Nuclear Family Warhead

I remember distinctly where I was the moment my father died. I was 30,000 feet in the air, somewhere over Western Mississippi or Eastern Arkansas. I was in a deep sleep due to overwork and stress from my father’s rapidly deteriorating condition. It had been a rough two days; trying to decide what to do, and when to do it.  Dad had been sick for a very long time. Emphysema does that to a person; it takes you slowly, not in one fell swoop. I had been in contact with my family as his condition waned in those final days. Finally, my sister told me, “You’d better come if you want to say goodbye.”

I left North Carolina for El Paso during the late afternoon. It was the end of October, so daylight disappeared quickly. It was dusk when we took off, and the darkness chased us all the way to West Texas. I had gathered my things quickly when I was preparing for my trip, and on the plane I was doing a mental checklist to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. More work for an already overtaxed mind. I remember packing my suit and thinking what a morbid action that was. Was I a pessimist? Dad is going to die? Or was I an optimist? I’ll take it just in case, even though I know I won’t need it? I think I was a realist; after more than 10 years of fighting this affliction, Dad had given up the fight. The suit would have to be worn.

Mom and Dad had celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary only a month before. We were able to make that trip home to help them celebrate. I remember Dad seeming a little detached, almost as if he was savoring a long term goal that had been met. He was happy and smiling, as much as he could be, while fighting for breath, yet I could sense an undercurrent. I didn’t know it at the time, but I believe what he was feeling was accomplishment, and closure. Accomplishment for reaching this admirable milestone; and closure in that his journey was coming to an end.

He had fought so hard, for so long, that I believe that he was ready to go. It had just become too tiresome; the dread of knowing that a walk to the bathroom would leave him physically spent. The self-reproach of having to be waited on hand and foot by my Mother. The realization that each day became harder; less livable. It’s one thing to fight everyday to improve your life, knowing that you control your destiny; it is quite another to die a little each and every day knowing that there is nothing that you can do about it, and that the family that you hold so dear can only sit there and watch.

I bolted upright at 8:02pm, on October 26, 2002, startling the person next to me on the airplane. When I awoke, it was as if I had not been asleep at all. No cobwebs, no feeling of tiredness, just a feeling of total and complete peace. The last time I had felt that way was back in childhood before the worries of real life and responsibility had come. I can’t really describe it adequately; it wasn’t a feeling of joy, certainly not sadness, just a feeling of…lucidity. The worries and troubles of a job that I loathed were gone. So too, were the feelings of angst and sorrow for my dying Father. For in that moment, I knew why I had awoken, and I knew who had awoken me. While asleep, I had been dreaming of my Dad. I remember that in my dream I kept trying to convince him to keep fighting, that I was almost home. Just wait for me Pop. I remember him smiling that calm, reassuring smile of his as if to say; it’s alright, you’re already home.

As I gazed out the window of the airplane, I could see the sun setting to the west, like a giant ball about to roll off of a table. We were flying well above the clouds, and I noticed something I had never seen before. The tops of the clouds were completely flat; smooth as glass. There wasn’t a ripple, break or crease to be seen. It was as if I was looking at the floor of Heaven. I have never seen anything like it before or since. I researched trying to find out why the clouds would look that way, but came up empty. The rays of the sun were splashing off of the cloud tops in a way that made the entire sky look and feel like it was on fire. The brightness not overwhelming, and the sight nothing short of astounding. I knew in that moment that my Father was saying goodbye to me, and that this was his fond farewell. The show outside the airplane was exclusively for me; no one else even noticed. Or, perhaps, it wasn’t there for them to see.

I met my brother and sister curbside at the airport. As I climbed into the backseat I asked them how Dad was doing. My brother and sister turned around, and through tears my brother said, “You didn’t make it in time, I’m sorry.” I was emotionally spent, and immediately lost it. After trying so hard to get home in time, I had failed. After a few seconds of selfish weeping, I realized; I had made it in time. I asked my sister what time Dad had died. She said it was a couple of minutes after six, their time. That would make it almost exactly 8:02pm on my watch. The full realization of what had happened hit me at that moment, and instead of a feeling of sorrow, I was filled with joy; for I knew that I WAS with Dad when he passed, I just wasn’t at his bedside. He did that for me. And I will be forever indebted to him for it. Thanks, Pop.

