t know the ways of the world: Buddy the Elf. Enjoy.
Pole Dancing
This is a post about pole dancing. It’s not the kind of pole you’re thinking about, and it certainly isn’t that kind of dancing. I don’t even own a thong…anymore. I may still have some Loverboy and Berlin CD’s around somewhere though. No; this pole dancing post will revisit a night that I mentioned earlier that people wanted to hear more details about. It involves my friend Paul (Pee Wee) and I being the first paying customers at our friends’ new bar. I was also the first customer ever asked to leave that bar. Unfortunately, both events happened on the same night. First; a little back history.
It all started in the spring of 1985 when a friend from work (The State Line) named Rak was getting ready to open a bar with his best friend from college; Alton. Rak and Alton had poured tons of effort and money into getting their little bar open, and years later their vision paid off when they sold it for a healthy profit and Rak retired to Key West. Now he gets to enjoy the drinks and be one of the inebriated rather than serving them. Alton stayed on with the new owners and is probably sleeping off a long night of work as I write this. Aceitunas is a unique bar in that it is an indoor/outdoor beer garden. Not so unique today, but for El Paso in 1985 it was very unique. The beer garden wasn’t ready yet, but they wanted to get the doors open and start bringing in some revenue. It was kind of a family affair. The State Line had always been a big family and everybody worked and played together. In fact, Danny; a waiter and Architecture student is the one who drew up most of the plans for the bar. The bar was located in an old neighborhood grocery store that had been run by the same family for about 40 years. It wasn’t very big and it became smaller on cold winter nights, especially when they had a band set up inside. Getting to the bathroom from the front door, a distance of about 25 feet, could take 30 minutes and 2 beers on some nights. Your best option was to head towards the bathroom about 15 minutes before you thought you had to go, that way you’d be in line for one of the 2 urinals before your bladder started to protest. It was worse for the ladies; most of them just hung out in or around the bathroom. Everyone was abuzz as opening night drew near and my friend Pee Wee and I were determined to be the first ones there. Why? I don’t know, bragging rights, lead poisoning from the improperly installed keg lines; we each had our reasons.
The day had arrived and Pee Wee and I worked quickly to get our jobs done so we could leave the Line by 3pm and be at Aceitunas at 4pm when they opened. We showed up around 3:45pm and the door was already open. We walked in to see Rak and Alton rushing around to get all of the last minute preparations finished. Pee Wee and I helped get some tables set up and some last minute trash out to the dumpster. We sat down with our first pitcher of beer and toasted our coup. It’s right about here that I should tell you that “Aceituna” is Spanish for Olive. The theme of the bar is that you got an olive in your beer. A pitcher got several. Kind of like a beer martini. The first 4 or 5 glasses were great, but over time, beer and 75 green olives tend to make your stomach a little…..crotchety.
Pee Wee and I had been in Aceitunas for about 2 hours when we decided that we’d better get some food in our stomachs that wasn’t olives if we were going to make it until last call. Little did I know then that this was just wishful thinking, but over-confidence got the best of me. There was (still is) a great Mexican food restaurant right next to ‘Tunas called The Riviera. Pee Wee’s family would buy and operated that restaurant years later, but on that night it was purely combo plate nirvana. We ate our tacos, enchiladas, beans and rice (along with a couple more beers) and then headed back to Aceitunas. By now there was a small crowd gathering, but it was still early; around 7:45pm. We sat at the bar and passed the time with more pitchers of beer. And olives. By 9pm it became clear that we hadn’t been pacing ourselves as well as we’d thought. “How’re you feeling?” Pee Wee asked me. “Like a giant beer martini glass that somebody spilled a taco in, how ’bout you?” “About the same”, he said. It was then that we gathered all 74 of our combined brain cells and decided that what we needed to do to make it through the rest of the night was get a little fresh air, so we decided to go for a little jog down at the river.
Ever notice that you don’t see many joggers in cowboy boots? There’s a reason for that. Jogging in cowboy boots is like swimming in a parka; it should never be attempted unless there is professional supervision or a sizable cash award. Regrettably, we had neither. “Feeling better?”, I asked after the first 40 yards. “A little”, Pee Wee huffed. We made it about 150 yards when I realized that a stomach full of beer, olives, tacos, enchiladas, beans, rice, salsa and chips shouldn’t be jostled excessively. Knowing my inability to evacuate the premises and get a gastro-intestinal do-over, I knew I was in trouble. Nope, throwing up just wasn’t going to be an option. I’m not sure if too much olive juice can cause your axons to mis-fire to the rhythm of Breaking The Law by Judas Priest, but it sure felt like it. We made it back to the car and although my head did feel a little clearer, my stomach felt like the plot to Mission Impossible; muddled.
