I haven't written a blog entry for a while, but not because I didn't have anything to say. Actually I started and pulled the plug on several entries since my last post.
Of particular note, I would like to single out my essay on Zombie Television Shows, or shows that continue long after the natural finale because the network doesn't want them to die, shows like After MASH, or The Brady Bunch Variety Hour.
Basically I was going to compare them to the modern zombie in that they are horrific abominations that play off the existing fan base and their familiarity with the characters and their affection for the show.
Then I was going to mention Scrubs: Med School and how it made me miss the House finale (because C. was watching the show with us and he griped every time my wife and I would watch an episode of something without him, even if it was something we were watching as well like Bones or Supernatural) and then I would transition to the topic of spin-offs and I was going to maneuver to finish with the awkward joke "For every Joey there's a Frasier." (Which my Robin loved when I woke her up to tell her about it at 4 a.m. but likely wasn't as funny or as clever as I thought.)
Anyway, the title at the top of this page isn't "Zombie Television Shows," the title is "Memorial Day and its Aftermath," unless I decide to change the "its" to a "the," which is a very real possibility.
It would flow better, I think, with a "the."
Okay, "the" it is.
Where was I? Oh yes, Memorial Day.
My parents had me over for grilled burgers and potato salad, and then left me alone on the couch for a couple of hours while they visited the cemetery.
My parents don't have air conditioning (not beyond a small window unit or two) so it was unbearably hot in their house and I didn't quite catch where they were going.
My mother's father was career military but he was cremated and as far as I know is still in a box on my aunt's TV cabinet, waiting until his wife dies so we can make a family trip to a national park in California to scatter their ashes together.
It's a romantic gesture and I don't mind that my grandmother is making us wait, but for now my grandfather doesn't have a grave to visit.
The other possibility I considered was my father's friend Ralph Coy who had died in a car accident last year and was buried as a veteran. As it turns out they had considered going to see him, but decided the distance was too far.
He's buried about an hour south of Louisville, but since I got lost on the way to the funeral I don't know exactly where.
I do know that if I take a state highway of some sort all the way west until it ends, eventually I would arrive at the funeral home, if I turned left instead of right or some other miniscule bit of direction I didn't discover until I spent two hours driving up and down either Bardstown or Elizabethtown Road and missed the funeral.
And was late picking up the kids from school as I recall.
Where they actually went, as I discovered when my wife posted photos of Grace at the cemetery on Facebook, was Sunset Memorial Gardens in Frankfort, where my father's parents are buried.
When Robin told me on the way back to Lexington, I was deeply embarrassed. I had forgotten Grandpa served in the Korean War.
My Grandma and he are buried in a drawer together and I tend to forget that he was a veteran as well, mainly because my other grandfather was career military and retired after serving as a key punch operator at the Bluegrass Army Depot.
His house was pictures of him in uniform and his children were born shortly after each major war of the twentieth century, starting with my Aunt Carol who was born after World War II and continuing down to my mother who was the youngest and born after Korea.
She was born at Fort Knox, on the army base, and her birthplace is listed as Fort Knox.
When I was growing up in Arkansas I didn't know that most of the world knew Fort Knox as the place where the United States kept their gold reserves. It was the place where my mother was born.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Friday, May 18, 2012
Flies
Yesterday, I was trapped in my bedroom with a fly.
Flies are annoying, but less so now that I'm mobile. Although honestly, I still can't move fast enough to kill a fly, and they still annoy me.
In the hospital it was worse.
This one nurse (Kimberly was her name) was complaining about one of her patients and how demanding they were. I don't remember if it was an old man or an old woman, but I'm almost sure they were elderly (most stroke patients tend to be old - I was the youngest person on the stroke unit until they gave me a roommate who was in his twenties).
Anyway, Kimberly's patient was getting on her nerves. He (or she) wanted too much from Kimberly but the final straw was when she said the patient wanted her to kill a fly for him (or her).
For a paralyzed immobile person a fly in the room is torture. Imagine being able to see a fly and not being able to do anything about it. A fly eats by vomiting acid and sucking back up whatever dissolved in the acid. Which is why when a fly lands on your bare skin you can still feel it after it flies away.