(Update: July 1st, 2008) Mr. Lady at Whiskey In My Sippy Cup has awarded me the “Perfect Post” award for this tribute.  Thank you, Mr. Lady, I am truly humbled.

Thanks also to Lindsay at Suburban Turmoil and Kimberly at Petroville.

I’ve talked about our little house guest before.  If You don’t remember Bob, read this first.  Go on.  I’ll wait.  OK; back?  What did you think?  Crafty little S.O.B. isn’t he?  Well, he brought a friend with him this time.  He smuggled him in through the one thing that was designed to protect us: medicine.  That’s right, the medicine NukeMom was taking to make her “better” actually made her much, much worse.  But I’m getting ahead of myself; let’s back up a little.

Bob and his merry band of Virusmen were traipsing through our neighborhood like a group of Johnny Appleseed’s on crack.  They hit the Doc’s house and took down him and little Ebola.  They hit AP’s house, but didn’t gain a foothold there.  AP stocks enough vitamin C to last through 3 nuclear winters, so they came out OK.  They crossed the street and got 2 of the Irish Tenors (there’s ‘ten or’ fifteen of them, can’t remember).  They hit Klan Torgo’s house too; in fact, Ms. Torgo was at the Dr.’s office at the same time NukeMom was for the same thing: sore throat, general “blah-ness”.  They each got their Big Pharma fix and went home.  That’s where the stories took different paths.  While Ms. Torgo progressed to welldom, NukeMom got progressively worse.  By the beginning of last weekend, she was holding down food about as well as Britney Spears holds down her skirt. 

NukeMom’s food intake waned day by day so that by Sunday she was ready for an IV drip.  Water, Sprite, Ginger Ale, bananas, rice; all of the “safe” foods to eat were proving useless.  Little did we know that the cause of all of this was the antibiotic NukeMom was taking to help her throat.  The throat was feeling better now, but I think she’d have taken the sore throat back if it meant she could get some relief from the stomach gymnastics.  I got her to the Doctor first thing Monday and they did blood work and took some “samples”.  Just trust me on this and use your imagination, it wasn’t the type of samples you get from the cart jockeys at Sam’s or Costco.  Test results came back Wednesday and showed that NukeMom had a bacterial infection brought on by the antibiotic she was taking for her throat.  They promptly prescribed another antibiotic to counteract the original antibiotic.  It’s kind of like pouring alcohol on an open wound; you know you have to do it, but you’re not exactly excited about it.  We finally got the new antibiotic in her system, and she started to see a little relief.  She limped into work on Thursday, and almost made it through the day.  She made it all the way through today and was actually able to hold down dinner for the first time in a week. 

NukeMom lost 19 pounds in the process.  While that is an impressive number, it’s not a diet plan that I would recommend.  Or should I?  Maybe a little infomercial action?  Late at night I’m sure we could sell a few hundred thousand copies of “Dehydrating to the Oldies”, or “Involuntary Stomach Pilates”.  Better keep it hush-hush for now.  Knowing Bob, he’ll want a percentage for being a “co-creator” or “technical advisor”.  He’s probably long gone from our neighborhood now anyway.  I’m sure he’s trying to cash in on the whole tomato salmonella outbreak thing.  They’re only in 19 states right now.  If they bring Bob and his bunch on board, they could be nationwide just in time for July 4th weekend.

In honor of my 13th wedding anniversary tomorrow, I thought we would pick a couple of words that would fit in with this weeks BWW sign, and the theme of Las Vegas weddings.  See; NukeMom and I got married in Las Vegas.  June 12th, 1995; the day we started our life together.  It was a year to the day after a guy named OJ ended his relationship with his ex-wife.  I think we all know how that turned out.  I guess not everybody can celebrate their wedding anniversaries with CNN updates on how to get away with murder; unless you got married on the same day that Robert Blake took his wife to dinner.  We were committed to the date because of work/travel schedules and the invitations had already gone out.  I didn’t actually realize the significance of the date until it was too late; it’s not like his face wasn’t plastered all over TV for a year and a half, so when I saw his face on the TV that day in the hotel suite after the wedding, I didn’t put 2 and 2 together.  No bother; every year when I toast my bride and I see some “____ many years ago today” update on TV, I know in the back of my mind that there is a special wing of the Murderers’ Hall Of Fame under construction in Hell, and that OJ will be signing autographs there soon enough. 

