OK, I know some of you would rather have a boil lanced by a drunken friend with a rusty nail than watch sports, but….Did anyone see the NCAA commercial, one of those split screen one about student-athletes, that featured the woman softball catcher. They do this tight shot of her flashing signals, like in close on her crotch and she’s doing the 2 finger V signal. I couldn’t help but think of Kingpin. Anyway, sort of obscene.
Which reminds me. I was in the can at work washing my hands and the soap dispenser sort of exploded on me and got that creamy white soap all over my shirt. The guy standing next to me at the sink takes one look and says, “There’s Something About Mary.“
Also, that Ciaga commercial…the one with the four hour erection warning. It also says that a side effect might be “delayed back pain.” You know when you get older it’s wise not to attempt some of those more ambitious positions, I guess.
I’m going to be so late for work and I don’t care. Wait, I’m the boss, it doesn’t matter.
Category Archives: Uncategorized
It Was a Day
Thanks to everyone for the kind comments. I had a couple of ideas for expanding on the ideas in the last post, but as usual, I didn’t write them down and I forgot them. Anyway, it’s not my intention to make this into a forum for the exploration of my nuerosis. As dear to my heart as they are.
Yesterday was the kind of day that makes you want to toss your meds away. It’s tough to be depressed when the sky is blue and it’s 65 degrees and you’ve got the day off work. We started the day slowly, I was blogging away and Beck was reading the paper and knocking off the crossword, and doing some remote business at the agency. Then we spent a short time working in the garden, pulling mulch off the beds of spring bulbs. I planted about 150 bulbs, maybe more last fall. I had a map going to remind me what I put in, but I didn’t finish it and I can’t find it anyway. I’ll know which ones the tulips are anyway. Then we walked to the local Caribou, which is on the far corner of the cemetary, taking the long way around and cutting diagonally through the wild part. It’s taken thirty years for them to fill up half of the land they have, I hope they don’t give in to pressure from the city to develope the wild half. It’s a nice chunk of tall grass prairie in the middle of suburban sprawl. We came home and made a Pizza on one of those “Boboli” crusts (I call them bobolooies) watched the NYPD we’d recorded while we were at the game and then headed for the Mall of America to shop and people watch while we waited for the girl’s plane to get in. I could live like that.
Have I ever told you how much I love my wife? I am so friggin’ lucky that fate brought us together and that she was somehow attracted to a loser like me and that she had the Norwegian stubborness to not give up on me when I was in the deepest of my craziness. She is beautiful and eternally youthful. She’s a great mother and a steadying influence on me. Although I chafe at her caretaking instincts, she’s saved my ass a million times with her, “have you got the (tickets, keys, money, papers, passports, gas.) When I lose stuff she generally knows where it is of finds it for me. She has been a huge help in my maintaining my sobriety and has always encouraged and supported my in my artistic endeavors. And she’s physically tough (small but from a family of wrestlers) and mentally tough in the Norwegian tradition. She is an affectionate stoic. A great companion and soulmate. God bless her.
For those who asked for a link to a larger image of the illustration below.
Check out NDM’s and then follow the link to sign the petition.
Now there’s a sign of spring!
My last post garnered some interesting comments around the issue of medicating one’s mental state. The picture on the left is a variety cover that I did for the Strib back when I was on the features design staff in 1990. It’s the only newspaper peice that’s on display in the house. There’s a reason for that. The article is about the relationship between insanity and creativity. The illustration is a self portrait, although my hair was never that red. But it gives it kind of a Vincent thing, no? I’ve always felt like I was walking the razor’s edge of sanity. And I’ve always wondered if the same engine that drove the madness drove the creativity. It took me 53 years to find out that my anxiety, anger, hypochondria and sleeplessness could be ameliorated with medication. I know some people aren’t so lucky, but it works for me. But that bring up the question, if I modify the engine to run more smoothly, will it still provide the horsepower to drive the wheels of my imagination?
At the moment I’m coming to terms with the idea that I’ve not only been depressed, but that I’ve had some form of ADD for all this time. One of things that has always gotten in the way of my career as an artist is that I have a bitch of a time sitting still for the long periods of time required to render out an idea. That’s one reason my niche as a quick spot cartoon guy was perfect. When I was one of the production folks in my current job, I was very low in the productivity measurements. Part of that was because of all the time I spent helping other people solve technical problems and investigating problems for the then managers who were clueless about graphics software. But it was mostly about being bored as hell and not being able to keep my ass in my chair. I got promoted basically on good looks and charm. But now I’m thinking of adding yet another med to my list. I have a good friend who just was diagnosed as an adult with ADD and he says that the change was miraculous when he started taking meds for it. Would I start finishing projects, instead of letting them die after the excitement of a new idea wore off? Would the meds dam up the river of imagination. And most important of all, would I still be able to get wood?
FIRST ROBIN!