We got back to Aceitunas about 10:30pm and it had filled up nicely. There were a few State Liners who had finished work that had shown up and the beer was flowing freely. Pee Wee and I played catch-up, but we didn’t have far to go, really. By 11:15 the toxic waste dump that was my stomach had turned my head into the long version of In-A-Godda-Da-Vida. I felt like Charlie Sheen in Platoon. It was right about then that Rak came up to me and asked; “How’s it going?” “Great!” I yelled over the music. “Hey, NukeDad”, he said, “I think we’re going to have to cut you off”. I stood there looking at him in disbelief. Moi? “Aw c’mon, Rak! I’ve only had about 4 or 10 pitchers, I’m fine doin’!” I managed. It was then that I noticed Rak was moving in circles. How did he expect me to have a conversation with him while he was moving around like that? I thought if I locked both knees it would help him stay still. “Naw, I think you should head home and get some rest, we’ll be open tomorrow.” “But, Ex-NukeDad-Girlfriend will be soon here arriving, told her by me that I’d for her wait!” Great. I’m talking like Yoda. “I’ll tell her you were here, but I really think it’s time for you to go home.” There he goes with those crazy circle moves again. There was one of the ceiling posts directly between us, kinda off of my right shoulder. A sane man would have held on to it to state his wobbly case; not I. I instead stood there lock-kneed holding my beer in one hand and doing my best impression of an upside down pendulum. “Dammit, Rak! I may have had a few tonight, but friends we are! I and you!” I couldn’t understand why he was moving closer, almost getting in my face; he wasn’t going to hit me was he? BAM! Right then my right shoulder slammed into the pole. It was about 3 feet in front of me, so when I made contact with it with my locked knees, I ended up looking like the non-square side of an acute triangle. I slowly looked up at Rak who was doing his best to stifle his laughter. I slowly hugged the pole and shimmied my feet gently towards the pole so as not to draw attention to myself. “Can you tell Pee Wee I need home a ride?” I sniffled. “You got it. Why don’t you stay here for a second and I’ll get him. And, NukeDad?” “Yes, Rak?” “I wouldn’t let go of that pole until I get back, OK?”
I think it goes without saying that I asked for the olives on the side from then on. After a couple of months I would forgo them all together. Many memories come to me when I think of Aceitunas; Mariachi night, the Scotch Club and the genesis of Big Word Wednesday, the mutant Koi in the beer garden stream that lived off of olives and cigarette butts. Half-beer stage was our ingenious way of drinking the same amount of beer in twice the time, thinking that we were actually consuming less: “OK, just one more; but make it a half-beer, then I really need to go”, “That’s what you said 3 hours ago”. Yep, lots of memories; but none as vivid or as cruel as my pole dancing debut. If I had known in advance, I would have brought my thong and pasties. At least then I could have earned cab fare home.
A 12 Second Story, Told In 5 Minutes
If you were a fly on the Capri Sun stained roof of our mini-van last night, this is what you would have heard on our way to basketball practice:
NukeBoy2: Hey Dad?
NukeDad: Yeah?
NB2: Did you know that I can blow bubbles with my hand?
ND: No, actually, I didn’t. How do you do that?
NB2: Well, this one time at school, my friend Jeremy was in the bathroom, and he was washing his hands, because you’re supposed to after you go to the bathroom, only he hadn’t gone to the bathroom, he was just washing his hands anyway, you know how people do that, sometimes?
ND: Uh-huh.
NB2: And so, he’s washing his hands, and he squeezes his hand together, you know, like kinda how you make a fist? You know?
ND: Uh-huh
NB2: And so he does that, with his hand, I mean, and then, he puts his thumb and pointer finger together….
ND: We don’t point at people, right NB2?
NB2: Right, so he puts his thumb and booger finger together….
ND: Uhhhh…..
NB2: I mean, so he puts his thumb and that other finger that’s right next to it together, kinda like when you say “OK”, only you say it with your hand instead of your mouth?
ND: Uh-huh
NB2: Yeah, so he does that, and guess what?
ND: What?
NB2: He made a bubble like that.
ND: Cool.
NB2: Yeah, so I tried it, and guess what?
ND: What?