As if that wasn't disgusting enough when I was a teenager my parents bought me a book for Christmas about a cyclist who bicycled from the tip of Alaska to the tip of South America. He made it to somewhere in Brazil and had to stop because he had an infected (what he thought was a) thorn.
When he dug it out with a pocket knife, it was a maggot of some sort. A blood covered maggot.
Which is not an easy thought to forget when you can't move and there is a sinister fly on your leg, staring at you, mocking you.
FYI
While I was thinking about flies yesterday it occurred to me that in Britain they call gnats "midges," so that's why the word midget is an offensive term. And now I know...
Flies are annoying, but less so now that I'm mobile. Although honestly, I still can't move fast enough to kill a fly, and they still annoy me.
In the hospital it was worse.
This one nurse (Kimberly was her name) was complaining about one of her patients and how demanding they were. I don't remember if it was an old man or an old woman, but I'm almost sure they were elderly (most stroke patients tend to be old - I was the youngest person on the stroke unit until they gave me a roommate who was in his twenties).
Anyway, Kimberly's patient was getting on her nerves. He (or she) wanted too much from Kimberly but the final straw was when she said the patient wanted her to kill a fly for him (or her).
For a paralyzed immobile person a fly in the room is torture. Imagine being able to see a fly and not being able to do anything about it. A fly eats by vomiting acid and sucking back up whatever dissolved in the acid. Which is why when a fly lands on your bare skin you can still feel it after it flies away.
As if that wasn't disgusting enough when I was a teenager my parents bought me a book for Christmas about a cyclist who bicycled from the tip of Alaska to the tip of South America. He made it to somewhere in Brazil and had to stop because he had an infected (what he thought was a) thorn.
When he dug it out with a pocket knife, it was a maggot of some sort. A blood covered maggot.
Which is not an easy thought to forget when you can't move and there is a sinister fly on your leg, staring at you, mocking you.
FYI
While I was thinking about flies yesterday it occurred to me that in Britain they call gnats "midges," so that's why the word midget is an offensive term. And now I know...
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Confusing my C's and T's
One side effect of the stroke was an a confusion between the letter C and the letter T.
I've been playing a game on Facebook (Marvel's Avengers Alliance) and Dr. Strange has a power (Teressing Touch) and I kept misreading it as Caressing Touch. I also kept misreading Trap Shot.
When we went to The Avengers Saturday night (excuse me, Marvel's The Avengers) a funeral home had left the C off the word "cremation." On the way to the theater, not only were we discussing what a remation was and whether I wanted to be remated when I die, but the C's all began to disappear from the signs.
We were going to an inema and drove past an ar wash. Christian was suddenly calling himself "hristian."
Normally we call him just "C," but he stayed in the backseat, even though I checked several times.
I've been playing a game on Facebook (Marvel's Avengers Alliance) and Dr. Strange has a power (Teressing Touch) and I kept misreading it as Caressing Touch. I also kept misreading Trap Shot.
When we went to The Avengers Saturday night (excuse me, Marvel's The Avengers) a funeral home had left the C off the word "cremation." On the way to the theater, not only were we discussing what a remation was and whether I wanted to be remated when I die, but the C's all began to disappear from the signs.
We were going to an inema and drove past an ar wash. Christian was suddenly calling himself "hristian."
Normally we call him just "C," but he stayed in the backseat, even though I checked several times.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Melanies I Have Known
I woke up this morning with a song stuck in my head, so I googled the lyrics, found the CD on Amazon and ordered a copy.
The song was by a folk singer named Melanie who apparently was a contemporary of Johnny Cash.
It got me thinking about other Melanies I've known.
First and foremost, I thought of Amy's college roommate who I asked out once. I had two tickets for a Billy Joel concert and was looking for a date. She turned me down, but in the 30 seconds she considered it, she was the single most beautiful woman on the planet. It was the single best rejection I ever had.
A year later I was on the roof of Keeneland Hall with Chad and some male friends, and we were watching some amply endowed girl change her shirt. I realized with horror that it was Amy's room and that the girl was Melanie. I felt guilty and to this day when I hear the Weird Al song "Melanie" I feel a twinge of guilt.