I used to be a hypochondriac. A really bad one. Every little pain I had was cancer for sure. All I had to do was read about a disease and I’d have the symptoms immediately. Then I’d obsess about it. You know, plan my funeral, stuff like that. Once my tongue brushed against a lump in my mouth. “OH MY GOD! A LUMP!” I couldn’t leave it alone, it got bigger, began to hurt, the pain spread throughout my jaw. I went to the doc. It was a saliva gland and the reason it was swelling and hurting was that it had become inflamed by my constantly rubbing my tongue on it!!!!! I knew I was a hypochondriac, I used to joke about it with my doctors. But just because I’m a hypochondriac doesn’t mean I don’t have ebola.
I started seeing a therapist for it. He suggested that some anti-depressants work for hypochondria. I was reluctant to go that route, I’m not sure why. Maybe because a coworker blew his brains out while on them. But that was years ago. But I was having a horrible time at work. I would pull into my parking space and just sit there, not able to get myself to go in. I was flying off the handle at home, yelling at the girls or shutting myself up in my room, all kinds of classic symptoms. So I gave the happy pills a try. The effect was almost instantaneous. Never mind the depression, the hypochondria was gone. Immediately. Now I suppose I will get cancer and ignore the symptoms until it’s too late.
Better living through chemistry.
Looking out the back window over my computer I have to wonder, who took the color out of the world? It’s a gray day in the Twin Towns.
This is my last work day of the week. I’m taking Thursday and Friday off so Beck and I can practice being retired empty nesters. I’m hoping to get a project done, like having sex in every room in the house. Or something like that.
We went to see the Gophers move to the Sweet 16 last night. Our seats are in the second row of the upper level, right behind press row. Patrick Reusse, the columnist for the StarTribune, in the opinion of some the best sports writer in town, was sitting right in front of us. It was fascinating to watch him write his story as the game progressed. One thing I know is that he’s the fastest two finger typist I’ve ever seen. The game started late, so I’m sure that he had to get it in right after. I’m going to go read it now.
Saturday night we were invited over to one of the YaYa’s house for dinner. When we arrived they announced that they were taking us out instead. They were the ones (she was, he might have been able to give us good directions) that gave us the bad directions to the Indian market. It turns out the Indian market was not even the store they were talking about. It’s an Arab market and it’s down the street a mile or so. Every bit as cool as the Indian place, it had all kinds of imported food, including a big assortment of European chocolate and cookies. There were shelves full of things in cans with no English subtitles. I bought some hazelnut cream filled chocolate wafers and a container of what looked like assorted home made Arabic confections. I say confection instead of candy because although these were very sugary, they were primarily made from dates. A few slabs of what appeared to be nuggat filled with pistachios, otherwise dates. Dates stuffed with pistachios and rolled in sesame seeds, dates stuffed with pistachios with coatings of nuggat….
Hold the phone. I decided I was throwing that last word around without any knoweldge of what it meant other than from Milky Way commercials so I looked it up:
Main Entry: nou·gat
Pronunciation: ‘nü-g&t, esp British -“gä
Function: noun
Etymology: French, from Provençal, from Old Provençal nogat, from noga nut, from (assumed) Vulgar Latin nuca, from Latin nuc-, nux — more at NUT
: a confection of nuts or fruit pieces in a sugar paste
So I guess they were nougats
…and some with dried apricots thrown in for a little extra color and flavor. These things have the density of an ex wrestler former MN gov. They’re the original energy bar. Next time I go hiking or fishing I’m bringing a pocketfull of these sugar bombs for an instant pickup.
Next it was on to the restaurant, Jerusalem. I’m not sure why the name because I’m pretty sure this was an Egyptian place. At least they had what looked like Egyptian temple art on the walls. I was reminded of the novel Palace Walk by Mafuz because of the Men’s club atmosphere. There were guys in one corner smoking these huge hookahs, I guess it was tobacco. Men playing cards. Pretty much men. There was one very western looking couple with a little girl. The woman was looking around and our eyes kept meeting. After reading Palace Walk I kept thinking her huge husband and the hookah guys were going to drag me out and make shwarma out of me. We asked the waitress what the special was and she replied, “I couldn’t pronounce it if I tried, so I’m not going to try.”
“Well what’s in it?”
“I’ll ask my uncle.”
It was baked chicken with onions and it was soooo, good.
I love a good cross cultural experience, but considering the current international situation, I felt a certain tension at both places. Maybe it was just me.
It’s four something in the morning. We’re taking the human hormone bombs to the airport so they can fly to Phoenix and torment their grandmother for a week. It will be nice to walk around the house naked again.
Breakfast of Champions
1. Pentasa. For Crohn’s Disease. I’m supposed to take four of these four times a day, but I usually don’t remember to. Really saves on the underwear.
2. Calcium. To help prevent bone loss from all the Prednisone I’ve taken over the years for Crohn’s. I’m still getting more bow-legged by the minute.