NB2: I can make a bubble like that too!
ND: Cool, buddy.
NB2: Yeah, so then later, we were eating lunch, you know, in the lunch room?….
ND: You mean the cafeteria?
NB2: Yeah, the lunch room, and guess what?
ND: What?
NB2: I blew another bubble!
ND: You didn’t rinse your hands after going to the bathroom?
NB2: No, I did; I mean, yes, I did rinse my hands, this was a different kind of bubble.
ND: Yeah, what kind of bubble?
NB2: A bubble from my mouth. ‘Cuz I was eating tater tots, and I had to burp, ‘cuz my belly was bubbling, and when I opened my mouth, I made this huge bubble!
ND: Uh-huh.
NB2: Yeah, and so I blew, and guess what?
ND: What?
NB2: It popped.
ND: And?
NB2: And it smelled like tater tots! The end.
Dr. Tongue’s 3-D House Of Beef And Reptile Museum
So what happens when you get a state and a half away before you remember that you forgot to pack the camera? You tell yourself that you’ll borrow your Mother In Law’s camera and email pictures back to yourself. What do you do when you can’t even remember to do that? You post with borrowed pictures of other peoples’ turkey’s and good times. Kind of like buying a multi-photo frame at Wal-Mart and then telling everyone that the filler photos are actual pictures of your family. “Here’s Aunt Edna at the Acropolis, cousin Janie on a carousel and Grampa Ed scuba diving off of the Great Barrier Reef. I know, I know-quite the active family I’ve got, huh?” I’ll do my best to give you visual impressions of our trip.
We left last Saturday and came back on Thanksgiving Day. NukeMom wanted to be back early enough to hit the sales this morning. I wasn’t crazy about the idea when she proposed it last month, but after seeing the haul that she brought in this morning, I’ve changed my mind. I’d go into detail, but prying little eyes may read this. One set in particular. They are about 11 years old and trying to keep them from snooping is like trying to baptize a cat. I’m getting crafty, though. The more he snoops, the more surprised he’ll be on a certain day in late December. Either that, or he’ll think he really is getting sticks and coal from Santa. Details to follow, now; back to the trip.
It’s about a 10 hour drive from our neck of North Carolina to the In Law’s place, which is about an hour north of Tampa; up near Crystal River. If we come in at night we just look for the glow of the Nuclear Power plant and know that we are getting close. Grandma and Grandpa left the pool heater on so the NukeKids could enjoy some late November swimming. It was teeth-chattering-tastic! As long as they stayed in they didn’t have any problems, it was that whole getting out thing that they didn’t like. I got to read the new Stephen King book of short stories; Just After Sunset in just under 4 days. That man is one sick puppy. And I love him for it. The last story is….well, you’d just have to read it. It’s about a person stuck in a San-O-Can that has fallen over on it’s door. The sides are covered in sheet metal, but the bottom isn’t. Guess how he has to get out? Yeah, like I said, one sick puppy. I played 2 rounds of horrible golf, but I have a bum knee to blame it on. I also got enough strokes to help win some money in my FIL’s Sunday group round. I birdied a par 5 and got 2 strokes on the hole for a net 2. Not bad.
One of our outings was to the Homosassa Springs Wildlife Park. The kids have been here several times, but this was only my second visit. The springs come from an underground river and keep the water at a constant 72 degrees; nirvana for the 6 manatees that call it home. There is an underwater observatory built (and floating) right over the fissure where the water comes out of the ground. You can go in there when they feed the manatees and watch them swim within a foot of you. They move very, very slow; not unlike Congress.
The star of the visit, though, had to be Lou, the Hippo. Lou is a flatulent mammal that takes great pleasure is backing up to walls, swirling his tail and ears and projectile pooping. In the water, out of the water; doesn’t matter ‘cuz it’s all water anyway. I think the last solid thing Lou passed was an errant pebble in one of his cabbages. Lou is very vocal, also. He lets out a belly laugh when he’s “dropping the kids off at the pool”. If you see the ears and tail start to go and he happens to be facing away from you, you’d better move. And in a hurry. We passed him twice while we walked around the park and both times he put on one of his fecal symphonies. You could set your watch by him. I heard a park ranger tell one of his volunteers that Lou’s next feeding would be at “crap thirty”. Between Stephen King’s book and Lou the Hippo, this is turning out to be a pretty crappy post.
