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.

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…..

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……

Our first word this week is deipnosophist; meaning a person who is an adept conversationalist at the table.  They don’t specify which table, but I guess it could be the dinner table, bargaining table or operating table.  Lots of Doctors out there that don’t know when to shut up.  President-Elect Obama would do well to work on his deipnosophistry and shy away from the teleprompter.  I guess we could say that about almost every politician in Washington.  You know the most dangerous place in Washington D.C.?  Between Chuck Schumer and a television camera.  Our second word this week is maladroit; which means; lacking in adroitness; unskillful; awkward; bungling; tactless.  Look it up and you’ll see a picture of the McCain campaign and most of the Republican party.  I thought the Dem’s mascot was the Jackass.  The Democrats should take advantage of their near super-majority to vote for a change of mascots.  They could give the Republicans the Jackass, and debut their new mascot: a Rabbit with a Blackberry, blue-tooth earpiece and a wallet big enough to hold $600,000,000 running circles around a Jackass.  Don’t forget to check out the BWW Homepage for all of our entries to date

1958 vs. 2008

                                                                                                                                                   
Scenario 1:                                                                       
Jack goes quail hunting before school,                                          
pulls into school parking lot with shotgun in gun rack.                         
1958 - Vice Principal comes over, looks at Jack’s shotgun,                      
goes to his car and gets his shotgun to show Jack.                              
2008 - School goes into lock down, FBI called, Jack hauled off to jail          
and never sees his truck or gun again. Counselors called in                    
for traumatized students and teachers.                                          
                                                                                
Scenario 2:                                                                       
Johnny and Mark get into a fistfight after school.                              
1958 - Crowd gathers. Mark wins.                                                
Johnny and Mark shake hands and end up buddies.                                 
2008 - Police called, SWAT team arrives, arrests Johnny and Mark,               
charges them with assault, both expelled, even though Johnny started it.        
                                                                                
Scenario 3:                                                                       
Jeffrey won’t be still in class, disrupts other students.                       
1958 - Jeffrey sent to office and given a good paddling by the Principal…      
Returns to class, sits still and does not disrupt class again.                  
2008 - Jeffrey given huge doses of Ritalin. Becomes a zombie.                   
Tested for ADD. School gets extra money from state because Jeffrey has a        
disability.                                                                     
                                                                                
Scenario 4:                                                                       
Billy breaks a window in his neighbor’s car                                     
and his Dad gives him a whipping with his belt.                                 
1958 - Billy is more careful next time, grows up normal,                        
goes to college, and becomes a successful businessman.                          
2008 - Billy’s dad is arrested for child abuse.                                 
Billy removed to foster care and joins a gang.                                  
State psychologist tells Billy’s sister that she remembers                      
being abused herself and their dad goes to prison.                              
Billy’s mom has affair with psychologist.                                       
                                                                                
Scenario 5:                                                                       
Mark gets a headache and takes some aspirin to school.                          
1958 - Mark shares aspirin with Principal out on the smoking dock.              
2008 - Police called, Mark expelled from school for drug violations.            
Car searched for drugs and weapons.                                             
                                                                                
Scenario 6:                                                                       
Pedro fails high school English.                                                
1958 - Pedro goes to summer school, passes English and goes to college.         
2008 - Pedro’s cause is taken up by state.  Newspaper articles appear           
nationally                                                                      
explaining that teaching English as a requirement for graduation is racist.     
ACLU files class action lawsuit against state school system                     
and Pedro’s English teacher. English banned from core curriculum.               
Pedro given diploma anyway but ends up mowing lawns for a living                
because he cannot speak English.                                                
                                                                                
Scenario 7:                                                                       
Johnny takes apart leftover firecrackers from 4th of July,                      
puts them in a model airplane paint bottle, blows up a red ant bed.             
1958 - Ants die.                                                                
2008- BATF, Home land Security, FBI called.                                     
Johnny charged with domestic terrorism, FBI investigates parents,               
siblings removed from home, computers confiscated, Johnny’s Dad goes            
on a terror watch list and is never allowed to fly again.                       
                                                                                
Scenario 8:                                                                       
Johnny falls while running during recess and scrapes his knee.                  
He is found crying by his teacher, Mary. Mary hugs him to comfort him.          
1958 - In a short time, Johnny feels better and goes on playing.                
2008 - Mary is accused of being a sexual predator and loses her job.            
She faces 3 years in State Prison.                                              
Johnny undergoes 5 years of therapy.

One day I came home and Phoebe had gotten into the “K’s”.  I alphabetized my collection.  Anyway, not only did she skip over Kenny G and Krokus, but she decimated my Kiss collection.  I had them all.  Well, up until Unmasked and all of that post make-up stuff.  Why couldn’t she spend some time in the “new” crate where I kept purchases waiting to be catalogued and crated?  There were some tasty cut-outs in there. 