3. Ibuprophen. Optional for my aching knees, required on tennis days and days after tennis.
4. Glucosomine. In an attempt to stave off inevitable artificial knees.
5. Prilosec. The little purple pill. For GERD, which is heartburn squared.
6. Multi Vitamin.
7. Vitamin B. Not sure why I take this one.
And do you know what? I can swallow them all at once.
I take the anti-depressant at night.
SPORTS SECTION
I played tennis with Q, the fifteen year old yesterday. She doesn’t have L’s all around game yet, isn’t as aggressive or accurate as the elegant murderer that L has become, but doggies, she can hit the ball hard. She has a big looping stroke from both sides. I love that sound, when someone hits a tennis ball on the sweet spot. It almost sounds like a gunshot. We played a set. She served first and won. I didn’t want to demoralize her with my big serve so I wasn’t really trying to bring it on my first serve. As old and slow as I am, I still try to come in behind my serve. I saw a lot of balls whizzing past me and landing a few inches in. She was hitting everything hard and deep, forcing me to either retreat or hurry my stroke. She went up three one and I decided I wasn’t going to let her beat me. I started trying to blow her away with my serves. Although I aced her a few times and won most of my service games, some of my best rips were coming back at me. I couldn’t break her serve and ended up losing 6-3. It’s not the first time she’s beaten me, but the first time I thought it was a fluke. This was no fluke. I may never be able to beat her again. I was having a bad knee day though. Maybe…..
Dang I had half this written and some pop up action from the CBS sports page that was open was causing the computer to momentarily freeze so I went window killing and closed the Xanga window…..ARRRGGGHHH.
Now I realize that a good portion of my valued subscribers have given me relentless shit about expressed a disinterest in and even distain for sports but they can go fuck themselves there are times when I just don’t give a rat’s ass simply feel compelled to write about the only thing that really matters the excitement and drama and human interest of sports. So having belligerently blown off half my readers said that, I give you whether you like it or not assholes:
The Sports Section
Last night I went to the 4A (big schools) Section Finals for high school boys basketball. My daughter’s school, Armstrong, a mostly white, affluent suburban school was playing Patrick Henry an inner-city school whose team was all African American. Armstong’s team has three Afro American players including there star, a 6’5″ 240 pounder who has great low post moves and likely will be playing defensive end at Minnesota next year. I mention the ethnic balance of the teams to help you understand the rivalry. This team includes some of the best athletes from the soccer team that won state this year and the football team that made it to state and won the Classic Lake Conference. They are all seniors and most have played together forever. They have depth and quickness and can shoot the three. Henry is a perennial power, they’ve gone to state every year since 1995 and won the last three consecutive 3A tournaments and at times have been the best team in the state, beating 4A powers regularly in during the season. This year they moved up. They are big, tough, athletic and can also hit from behind the arch. In other words, a great match up.
The game was played in Rogers, part of the sprawl that’s exploding along the I94 corridor between Minneapolis and St. Cloud. It’s about 15 miles from home on busy freeway. I driving L and one of her male friends and we had planned to leave at 7:15 to get to the game at 8. At 7 we found out that the game was starting at 7! We jumped in the car, I told the kids not to follow the example of driving I was about to set and we managed to get there before half time. I had to park about a quarter of a mile away from the exit though.
Armstrong was up by six or eight when we got there and seemed to be threatening to blow the game out, but the Patriots hung in and kept the lead under ten. The Falcons built the lead to twelve late in the third quarter and then Henry came storming back. Their pressing defense caused turnovers and steals, they hit some threes and suddenly it was a very tight ball game with four minutes left. The lead went back and forth between three and one until Henry scored with 20 seconds left to take their first lead of the night. Armstrong ran the clock down to 12.5 seconds and called a timeout. They inbounded the ball from the side at half court. While play was stopped through two time outs both sides were chanting “Let’s go Falcons” and “Let’s go Henry” everyone was on their feet and the atmosphere was electric. Grant Hargett, the Falcons superb point guard was being gaurded by a very small player and the play was to isolate him in the low post. It worked like a charm and we took a one point lead with five seconds left. We had two fouls to give so we fouled the guy bringing the ball up the court and then Peter Koska took a charge as time ran out.
Now for the human interest angle. One of the coaches for Henry was Jerry “Buggy” Williams who, twenty five years ago played basketball on my driveway in North Minneapolis before I moved to the burbs. They lived around the corner and across the street from us. He and his buddies always had a game going on until a seedier crowd started hanging out and I decided I had to take the hoop down. I don’t think he ever forgave me for that. I wanted to say hi to him so I fought my way through the crowd that was moving in the opposite direction until I got right behind their bench. They had already recieved their second place medals and were watching the Falcons get their championship awards. The little guard, who I think might be his son, was very upset, kicking chairs over and walking around like he wanted to punch someone. Jerry has grown up nicely. He’s a handsome and massively muscled young man. I waited for an opportunity and went over and introduced myself. We talked for a few minutes and then he dismissed me by going back to what he was doing. He was very gracious, but I felt kind of guilty for intruding on what had to be an extremely emotional moment for him.
I love March.