Having Thanksgiving Dinner on Wednesday isn’t so bad if you can get your brain wrapped around the idea that when you look at the TV you WILL NOT see any football. We watched James Bond instead. Casino Royale was on, and if I’d know about the torture scene ahead of time I would have worn my cup. Ouch. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, rent it. Girls, be prepared to grimace; guys, wear a cup. Least favorite Sound of Thanksgiving? Hearing canned cranberries exiting the can. Ugh. The dinner was great and Grandma put out a fabulous feast. Nukeboy 2 even went back for 3rd’s on mashed potatoes. I had seconds on potatoes, biscuits and turkey, but shied away from the cranberry jello. NukeGirl has almost mastered the art of the mashed potato volcano with butter filled vent. I’ve taught her well.
The drive home was interesting, to say the least. I didn’t figure we’d have too hard of a time finding restaurants open near I-95, but I will be prepared for next time and know the difference between knowledge and wisdom. Knowledge is knowing it is a one-way street; Wisdom is looking both directions anyway. We’ll look both directions if we travel on Thanksgiving again. We pulled into a McDonalds for breakfast with what seemed to be 200 of our closest friends. We didn’t put 2 and 2 together when we saw 2 people peek in the door and then walk away. We were about to get the kids out of the car when we saw a second group walk up and actually pull on the door. It was locked. No problem, we thought, the lobby isn’t open yet (it was 8:04am), so we’ll just go through the drive in. No dice. Closed up tighter than a camel’s butt in a sandstorm. We raced up the interstate to the next Mickey D’s opportunity and found it closed as well. We threw some peanut butter crackers in the back seat and set our sights on lunch. After passing such culinary delights such as Harry’s House of Hunan, Melba’s (bet they only serve toast) and Big Moe’s Meat Shack; we finally saw a Shoney’s. My friend Paul used to always say that he wanted to open a restaurant one day called; Dr. Tongue’s 3-D House of Beef and Reptile Museum. Passing Big Moe’s made me think of that, which is why I chose it for the title; but being a cautious man, I swore to myself that I would never eat in a restaurant who’s name could be confused with a Wes Craven movie. So Shoney’s it was. Can’t remember exactly where we were, but I do know that it was South Carolina. Meridianville, or Meridianburg, or something. We filled our gullet’s and got back on the road. We only had to ride through 2 more showings of Shrek and we were home. Boy, is my butt tired. Probably not as tired as Lou the Hippos, though.
Become A Doctor, Online! Part 3
To fully appreciate this post; which is the 3rd chapter, you need to read this post first, and this post second to be up to speed. When we last left NukeDad, he was on his way home after an MRI on his knee. He was nursing a swollen, hobbled left knee and an inflamed, metal clamp filled nugget pouch. Let’s rejoin the drama…
Four days after the Microwaved Scrotum incident I’m sitting in the Doctors office watching him Ooh and Aah over my MRI results. “What is it?”, I ask. “Well, it’s your ACL.” “So, is it torn, or not?” I asked. “You could say it’s torn. You could also say it’s non-existent. I can’t find it! I mean, it’s not even there.” Great. I had obliterated my ACL. Not only had I torn it in half, I had done it in such a way that it had basically vaporized. Poof, gone. Just like Pauly Shore’s career; here one minute, gone the next. “Now what?” “Well, you obviously are going to need surgery and we have 2 options. Option 1 is to cut your knee open and cut out some of the patellar tendon that holds your kneecap in place. Option 2 is to use cadaver tissue.” Hmm. Double recovery time or the ickyness factor of someone else’s body part? I thought about it and said; “I’ll go with the dead guy.”
My surgery was going to be out patient right there in the Megalopolis. Everyone’s doing it these days. I checked in, put on my paper gown (adult size this time) and tried to relax. The Anesthesiologist (heretofore referred to as Jackass) came in and explained what he was going to do; “I’m going to give you too much anesthesia, flirt with the hot nurse, text my wife on my Blackberry and forget to use a bite block so at the end when I try and pull out your breathing tube you’ll freak out and bite down on it blocking your airway causing you to suck the blood from your heart into your lungs thereby drowning yourself in your own blood! Oh! And the best part? When we call for an ambulance to get you to the hospital because we can’t stabilize your convulsing pink sputum/bubble blowing body, they will finally get here 25 minutes later only they’ll have the wrong oxygen tank adapter, so we’ll have to call for another ambulance that will take another 30 minutes to get here! It’ll be touch and go for at least an hour, I’m so excited!” Unfortunately, I wasn’t given that pre-op speech, instead I was told that everything would be fine. That’s what W said about the economy.