I knew the words to most every song.  It didn’t matter if I liked it or not, I just knew them.  Never mind the fact that sometimes I’d come to the realization that I had been singing the wrong lyrics.  Sometimes for decades.  Here is a link to check out before you embarrass yourself at the next family bar-b-que.  I also knew which side of the album each song was on, the order in which it appeared, who wrote it, who produced it, each member of the band, what instrument they played and sometimes, even the label.  Label’s were huge in the 50’s and 60’s.  ”Please welcome Apple recording artists, The Beatles!”  Producers used to be a big thing as well.  Most people have at least heard of Alan Parsons of The Alan Parsons Project, but few people know that he worked on Abbey Road and Let It Be for The Beatles and produced Dark Side Of The Moon for Pink Floyd.  That was the kind of stuff that I would remember.  I usually didn’t seek the information out, either; most times it just stuck in my head.

Thinking about my music collection lately has led me back to memories of growing up.  Most of them are good ones, some, not so much.  Either way, music was always there for me.  Just like me I’m sure you can remember what song was playing when you got your first kiss.  You probably remember the first album or CD you bought.  Surely you remember your first concert. 

Music was, is, and always will be, the one constant in our lives.  Each song is like a photograph; it documents an exact moment in time the first time it really catches your ear.  Each and every time you hear that song going forward, it’s like pulling out an old photo album and reminiscing.  Like photographs, songs can change in meaning and sentiment over the years.  The song that you and your boyfriend or girlfriend considered “your song” will certainly lose it’s luster once the relationship ends.  I imagine their photographs would meet a similar fate, being relegated to a bottom drawer, or a box in an attic, unopened until years later.  You pull it out, dust it off and it’s like looking at it (or hearing it) again for the first time. 

The memories, good or bad, flood back into your conscience, and for that one instant; you’re 17 again.  Or 25, or happy, or sad.   You remember vividly where you were, what you were doing…the significance of it all.  In that moment you reassess, maybe even confirm a decision you made a long time ago.  One that you thought was right at the time, but were never quite sure.  The now opened box answering questions from so long ago; and there you sit thinking; Man, I used to love that song.

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.

1. 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.  
2. 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.   
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. 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.
6. 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! 
7. 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?

We had to stop at Wal-Mart on the way home to pick up a few things and we decided to try one more time in the AC/DC section.  Lo and behold, on a rack we hadn’t seen before, we found “the hat”.  The wheels started spinning and the costume came together quickly after that.  We bought a pair of boxers, the hat and an oxford/clip on tie combo that would only need to be worn once.  I think it turned out well.  Here; check it out. 

We had to work on the sneer, but I think he got it down pat.  He had bought a portable amp that clips on to his belt several months ago, so he would be the full inter-active trick or treater.  His vision paid off.  Each house he went to felt obligated to give him extra candy.  Several homeowners wanted their pictures taken with him.  Some asked him to play for them.  His best performance was the opening of Highway to Hell.  That was good for a giant Hershey bar.  He missed a few notes on the beginning of Thunderstruck, but the payoff was 2 bags of microwave popcorn instead of the normal 1.  All in all it was a successful night for him as he came home with 4 pounds more candy than last year.  And he did it all without a single Roadie.  Rock On, Nukeboy1; Rock On.

We pulled into the parking lot of the public library and noticed 20 or so people standing in line.  “Oh!  This should be quick”, NukeMom stated.  We took our place in line and were immediately assaulted by a woman claiming to be a lawyer who was brandishing pamphlets.  We listened to her spiel and politely accepted her campaign paraphernalia.  It was thick card stock, and in color!  I started to wonder how many trees had to die so that I could throw this card in the next waste basket.  Judges are listed on the ballot as “non partisan” and therefore you have no clue who to vote for unless you want to reward the one who raised more money and could afford a TV commercial.  Unfortunately, I hadn’t done adequate research on the Judicial candidates, so I did the only responsible thing that I could do: I skipped that portion of the ballot.  Better to let those who were more informed than me make the decision.  I’ll study next time, I promise. 

It took us 25 minutes to make it to the door to enter the building.  “We’re almost there!”, I exclaimed.  A few more feet, enter the building, vote, we’re outta here, right?  Wrong.  When we got to the door, we saw the staircase.  At the bottom of the staircase, we saw the next door.  At the next door, we saw the hallway.  At the end of the hallway, we saw the second, longer hallway.  At the end of the second longer hallway we saw the door and the 7 voting machines behind it.  Yes, I said 7.  Not 70, not 17, not 77, just 7.  Once we hit the bottom of the staircase, we were committed.  We’d already been in line almost 45 minutes; couldn’t turn back now.  When we saw the second longer hallway, they should have had us committed.  A straight-jacket would have been more fun than this.  All told, we spent a total of 1 hour and 54 minutes “early” voting.  They say early as in; “You better show up a few days early” if you expect to vote.  Next time I’ll wait until election day and spend 1/8 the time in a line 4 times as long.  We’ll all walk at a steady pace and once we hit the hardwood of the school gym floor we’ll see the acres of voting machines.  Diebold nirvana.  Get ‘em in, get ‘em out; the way it ought to be.  Somebody behind me said; “Ah, vote today, vote next Tuesday; 6 of one, 1/2 dozen of the other, it’s the same thing.”  I beg to differ.