Then there's my middle school counselor who said her name was Melonie because her mother said when she was born it was like pushing a watermelon out. I question the validity of sharing that with an 8th grader but I must admit it was a pretty good ice breaker, and I still remember the story until this day.
I had switched schools midway through my eighth grade year, and forgotten to return a library book. She offered to take it back for me (since she split time between both schools). When I found the book, I took it to her in her office and said, "Here's the book," without any explanation.
It was a book about Nazis. She looked uncomfortable.
The song was by a folk singer named Melanie who apparently was a contemporary of Johnny Cash.
It got me thinking about other Melanies I've known.
First and foremost, I thought of Amy's college roommate who I asked out once. I had two tickets for a Billy Joel concert and was looking for a date. She turned me down, but in the 30 seconds she considered it, she was the single most beautiful woman on the planet. It was the single best rejection I ever had.
A year later I was on the roof of Keeneland Hall with Chad and some male friends, and we were watching some amply endowed girl change her shirt. I realized with horror that it was Amy's room and that the girl was Melanie. I felt guilty and to this day when I hear the Weird Al song "Melanie" I feel a twinge of guilt.
Then there's my middle school counselor who said her name was Melonie because her mother said when she was born it was like pushing a watermelon out. I question the validity of sharing that with an 8th grader but I must admit it was a pretty good ice breaker, and I still remember the story until this day.
I had switched schools midway through my eighth grade year, and forgotten to return a library book. She offered to take it back for me (since she split time between both schools). When I found the book, I took it to her in her office and said, "Here's the book," without any explanation.
It was a book about Nazis. She looked uncomfortable.
Monday, May 14, 2012
EZ on the GD
I used to know a guy in the dorm who would say that. His name was Chad and he sold Amway and he was a bit of a jerk. We had a falling out when he said some unkind things about a female friend of mind.
And I told her about it, and Chad wouldn't play chess with me anymore, which in hindsight wasn't that big of a loss.
I mean, he did insult my friend right in the common study room for my floor in front of my other friends.
But any way this blog entry is not about Chad, it's about GD.
Specifically it's about the word "goddamn," which to keep my blog from being censored, I'm going to call GD.
About fifteen years ago when I first decided to become a writer, I decided my "craps" and "dang it's" were weak sauce. I sat down and thought about it, and realized that the strongest swears combined a religious name with a traditional swear word. (Incidentally Robin ran to close to a semi truck one time while she was driving and I let fly with a "Holy Mary Mother of F---." I still don't think my brother-in-law has quite recovered.)
When I was a radio host at WRFL I had a segment that marked the exact moment were culturally you could play GD on the radio. Then the incident with Janet Jackson happened at the Super Bowl, and the FCC began to crackdown on decency, levying giant fines left and right.
With my children, I've always told them that it's okay to sing a "bad word" as part of a song. Mainly because I once wrote a short story for class laden with swear words and when it came time to read it in the lobby of LCC it sounded ridiculous. One of the professors took me aside afterwards and told me that I shouldn't censor myself.
When I play guitar and sing there are certain songs on which I won't censor myself. Counting Crows "Marjory" and Bob Dylan's "Masters of War" are both sacrosanct to me. Besides, songs like "Uncle John's Band" and "Ball and Chain" are useless with the GD removed. It's the word that gives the song power.
An old Scoutmaster I met at McKee (I think he was Camp Commissioner) took me aside one time and told me that swearing implies a lack of intelligence - his point was that a person who swears couldn't think of the right word or combination of words.
I agree with that thought - if I didn't want to be thought of as stupid, I would have to come up with increasingly complex and creative insults. Nothing as mundane as my Sister-in-Law who says, "Piss," for everything.
So with the Republicans trying to create a functional Theocracy in the U.S. to unseat Obama, I am in great fear for the 1st Amendment and the guarantee of free expression. If we can't say GD on the internet, how long before we can't say it in real life?
And I told her about it, and Chad wouldn't play chess with me anymore, which in hindsight wasn't that big of a loss.
I mean, he did insult my friend right in the common study room for my floor in front of my other friends.
But any way this blog entry is not about Chad, it's about GD.
Specifically it's about the word "goddamn," which to keep my blog from being censored, I'm going to call GD.