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?  Not always.  The reason is that many people do things in an extemporaneous fashion when they are in Vegas.  It means: things done, spoken, performed, etc. without special advance preparation; impromptu.  Going to Vegas to get married wouldn’t be considered extemporaneous; going for an Insurance Convention and coming back married would.  Taking another card when the Blackjack dealer has a Jack showing wouldn’t be extemporaneous; placing the entire balance of your 401K on black would.  I think you get the idea.  Our second word this week is recalcitrant.  It means: resisting authority or control; not obedient or compliant.  Again; going to Vegas to get married wouldn’t be considered recalcitrant; going at age 13 to marry your 8th grade teacher would. 

There you go; two new words to place in you ever growing vault of vocabularic magnificance.  Don’t forget to check the BWW Home Page  for all of the words we’ve covered so far.  I know it looks a little funky over there right now, I’m still trying to clean up after an involuntary theme change.  We should have everything cleaned up and back to normal in a day or two.  Thanks for your patience.

As some of you have no doubt noticed, my sidebar went to a rave and got ahold of some bad blotter acid, or something.  Nothing I’ve tried has fixed the situation. So; since this theme has a history of bad behavior, missed curfews and snarky back-talking, it is grounded for a month.  It will not leave this Theme Editor until it’s attitude changes.  In it’s place we have it’s older, more responsible brother theme.  This theme minds it’s P’s & Q’s and knows when to keep it’s mouth shut.  No arrests, no convictions.  He’s a little shy, otherwise he would have been here taking care of business all along.  Please be patient with him as we redecorate his room.  Snarky back-talker theme is moving to the basement bedroom.  Teach him to toy with me.  Little smart aleck.  Please excuse us while we fix things up.

Nukeboy1 has been blinded by the light.  Well, sort of.  He has taken up the guitar for the second time.  The first time was 2 years ago when he was 8.  This time he’s a little more serious about it.  His turnabout can be explained in one compound word: Rockband.  He got it for Christmas, and has been rockin’ out ever since.  So much so that his guitar will only strum “up”, the “down” strum is broken.  So, since the guitar doesn’t work properly anymore, he has picked up the drums.  His buddies have Guitar Hero III or Rockband, and they talk about it endlessly.  “Dude, I could so kick your butt on ‘Highway Star’”.   “I nailed Weezer on EXPERT last night!”  Overnight they are getting an education into old school music and what rock and roll really means.

The coolest thing for me about all of this, is that he is getting a glimpse of some of the music I grew up with.  I’m obviously biased, but I think I grew up at the perfect time.  I had my older sister, who turned me on to all kinds of music.  Usually just by playing it in her room while I sat in the hallway outside her door; silently.  Listening.  Taking it all in.  I learned about Moody Blues, Gino Vanelli, Carole King, Boz Skaggs, Chicago, Todd Rundgren and so many more.  My brother got an 8 track stereo system for Christmas one year (Yes! I’m  THAT old!), and I learned about Bachman Turner Overdrive, Led Zepplin, ZZ Top, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Steve Miller, The Doobie Brothers and the list goes on and on.  Once I started my own collection, I soon left my older siblings in the dust as my collection grew and grew.  In 1981 I bought my first stereo system.  That same year my album collection grew to 300+ lp’s; much to my Father’s chagrin.  He thought I should save my money for a car.  I thought I needed to rock.  By 1984 I had amassed over 450 lp’s and put a stereo system in my VW Bug that once caused my Father to walk out of the house, knock on my window, and tell me to “TURN THAT CRAP DOWN!”  I had to smile after saying “Yes, sir”, and watching him walk back inside.  He heard my car stereo (windows closed, no less) inside the house?  Cool.