The only portion that I remember seemed to be the worst nightmare I’d ever had. In it I was trapped in well, just like that girl in The Ring (shiver). It was pitch black except for a tiny sliver of light that was impossibly far away from me. I remember trying with all my might to get to the light, but something was holding me back. (Insert your own “Run for the light, Carol Ann” Poltergeist quote here) The harder I tried to make it to the light, which was getting brighter and turning from a sliver into an actual opening, the more I felt like I was being held down. Now I couldn’t move my arms either. It was at this point that I tried to breathe and realized that I wasn’t trapped in a well, I was under water. I knew this because the harder I tried to breathe, the more panicked I became. I heard a distant voice saying; “We’re trying to help you, Sir! Sir! We’re tying to help you, please hold still!” Then the light started to fade again, prompting me to fight harder than ever, to no avail. As I took my last desperate attempt at a breath, the light disappeared and everything went silent.
In the real world what was happening was exactly what I described Jackass saying above. As he tried to pull out the breathing tube, I bit down on it and tried to take a breath. When nothing happened my body freaked and my lungs sucked even harder, resulting in what is called Negative Pressure Pulmonary Edema which is fancy schmancy Doctor lingo for filling your lungs with your own blood until you basically drown. Remember in The Abyss when the Navy SEAL tells Ed Harris’ character; “Your body breathes liquid for 9 months; it will remember.”? Yeah, I’m calling bullshit on that one. My body remembered, alright; it remembered that unless you have an umbilical cord attached to you AND a placenta somewhere in the immediate vicinity, breathing liquid sucks. The voice I heard was one of the nurses trying to keep me from punching her in the skull again. They brought in some of those “Psycho-straps” and belted down my arms and legs. They almost broke my jaw prying my mouth open to get the tube out, and I’m not sure, but hopefully I bit one of them while they were doing it. Once they got the tube out they gave me massive doses of oxygen at high pressure to try and clear my lungs. What do you get when you force air into liquid? Ever blow through your straw into milk or soda? What do you get? BUBBLES! I had bubbles coming out of every orifice in my skull. Bright pink bubbles coming out of my nose, mouth and ears. I looked like Cujo in convenient human form, or some rabid frat boy doing the gator after one too many Mai Tai’s. This is right about the time NukeMom was brought into the room as they were appraising her of my “condition”. God bless her, I don’t know if I could have handled seeing her in that condition, I know she had a hard time seeing me in mine. She held on as best she could for the next hour while the comedy of errors I described above took place. 90 minutes later I was in the Intensive Care Unit of the hospital.
I opened my eyes ever so slowly waiting for them to adjust to the light. But, wait; what’s this? My eyes were already adjusted. The light level in the room was very low and I could hear some soothing mellow instrumental music playing in the background. I could smell floral scents, but also some antiseptic ones as well. I felt a warm sensation on my back that I couldn’t place. It felt good, though, so I didn’t complain. Looking around I became more oriented and realized that I was on my side. Directly in front of me was some sort of table with sheets over it. My view suddenly changed as my head rolled over and I was now on my back looking at the ceiling. Only, I couldn’t see the entire ceiling because there was a beautiful woman’s face blocking my view. She had a smile on her face and a sponge in her hand. My brain put 2 and 2 together to realize that the sensation on my back was this beautiful girl giving me a sponge bath. I tried to fathom what was going on; Beautiful woman, sponge bath, low lights and soothing music. Gazing into her eyes I asked her what any male of the species would ask; “Is this Heaven? Am I dead?” She laughed heartily and said; “No, this is County General, you’re in the ICU. You had a little trouble with your operation.” Things began to clear up for me as I realized where I was, who I was and why I was here. I spent 2 days in ICU and 1 more upstairs. I came home after that and tried to learn how to breathe again without pain. It took awhile.