About fifteen years ago when I first decided to become a writer, I decided my "craps" and "dang it's" were weak sauce. I sat down and thought about it, and realized that the strongest swears combined a religious name with a traditional swear word. (Incidentally Robin ran to close to a semi truck one time while she was driving and I let fly with a "Holy Mary Mother of F---." I still don't think my brother-in-law has quite recovered.)
When I was a radio host at WRFL I had a segment that marked the exact moment were culturally you could play GD on the radio. Then the incident with Janet Jackson happened at the Super Bowl, and the FCC began to crackdown on decency, levying giant fines left and right.
With my children, I've always told them that it's okay to sing a "bad word" as part of a song. Mainly because I once wrote a short story for class laden with swear words and when it came time to read it in the lobby of LCC it sounded ridiculous. One of the professors took me aside afterwards and told me that I shouldn't censor myself.
When I play guitar and sing there are certain songs on which I won't censor myself. Counting Crows "Marjory" and Bob Dylan's "Masters of War" are both sacrosanct to me. Besides, songs like "Uncle John's Band" and "Ball and Chain" are useless with the GD removed. It's the word that gives the song power.
An old Scoutmaster I met at McKee (I think he was Camp Commissioner) took me aside one time and told me that swearing implies a lack of intelligence - his point was that a person who swears couldn't think of the right word or combination of words.
I agree with that thought - if I didn't want to be thought of as stupid, I would have to come up with increasingly complex and creative insults. Nothing as mundane as my Sister-in-Law who says, "Piss," for everything.
So with the Republicans trying to create a functional Theocracy in the U.S. to unseat Obama, I am in great fear for the 1st Amendment and the guarantee of free expression. If we can't say GD on the internet, how long before we can't say it in real life?
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Brainwashed
I was thinking today about V, not the recent V for Vendetta movie that inspired last summer's Occupy movement but the 1980s television miniseries V.
Specifically I was thinking about how the resistance fighters in that would be brainwashed by the evil reptile aliens and then magically switch from left handed to right handed (or the other way around).
Obviously I've switched my dominant hand since the stroke because my right hand barely works, but specifically I was thinking about how I wipe my bottom.
Before the stroke I wiped back to front and now, after having been wiped by women since summer, I've noticed I wipe front to back.
It reminds me of the ads that student health services used to run in the Kernel about, "boy cats should wipe whichever way they like but girl cats should always wipe front to back."
The advert ran with a picture of a wildcat mascot grinning and giving a thumbs up.
That grinning wildcat haunts me every time I go to the bathroom. It's as if he wants to say, "You've had a traumatic brain injury and you'll never be right again."
Specifically I was thinking about how the resistance fighters in that would be brainwashed by the evil reptile aliens and then magically switch from left handed to right handed (or the other way around).
Obviously I've switched my dominant hand since the stroke because my right hand barely works, but specifically I was thinking about how I wipe my bottom.
Before the stroke I wiped back to front and now, after having been wiped by women since summer, I've noticed I wipe front to back.
It reminds me of the ads that student health services used to run in the Kernel about, "boy cats should wipe whichever way they like but girl cats should always wipe front to back."
The advert ran with a picture of a wildcat mascot grinning and giving a thumbs up.
That grinning wildcat haunts me every time I go to the bathroom. It's as if he wants to say, "You've had a traumatic brain injury and you'll never be right again."
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Balding, No More
The strangest side effect of the stroke has been, by far, that my hair has started to grow back.
I realized this in therapy one day, said it out loud then immediately caught the bald man in the room with me check the top of his head and frown. I felt bad for saying it.
Baldness tends to follow the male members of the mother's family. My grandfather was bald, and my uncle went bald suddenly, when he was out of work in Florida. I didn't see him for a few months then, BAM! - He aged thirty years overnight.
I never asked him about it but I assumed it was due to stress, which was no problem for me since I had always led a relatively stress free existence. My roommate compared me to a cat once, but that was after he came home and found me in the floor on my back, absent mindedly batting at the dangly cord that opened and shut the blinds.
So it was a fair comparison.
At a party once, there was a woman going around giving free back rubs. When she got to me she was horrified.