By the late 80’s my lp collection was north of 600 and my CD collection had blossomed to a little over 150.  There was some duplicity there but, hey, you can’t buy the brand new CD technology and NOT buy The Wall.  Sure, I had it on LP, but on CD it made me even more Comfortably Numb.  I had a nearly photographic grasp of all music released from 1972 to about 1994.  Albums, bands, who was in each band, what they played, what side a song was on, which number it was on that side, the year it was released, who wrote which song, on and on.  My friends used to call me “Shrevie” after the character from “Diner“.   I don’t think I was as fanatical as he was, but, then again….I could get lost for hours inside my favorite record store.  I’d look for deals and bands that I could “discover” in the cut-out section.  I’d scoff at those who only bought cassettes.  Fools.  I’d buy my own blank tapes and mix tape myself into a coma. 

Nukeboy1 doesn’t have that same opportunity.  The music he had been listening to before his “Rockband Epiphany” was the manufactured artists that all seem to sing on each others songs: T-Pain, Chris Brown, Rihanna, Timbaland, Flo Rida and many others.  I’m not dissing these artists, and I’m not turning into an old fuddy-duddy; it’s just not my cup of tea.  It pisses me off because kids today don’t have near the selection or choice that I had.  Sure, you could say that I’m no different; that I’m a “victim” of what was being forced down my throat when I was a kid, but the difference is; I had more avenues to explore than American Idol and itunes.  Record stores, bootleg tapes of up and coming bands, independent radio stations instead of “Clear Channel listen to what we tell you to listen to” stations.  I had a choice.

Music has been, and always will be, subjective.  Abortion, politics and music are three subjects that can garner the most emotion and fanaticism when debated.  Of the three, music is the only one where you can at least find some common ground with someone who doesn’t share your point of view.   You may think their Slim Whitman fetish is asinine, but they may scoff at your Black Sabbath affliction.  If you both can share a beer over side 2 of Back In Black; then it’s all good.  Sorry, I forgot we don’t have “sides” anymore.

Nukeboy1 has inundated me with questions the last week and a half on all things “Classic Rock”.  I’ve shared as much as I know with him.  His curiosity and quest for knowledge is mind numbing.  Why can’t he tackle fractions like this?  I already know the answer; for the same reasons I couldn’t.  He’s got the fever.  I did what any responsible parent should do; I dug out all of the CD’s and went through them with him.  He picked out a starter stack of about 25 CD’s that he is presently working his way through.  Little does he know that my list for him grows exponentially each day.  I encourage each of you to do the same.  Dig out the old albums, dust off the turntable, dig the cassettes out of the attic (if they haven’t melted) and let your kids discover the same way you discovered.  Make suggestions, let them know that there are plenty of choices out there.  The dialogue that it opens up may surprise you; and place you back on common ground.

The meat wagon pulled into my driveway the other day.  I’m not talking about the county coroners’ Hearse, or a burrito buggy that frequents construction sites; I’m talking a 1998 Dodge Ram 1500 with dents a plenty, peeling paint and in desperate need of a tune up.  I mention the tune up only because the children who were riding their bikes up and down the street were now lying in the grass gasping for air.  The eye-catcher; though, was the Kenmore 7.0 cubic foot chest freezer in the bed of the truck.  That’s funny, I don’t remember ordering a dead body.  Maybe NukeMom ordered me something special for Father’s Day.

“How are you today?”; the voice startled me.  It was coming from the Unabomber look-a-like who was walking up my driveway.  Not the sketch drawn Unabomber; I always thought the sketch looked like Tom Berenger (Platoon, Major League, The Big Chill), the actor.  Poor guy, no wonder he wasn’t getting any acting jobs then.  No, he looked like the Ted Kaczynski-scruffy hair-livin’ in the Montana wilderness-Unabomber.  He had been across the street talking to my neighbor.  What am I, Park-n-Go?  “I was talking to your neighbor about some fabulous deals I’ve got”.  Oh God, here we go. 