My family isn’t exactly known for it’s respiratory prowess. I think God got our lungs at the Dollar Store. My asthma and propensity for pneumonia must have made my lungs decide to try and end it all during knee surgery so as to make it look accidental. They failed. The thing that upsets me the most about this whole episode is the fact that it was avoidable. Months later after I was fully recovered I did a google search on “negative pressure pulmonary edema” and got over 153,000 hits. Giving Jackass the benefit of the doubt, I did another search for “negative pressure pulmonary edema during knee surgery” and got 31,300 hits. Practically acting as Jackass’s lawyer should he be sued, I googled “negative pressure pulmonary edema biting on laryngeal mask” and got over 2,900 hits. The information is out there. But for the laziness of not using a $6 dollar plastic bite block, I almost lost my life. Sure, they would have charged my insurance company $185 dollars for the bite block, but it should have been there none the less. I put my life in that guys hands. Was he absent the day they talked about bite blocks? I know NPPE isn’t at epidemic proportions, but so what? If there’s a chance of it happening, shouldn’t you do all in your power to prevent it, especially when your patient has no clue of the ramifications? If he had given me the option before the surgery to use a bite block or not, would he have expected me to say no? IDIOT! The worst part about this whole story? I was back under the knife exactly 1 year later for more cartilage damage. I’m not an idiot, though. I had a different and better surgeon, and instead of general anesthesia I had them give me an Epidural. That’s right, Mr. Lady, I was practically in stirrups! That one didn’t end so well either as it entailed an overly lengthy recovery room stay and the lack of a catheter. I think that nurse still hates me. Thanks for sticking it out to the end.
Online Medical Degree Part 2: The Musical
If you are just joining us, you will need to go and read this post first to get you up to speed. Where was I? Oh, yeah, almost killed…dodge ball….MRI, got it. So anyway, next Tuesday comes and I hobble myself into sub waiting room 4C in lobby number 5, level 3. The magazine selection is much better in lobby 2, but the point is moot because I’ll be spending my afternoon in a trailer. The 4 story 27 Doctor office megalopolis doesn’t have it’s on MRI machine, so the local Health care Capo sends over his 3 million dollar tractor trailer mobile MRI machine once a week. The perturbed Certified Nursing Assistant who would obviously rather be doing body shots with her Phlebotomy lab partner calls me back and proceeds to leave me in the dust. After consulting her GPS clipboard locator she comes back to find me 27 feet away from the door she left me at. I told her; “It’s not that I’m old or disoriented, it’s that I’VE GOT A VERY PAINFUL YET TO BE DETERMINED KNEE INJURY THAT WILL REQUIRE A LITTLE PATIENCE ON YOUR PART!” She was acting like I’d just given her an overflowing urine sample with no lid. My raised voice raised some eyebrows and I was quickly smothered by 3 more attendants trying to improve my visit. What if I had been a Secret Shopper? That girl would have been so screwed. Needs Improvement scores for sure. We made it to the trailer and I was put on the “Patient Lift”. U Haul calls it a couch lifter.
Once inside the trailer, things got worse. The cute MRI tech was clearly being stalked by the data entry technician and she wasn’t happy about it. I felt like I’d walked into a Lionel Richie song. The guy was shameless, clueless and obviously relentless. “Your hair looks great today, did you get it cut?” She rolled her eyes at me and quickly led me into the back of the trailer mumbling something about restraining orders and Taser guns. At least we left the tech area before we both had to hear him say something like; “Your name must be VISA, because you’re everywhere I want to be.” She gave me the proverbial paper gown and told me to make sure all metal objects were in the safe with my wallet, wedding ring and dignity. Wow, I did have a little left; until now. They must have thought they were going to the Pediatricians office today because the gowns they brought were tailor made for elementary schoolers. No one over the age of nine had a nun’s chance at a Prop 8 rally of getting the back of that thing closed. I sheepishly asked for another and she smiled and said; “Just take this” and handed me one of the sheets they place on the MRI bed. It felt like a Toga party, but at least I didn’t look like a Thanksgiving turkey in a French Fry bag.
They positioned my knee where they needed it and told me to remain as still as possible for the next FORTY FIVE MINUTES! Good Lord, puberty didn’t last that long. About 4 seconds before they turned the machine on my life flashed before my eyes. I was in the machine up to my chest and it occurred to me that my mind wasn’t exactly hitting on all cylinders concerning full disclosure during the “METAL” portion of the directions. “WAIT, WAIT, WAIT!!” I yelled over the din of the MRI machine’s nuclear reactor-like warming up phase; “I HAD A VASECTOMY AND THEY USED METAL CLAMPS!” I managed to get all of that out before almost passing out. The MRI tech was smiling at me when I came to, thinking that now she had 2 restraining orders to procure, no doubt. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. It’s mainly for pacemakers and such”, she told me. Great. Information I could have used about 20 seconds ago. The deafening hum (they gave me ear plugs) was at full tilt, the lights started going on, I started to feel a tingle someplace that had metal that WAS NOT of the pacemaker type and then I fell asleep. Or passed out from fear and shock, I’m not sure which, but when I opened my eyes again it was all over. After I got dressed and was checking out with the MRI tech, I told her; “You might want to revise that pacemaker only disclaimer”. I felt like a skateboarder who had unsuccessfully tried to grind a hand rail; ultimately straddle bombing it from 12 o’clock high instead. The pain wasn’t excruciating, but then, neither is a root canal. “Really?”, she said, “I’m sorry”, and then she related the story to her stalker who quickly shot me an evil look. It was time for me to go. I was obviously cramping this young man’s style and who was I to stand in the way of this budding, toxic relationship? I hobbled (knee) and waddled (crotch) back to my car and drove home. What a week I’m havin’. Damn; there’s the doorbell. I’ll be right back with the conclusion; I swear…..