"You have no tension at all," she said, as she backed away. Her voice quivered.
"No, I don't," I said and went back to my conversation with, I think it was, a recently divorced woman who called herself Cat.
"What's it like to be divorced?" I asked.
She seemed stunned by the question, and the conversation quickly ended.
Anyway, the point is, my life was stress free, and I kept a square hairline into my late twenties. I considered it a badge of shame.
I had one friend who started going bald in high school. He could drink anywhere he wanted without being carded and go see whatever band he wanted. The last time I saw him he was drunk in Tally Ho at three in the morning playing video poker.
But the point was, he was bald.
Last spring I noticed my hair was starting to thin out on top, and I proudly announced it on Facebook. My friend Kimber wanted to see a picture, but when I tried to take a photograph I couldn't take one where you could tell I was going bald. I stood on the patio until the sun went down but couldn't get a decent picture. After the sun went down I kept trying with the flash and when I got up the next morning, I failed some more.
But I was going bald.
I can remember the first time I sunburned on the top of my head. It annoyed me but quietly I considered it a triumph.
Okay, it wasn't quietly and I didn't keep it inside, but no one else seemed to care.
The balding steadily got worse until I started to worry. What would I look like bald? How should I wear my hair? My father's friend, Dawkins, had a flat top haircut when he went bald and it looked very distinguished. On the other hand I worked at summer camp with a man who wore his long, with the bald head on top (basically a Benjamin Franklin) and it looked horrible.
But alas, my bald spot is gone.
Last week when I was at my sister's commencement, I was looking at all the bald heads in the room and feeling guilty. My hair grew back. I had waited years for my hairline to recede and now I was back to square on.
My theory is whatever stress caused the stroke was also making my hair fall out, and when I had the stroke, the stress dissipated and my hair grew back, but that's just a theory.
But the truth is I still feel guilty, whether I deserve a bald spot or not. And maybe if I feel guilty enough my hair will start to fall out again.
If I'm lucky.
I realized this in therapy one day, said it out loud then immediately caught the bald man in the room with me check the top of his head and frown. I felt bad for saying it.
Baldness tends to follow the male members of the mother's family. My grandfather was bald, and my uncle went bald suddenly, when he was out of work in Florida. I didn't see him for a few months then, BAM! - He aged thirty years overnight.
I never asked him about it but I assumed it was due to stress, which was no problem for me since I had always led a relatively stress free existence. My roommate compared me to a cat once, but that was after he came home and found me in the floor on my back, absent mindedly batting at the dangly cord that opened and shut the blinds.
So it was a fair comparison.
At a party once, there was a woman going around giving free back rubs. When she got to me she was horrified.
"You have no tension at all," she said, as she backed away. Her voice quivered.
"No, I don't," I said and went back to my conversation with, I think it was, a recently divorced woman who called herself Cat.
"What's it like to be divorced?" I asked.
She seemed stunned by the question, and the conversation quickly ended.
Anyway, the point is, my life was stress free, and I kept a square hairline into my late twenties. I considered it a badge of shame.
I had one friend who started going bald in high school. He could drink anywhere he wanted without being carded and go see whatever band he wanted. The last time I saw him he was drunk in Tally Ho at three in the morning playing video poker.
But the point was, he was bald.
Last spring I noticed my hair was starting to thin out on top, and I proudly announced it on Facebook. My friend Kimber wanted to see a picture, but when I tried to take a photograph I couldn't take one where you could tell I was going bald. I stood on the patio until the sun went down but couldn't get a decent picture. After the sun went down I kept trying with the flash and when I got up the next morning, I failed some more.
But I was going bald.
I can remember the first time I sunburned on the top of my head. It annoyed me but quietly I considered it a triumph.
Okay, it wasn't quietly and I didn't keep it inside, but no one else seemed to care.
The balding steadily got worse until I started to worry. What would I look like bald? How should I wear my hair? My father's friend, Dawkins, had a flat top haircut when he went bald and it looked very distinguished. On the other hand I worked at summer camp with a man who wore his long, with the bald head on top (basically a Benjamin Franklin) and it looked horrible.
But alas, my bald spot is gone.