As some of you know, I’ve spent most of my life in and around restaurants, so this guy trying to sell me meat was going to be an exercise in futility for him.  He’d have better luck selling Juan Valdez a case of Folgers Crystals.  I immediately dis-armed him by pointing to the brand new freezer in my garage and showing him my Sam’s Club receipt.  It clearly showed where I had just purchased an entire Ribeye roll for less than $6.00 per pound; so buying his 6 individual 7oz Ribeye’s at $28.62 per pound just wasn’t making me feel all lovey-dovey.  He continued with his sales pitch, throwing out words like; ‘wholesale’, ’case discount’, ‘flash-frozen’ and ‘package deal’.  I think he even said ‘chance of a lifetime’ at one point.  I just kept walking him towards his truck until we got to the driver’s door and he finally took the hint.  He tried one last time with “I don’t know when I’ll be back this way again”.  I thanked him and said ”No” for the 15 ba-zillionth time.  He finally started up his truck and backed out of the driveway.  The bike riders were back, but they were prepared this time.  Two of them headed up-wind while those trapped down-wind dove for cover.  

I know the poor guy was just trying to make a buck, but I have an aversion to buying meat off of a truck from someone who looks like an urban terrorist.  It’s not like he was the Schwann’s guy or something.  I’m sure some of it’s good; some of the things I’ve heard about the filet’s is positive, I’m just not willing to take that chance.  Food poisoning and child rearing should never collide in the same sentence, let alone the same household.  If he comes back next time with some Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream, THEN maybe we can do some business.  Keeping my fingers crossed…

Today is Nukeboy1’s day to have Dad bring him lunch at school.  He went with the healthy option this week and decided on Subway.  Finally!  After suggesting it all year, he finally decided that this; the last lunch of the year, would be the healthy one.  That’s fine, except that today I am in full carnivore mode and I’m craving a greasy cheeseburger the way a chubby Britney Spears craves spandex; foolishly and relentlessly.  I suppose I could go to 2 different places, but then I wouldn’t be “leading by example” now, would I?  Subway it is.  At least they don’t cut that ridiculous “wedge” out of the bread and then place it back on top like they used to.  Remember that?  The first time I ever ate at Subway I thought the sandwich maker was some part-time scrapbooker who just got carried away with my bread.  I looked inside the sandwich fully expecting to see tomatoes cut into hand-holding paper dolls and pickles cut into cloverleaf’s.  Was I seeing things?  Had she spelled out “Have a Nice Day” with the squeeze bottle of mayonnaise like on a birthday cake?  I was seeing things.  She got the “H” done and then the manager yelled at her to hurry things up.   

This started me thinking of other not so great moments in the world of food.  Remember the “McDLT”?  It kept the hot side hot, and the cool side cool; if I recall.  George Costanza himself (Jason Alexander) did the song and dance for the commercial.  It’s a great exercise in early attempts at diversity, also.  The only thing I couldn’t see was an Indonesian Phlebotomist.  Here’s the video.

After seeing that, it’s hard to think of all the classic Costanza-isms: the marble rye, the wedding invitation death glue, shrinkage, “Is anyone here a Marine Biologist?”  But back to our subject; the marketing people at Taco Bell have been working overtime the last decade or so.  I think it all started when they were overstocked on flour tortillas and needed a way to unload them.  Some genius in marketing who is probably CEO by now, said; “Lets just slather some re-fried beans on it, wrap it around a taco and call it a gordita!”  The 3am munchies would never be the same.  Come to think of it, late night diners can explain about 74% of Taco Bell’s menu.  No sane, sober person would eat that stuff.  Eventually it will lead to this:

I wonder if Taco Bell’s long range marketing plan is to eventually have customers order by the pound rather than the item?  Could be; look how McDonald’s and Burger King have trained our children to choose where they eat based on the toys, not the food. 