Univ. Of Phoenix Called, Your Anesthesiology Doctorate Is Ready
Did I ever tell you about the time my Doctor almost killed me? Yeah, ICU for 3 days. The beginnings of the story are actually quite humorous…right up until the surgery and the near death experience. What happened, you ask? Well, let me tell you. It all started when a group of mid 30ish to 40 year old men thought it would be a great idea to enter the upcoming dodgeball tournament. The Vince Vaughn/Ben Stiller movie had recently come out and dodgeball was enjoying a resurgence nationwide. We wanted a piece of the action. One last shot at everlasting glory and legacy building. The fact that I hadn’t seen the movie yet was irrelevant. I’d heard a few people talk about it and felt fairly confident that I could dodge a crescent wrench thrown from a wheelchair if I needed to. With quivering hands; I signed the entry form.
The team consisted of AP (my Assistant Principal next door neighbor), his Dad (quite the arm, actually), Me and several of AP’s friends. We didn’t meet for practice as we had all made it through the 4th grade and most of us retained the rules. I mean, it’s dodgeball; how hard could it be? The one thing we forgot; or, at least I forgot, was that we weren’t 19 anymore. My brain told me I could still move like a 19 year old, but the body said; “What are you, nuts?” Funny thing about growing old; denial will kick reality’s ass every time, but reality still has to pay the health insurance. You’d think reality would hire common sense and asthma to knock some sense into reality, but it never does. We got T-shirts made with our team name; “The Goofballs” (Our first choice: “The Limb Snappers” seemed a little aggressive) and met at the gym for what was sure to be a walk in the park for us.
Our first opponents were about the same age as us with a couple of ringers a little younger, but the second team was made up of flame throwing teenagers. At least, that’s what I heard; I was already on my way to the hospital by then, but I’m getting ahead of myself. The first game started without the anticipated fanfare (I didn’t see an ESPN camera anywhere), but we were no less enthusiastic. AP was beaning people left and right, and so was his Dad. I was throwing curve balls that were almost hitting their mark and thinking; “Has my rotator cuff always popped like that?” About 5 minutes into the game it was down to AP, Me and his Dad. We had the other team on the ropes (amateurs). They had gotten themselves into a pickle, and it was 3 on 2. The problem was; I didn’t have a ball. We had all but 2 on our side of the court; one was in the hands of one of the opponents and the other was on our side right at mid-court. I was closer, so the unarmed (unballed?) guy on the other side didn’t even attempt to get it lest he end up with a VOIT brand on his forehead. I dashed forward to retrieve the ball knowing that the opponent would surely try and pick me off, but if he did, I knew AP would serve up some 8 inch round justice and victory would be ours. I stayed low and glanced at the ball right as the other guy unleashed a wicked googly. I did my best impression of Neo from The Matrix and he missed me. I reached down, grabbed the ball, turned to run to the back of our side of the court and that’s when I heard the sound.