Last week when I was at my sister's commencement, I was looking at all the bald heads in the room and feeling guilty. My hair grew back. I had waited years for my hairline to recede and now I was back to square on.
My theory is whatever stress caused the stroke was also making my hair fall out, and when I had the stroke, the stress dissipated and my hair grew back, but that's just a theory.
But the truth is I still feel guilty, whether I deserve a bald spot or not. And maybe if I feel guilty enough my hair will start to fall out again.
If I'm lucky.
Monday, May 7, 2012
The Narcissism Addendum
The blog I posted yesterday, took me over a week to finish and I still left something out.
During the conversation with Robin I left out a sentence or two, specifically the bit where Robin and I were talking about how hard it is to spell "narcissist."
I would also like to say that "addendum" isn't an easy word to spell either.
During the conversation with Robin I left out a sentence or two, specifically the bit where Robin and I were talking about how hard it is to spell "narcissist."
I would also like to say that "addendum" isn't an easy word to spell either.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Narcissism and its consequences
This blog took me over a week to write because I couldn't spell "narcissism." I kept meaning to look it up, but the dictionary was on the shelf and I was on the couch and the shelf was so far away. And I was lazy.
But if you can forgive me for the delay I will begin the blog entry I started writing a week ago.
The first sentence was something about the show House and then an explanation of why I watch the show. (Short answer: I couldn't move or find the remote and it had a marathon every Friday when I first got home from the hospital.)
Anyway, the episode of House that inspired this blog entry was on the television while I was flipping through one day. I hesitated for a moment to see if it was one I had seen, and I caught a snippet of conversation.
It was as follows:
Cutty said something to House, and he said something back and she accused him of something, and he said something to the effect of, "You can't control everything, that makes you a narcissist, because you blame yourself and the only reason you would feel guilt over everything is if you feel like it's your responsibility to control everything."
Or something to that effect. I don't remember exactly; it's been over a week and I wasn't taking notes.
So anyway, I shared this insight with Robin when she returned and she was aghast.
"It took you having a stroke to realize you had Narcissistic Personality Disorder?"
Which is true. People have told me that for years, and I refused to admit it.
Every friend who died, every drink I spilled, every promise I failed to follow through upon, I blamed myself. Even if I wasn't responsible, I would dwell on it and find a way that it was my fault.
So what should have come as a relief, backfired.
What at any other point in my life would have been a life changing revelation, hit me hard at just the wrong time. I am responsible for ruining everyone's life this time. My children are in therapy, my wife is one argument away from a breakdown, and everything IS absolutely my fault. This would be the moment I should blame myself.
I am a burden to my family and everyone around me.
It's sort of like saying "I'm sorry" to many times. It loses its impact.
But if you can forgive me for the delay I will begin the blog entry I started writing a week ago.
The first sentence was something about the show House and then an explanation of why I watch the show. (Short answer: I couldn't move or find the remote and it had a marathon every Friday when I first got home from the hospital.)
Anyway, the episode of House that inspired this blog entry was on the television while I was flipping through one day. I hesitated for a moment to see if it was one I had seen, and I caught a snippet of conversation.
It was as follows:
Cutty said something to House, and he said something back and she accused him of something, and he said something to the effect of, "You can't control everything, that makes you a narcissist, because you blame yourself and the only reason you would feel guilt over everything is if you feel like it's your responsibility to control everything."
Or something to that effect. I don't remember exactly; it's been over a week and I wasn't taking notes.
So anyway, I shared this insight with Robin when she returned and she was aghast.
"It took you having a stroke to realize you had Narcissistic Personality Disorder?"
Which is true. People have told me that for years, and I refused to admit it.
Every friend who died, every drink I spilled, every promise I failed to follow through upon, I blamed myself. Even if I wasn't responsible, I would dwell on it and find a way that it was my fault.
So what should have come as a relief, backfired.
What at any other point in my life would have been a life changing revelation, hit me hard at just the wrong time. I am responsible for ruining everyone's life this time. My children are in therapy, my wife is one argument away from a breakdown, and everything IS absolutely my fault. This would be the moment I should blame myself.
I am a burden to my family and everyone around me.
It's sort of like saying "I'm sorry" to many times. It loses its impact.
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