It’s not just the restaurants who do it  either, there are plenty of examples of food abuse on the home front as well.  Think about the absolute worst thing your parents ever fed you.  Now, have you tried to feed it to your kids?  What are your kids’ least favorite items?  My list isn’t huge, but then, it’s not only one item either.  With apologies to my Mom, here is a list of my least favorite dinners as a kid:  Chicken livers and onions with beets.  No kidding.  At the same time.  It took all 5 of us kids to rebel one night at the table together.  Our solidarity paid off next time Mom & Dad had this meal and we got hot dogs and mac & cheese.  How about beef liver and apple rings?  See the above scenario to see how things turned out.   Thankfully, my parents’ venture into the wonderful world of animal organs ended there, and we were never subjected to cow’s tongue or calf’s brain.  We lived in El Paso, the menudo capital of the world.  Menudo isn’t just a boy band from Mexico, it’s a dish made from the stomach lining of a cow.  It’s supposed to cure a hangover, but I was never brave enough to think that I could hold that down when I was having a hard enough time holding down the previous nights Taco Bell.  There was pineapple salad, which was 2 leaves of lettuce with pineapple tidbits on top.  Yum!  A slight variation of this salad was usually served with fish sticks and you simply had to substitute a dollop of mayonnaise for the pineapple.  Are you getting hungry yet?  Cream chip beef: they have another name for it in the military, ask a veteran.  Cabbage and vinegar is in there somewhere, along with brussel sprouts, creamed spinach, creamed corn; basically any vegetable with cream that has no business having cream in it in the first place.  In their defense, my parents’ list of menu items is 10 times what I serve my kids, and 90% of it was excellent.  I still call my Mom today for recipes and reminders.  I just don’t ask about the ones that used to give me bad dreams.

I felt it fitting this week to choose some words that could be easily “misheard” or “misunderstood” to go along with the Obsessed With An Alien post.  Check it out to see how many songs you’ve been singing wrong all of these years.  So, with clarity as our goal, let’s get started.  Our first word is apologia.  It means an apology, as in defense or justification of a belief.  It’s pronounced: apple-oh-gee-uh.  Sounds like someone stammering after being offered fruit; “Apple?” “Oh! Gee, uh, don’t mind if I do!”   And, no, it isn’t that chick that was in Purple Rain with Prince.  That was Apollonia, who was once part of NASA, I think.  You may have also thought that it was the actor who played the giant foot piano with Tom Hanks in Big, but, wrong again.  That was Robert Loggia.  So, there we go.  Clarity at it’s finest.

Our second word this week is imbroglio.  It means a misunderstanding or disagreement of a complicated or bitter nature, as between people or nations.  Can you say Clinton/Obama?  It could also mean an intricate and perplexing state of affairs; a complicated or difficult situation.  Kind of like this blog.  The perplexing part, I mean, not the complicated part.  It’s pronounced: Im-bro-yo.  Keep the “G” silent.  Don’t say: Im-brog-leo.  No, this isn’t the last name of that Natalie girl from Australia who sang about being “cold and naked on the floor”, that’s Natalie Imbruglia who was in Johnny English with that Mr. Bean character.  So there you have it.  Wasn’t that as clear as mud?  I hope I didn’t confuse you and put you in an imbrogliotic state.  No, I don’t think it’s a word either.  Don’t forget to catch up on all of the words on the BWW Home Page.  There will be a test.

At dinner last night Nukeboy2 was showing off his big brain.  “Ask me some words to spell Dad!”  Obviously grammar is riding in the back seat at this point.  We made it through “Kat” and “Shuld” before I remembered that in the 2nd grade, it’s all about fawnicks.  I mean; phonics.   I don’t feel that it is the best way to teach a child, which is evident when Nukeboy2 tries to read me something he has written “phonetically”.   He struggles with the pronunciation because his brain knows what the word looks like when he reads it in a book, but he gets confused when he tries to read what he has “sounded out”.  I think it has had an effect on his hearing also.  I think he is hearing “phonetically”.  During the course of this spelling bee I told him that before he knew it he would be “A sesquipedalian”, to which he responded; “Dad, why would I want to be obsessed with an Alien?”  After I finushd choking on mi stayke and beens, I tuk a drik of wadder and triyed to explane.  He understood what I was telling him, and I’m not worried in the least.  He is an incredibly smart kid and I know he’ll do fine next year when they actually teach him how to spell correctly and erase the waste of time that was the 2nd grade.