Have you ever heard a firecracker go off in an alley? That’s the sound my left knee made. It didn’t hurt bad, at least not yet, but it sure sounded nasty. I thought I’d just renovated a little cartilage again like I do when I walk up the stairs (again, denial), only this time it was more like a second story addition and remodel. I tried to keep playing but my knee started burning. I went and sat down amongst jeers of; “Walk it off, you Pansy!” I told NukeMom that I didn’t appreciate her tone and put some ice on my leg. I stood up a few minutes later, but it was now painfully obvious that I should take what little dignity I had left and limp to the car with it. I didn’t actually go to the hospital that day (so sue me for over dramatizing!) but I called on Monday for an appointment with the Mega-Orthopedic-Doc-Warehouse that our provider told me I had to go to. He did the usual tests. He placed my left leg over my shoulder and touched my right butt cheek with my toes and asked; “Does this hurt?” “A little”, I said. He took an X-Ray and deemed it inconclusive, just as every Orthopedic Doctor has since the beginning of time when trying to X-Ray cartilage and ligaments. We scheduled an MRI for the following Tuesday. At this point the Doctor thought there was still a chance that my ACL was intact. Holy Crap! 900 words! We’ll have to make this a 2 part series……
Chickified Steak
I got tagged. I think they are called “meme’s” and they are the Internet equivalent of the middle school slam book. Don’t remember those? They were spiral notebooks with 2 columns on the first page; one for the boys, one for the girls. Each person signed their name next to a number and then ventured from page to page answering the questions written at the top. Here’s the cool thing; you wrote your answer, drew a line under it and then wrote your number underneath, that way NO ONE would know who you were! My buddy Randy found out the hard way that returning to page one would expose your true identity. Under “Who do you like?” or “Who would you like to GO with?” (being boyfriend and girlfriend was called “going” with each other back then; Hell, maybe it still is) he wrote: Janet. The problem was that he wrote it in HIS girlfriends slam book. They were just friends after that. Eventually. I asked him what color the sky was in his world and he said; “Huh?” Nevermind, Randy.
The ONLY reason I’m doing this is because it came from Melisa at Suburban Scrawl. She was one of my first readers and gave me the inspiration to keep going in the beginning when I was getting more heart palpitations than comments. She makes the best virtual cakes you’ve never tasted. Truly; they are amazing. Being that I was the only guy that she “tagged”, I figure I’d better get this over with quickly before I have to call my Doctor for a Testosterone gel prescription and start liking boy bands. Which reminds me; I need to re-up my subscription to Tiger Beat.
The Theme, or, “Meme” is 7 weird facts about yourself. I’m also supposed to ”tag” 7 other people, but I’m not going to do that. I tried that once with a letter. All I had to do was remove name #4, move the other names down, add my name in spot #1, mail 5 bucks to the people in spots 2 thru 4 and then mail out 10 billion copies. In 2 weeks I was supposed to get $300,000,000; instead I got a paper cut on my tongue and a visit from the postal inspector. Never again; I said. Well, here goes.
- I once dated a girl who had 3 nipples. I know, I did the math too and it was strange. To answer your question; no, it wasn’t where you’re thinking and no, it wasn’t sexy.
- My best karaoke performance EVER is “Sherry” by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. No kidding. I should be the lead in Jersey Boys. Performed once on a dare, and a second time by popular demand. Sadly, there was no request for a 3rd performance.
- If you tickle me on my sides, I will go postal. Something from my childhood that I can’t fully recover, but it involved being held down, lots of tickling, a warm feeling and then a new pair of pants. Oh, and it all happened to the theme from “Hong Kong Phooey”. Weird.
- I’m freaky good at doing math in my head. My whole family is. We get it from my Dad. Go ahead, ask me; What’s 375 + 287 + 164? 826. See? I had an old boss that used to get seriously pissed off when I could add up his invoices in my head faster than he could with a calculator. Sucks to be you, Todd, enjoy the promotion.
- My earlobes flare out and are almost parallel to the ground. Seriously, my friends used to set their beers on them. Bastards. If you look at me straight on I look like Tom Cruise requesting a fly-by. Regrettably, my flight pattern is ALWAYS full.
- I could never throw up if I’d had too much to drink. Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I wouldn’t have LIKED to; BEGGED for it a few times, to be truthful, I just couldn’t. Finger down the throat? No go. Punch to the stomach? Useless. Bay City Rollers turned all the way up? The closest I ever got, actually. Good thing I don’t drink anymore. Usually now I just drink to make other people more interesting. Try it; it works!
- I eat Blue Cheese dressing as a dip. Really. Nukegirl loves it too. Nothing clears the kitchen of her Mother and brothers faster than she and I sitting down to some “Chips and Dips”, as she likes to call it. She says it real fast, though; “Daddy, can we have some CHIPSNDIPS?” I hear it’s also enjoyable on a salad. It’s a homemade family recipe and it is to die for. Unless, of course, you don’t care for mold grown in caves.
Well, there you go; 7 weird things about me that you’re probably wishing you didn’t know. At least I’m not some weirdo that sits behind a computer all day writing inane observations and posting pictures of my children to the Internet. What’s up with THOSE weirdos?