Our little experiment reminded me of all the times I thought I knew the words to a certain song, only to be outed in a most embarrassing way at the most inopportune moment.  Like when Train was singing “and that Heaven is overrated” and I thought it was: “and that Van Halen is overrated”.  NukeMom laughed for a month after correcting me on that one.  My little sister once thought that Lipps, Inc. were singing “won’t you take me to Bogota” when they were actually singing “won’t you take me to Funkytown“.  It didn’t help matters that her class was studying South America at the time.  A girl that I know swears that her college roommate used to sing “I’ve never seen your pizza burnin’” in perfect tune to the Rolling Stones’ “Beast of Burden“.  Fact is, there are a million of them out there and I’m sure some of you have some good stories to tell.  So let’s hear them!  Let me know your most embarrassing misheard lyric moment.  You can check the site Kiss This Guy to see how many other people share your karaoke nightmare.  I used to think God created karaoke so that we would all stop getting the words to songs wrong; but then I remembered that by the time you’ve had enough drinks to get up there and sing, you can’t read anyway.

The test results came back, and AP is in the clear.  Cujo the squirrel didn’t have rabies.  We already knew that, of course, it’s just nice to have validation.  Cujo did have an affliction, though; he had a scorching case of “The Stupids”.  This virus can manifest itself in many different forms and is easily transferable between species.  It has many different levels of infection.  A mild case of “The Stupids” could cause you to go out and buy a Jonas Brothers CD at the age of 27.  The cure in this instance would be to give the CD to a little brother, sister or niece/nephew.  A few more days of bed rest, and you should be fine.  A really bad case of “The Stupids” may cause you to wear multiple gold chains around your neck and only button your shirt up to your belly button.  In modern times the largest outbreak of “The Stupids” was seen in New York City in the late 70’s.  This particular strain was called the “Disco-staphylococcus” strain and actually spread nationwide before being brought under control in the early 80’s.  Researchers worked tirelessly to come up with a cure for “Disco-staphylococcus” and they finally made the break through in 1980.  They called it “NewWaveicillin”.  It was a second generation version of the original “PunkRockicillin” which had too many side effects.  Patients complained of spiked, colored hair, safety pins through the nose and projectile vomiting.  “NewWaveicillin” had far fewer side effects; the most serious being an acquired addiction to John Hughes movies. 

Wow, that was quite the tangent!  There’s a reason for it, and I’ll explain in a minute, but let’s get back to AP for a minute.  He really is doing fine.  He knew that before he went to the hospital, but you can’t take chances when you’re attacked by a squirrel.  In the 75 times that it has happened since they started keeping records back in 1874, seeking medical help is always first on the list.  That’s an average of one squirrel attack every year and a half; so anyone reading this who wants to feed the squirrels in the park can do so safely until November of 2009.  I’d start getting leery around September or October of ‘09 just to be safe.  AP looks fine.  Here is a picture for you.  He looks a little grey, but the Doctors say that’s a normal reaction to the antibiotic they gave him; arsenicicillinsomethingorrather.  They said the flaky skin will take care of itself also, but he can use a putty knife if he wants to expedite the process.  I offered my belt sander; we’ll see if he takes me up on it. 

Now; the explanation for the tangent.  I watched the 4 hours of the alleged “movie” The Andromeda Strain on A & E the other night and I was very disappointed.  I loved the original movie, and though I haven’t read it yet, the book has always been on my “must read” list.  It was written by Michael Crichton who gave us Jurassic Park, Congo, Sphere and many other great stories.  I saw the original movie when I was 10 or 11 and it scared the crap out of me.  I saw it again when I was older and had much better control of my bodily functions.  The new adaptation goes for glitz and over-embellishment where the original concentrates on pure story and suspense.  Thankfully the original will be airing this week also.  If you saw the new one but haven’t seen the original, do yourself a favor and watch the original.  It was made in 1971 when they didn’t have CGI, Lucasarts and the plethora of special effects options that they have today, so it relies on the story itself; and the story itself is great.  If you need Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck blowing things up, then you may not like it.  Either way, it’s worth a look.