Sunday, June 24, 2012

How Many Dozen in a Gallon?

I worked this morning. I even skipped church to work, which is forbidden on some sort of stone tablet somewhere. And yet, those stone tablets don't concern themselves with my deadlines. After church, I made breakfast for Em and me and then my sister called. That took another hour.

After a busy morning, it was time for a little "Bill time". I bought all I needed for an oil change for the Vette yesterday and so started to work. It was while under the car I decided the transmission needed to be serviced as well. The once cherry red and sweet smelling fluid had become dark and musty, a telltale sign that the time had come.

This is one of those jobs that a trained monkey, grease or otherwise could do in his sleep. That's why I was doing it. But said hypothetical grease monkey in my story has a lift and such. And I don't. So what takes 10 minutes for Mr. Lube to do, it took me 4 hours from start to stop, including  a trip to the parts store to buy what I needed to support the trans service, which was sorta a snap decision to do.

My manual said I needed 6 pints of fluid. So I got to the store, stopped the man from selling me the wrong part, even though he SWORE it was the right part (parts men these days only know what a computer tells them and that is a problem, but it is a problem for me to discuss with people who actually care, so I will move on), went to pick up the transmission fluid and the one I grabbed had a broken seal that spilled all over my fresh white tee shirt.

You know, the clean one I changed into to go to the parts store.

Anyhow, I got distracted by all this and left the parts store with 2 quarts of transmission fluid. The book said I needed six pints. Why it didn't just say 3 quarts, I don't know. Quarts are the most common units of measure for fluids to be sold in.

So, everything went well. I got it all up and in and tight, (used my new torque wrench that I liberated from my Dad in January), and surprise, no leaks.

I didn't even draw blood as is customary in these matters.

Everything went perfectly... except I am a quart low.

But you probably already knew that.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

... I Just Think about Baseball

For those of you who know me well, you know that I have historically not much cared for baseball. It may be the national passtime, but only because that's all that happens in a baseball game... the passage of time. Lots and lots of time.

My poor father, who grew up loving most sports and I am sure wanted a son to share that love of sports got me instead. A baseball hating, wussy-pants nancyboy. I like most sports now, except professional basketball which is populated with degenerate idiot thugs with way too much money and not nearly enough oversight from people with decision making capabilities. But that broad and unfair statement will have to be defended in a different blentry. Today, we're talking baseball.

My pops grew up in Cleveland, OH. Among the many disadvantages that kids from Cleveland face, (namely the disadvantage of being from Cleveland in and of itself), they have to be Indians fans. Every summer we would go visit my Grandma in the home that Dad grew up in. One summer, he thought, "let's go to the ball park. Everyone loves to spend the day with family and every family loves a day at the ball park."

So we went to a double-header. Featuring the Indians. The Cleveland Indians. You know, the ones they made fun of in the classic film "Major League." A double header is to a young boy with a short attention span and an abiding ambivalence to the sport of baseball sort of like sitting in church, listening to the same prayers and sermons and singing the same hymns for a long time. Twice.

I am sure I did not make my father proud that day with my incessant whining and wondering of "can we go now?" Although my unbridled cheers of joy upon the completion the second game might have, taken out of context, been a little payback for the kindness of treating your family to a day at the park. Nah... Dad isn't stupid.

Flash forward a couple years, my grandma passed, and the last light in the city of Cleveland, OH was extinguished forever.

There was the matter of having to call my baseball coach, Mr. Marlor, (I normally wouldn't use real names, but in this case I am because I want him to find this one day and know I think he was a jerk, a bad coach, a bad father and a bad person with a bad family), and tell him my Grandma had died and I would miss the upcoming game(s). I was 10. I was not dealing well with the death of my only grandparent. It took a lot for me to call him.

"Yeah, so?" was his response. I don't recall playing baseball after that year. I think my Dad finally gave up.

And so did I. On baseball, anyway. I grew to love hockey and football. I even like soccer. I like most forms of motorsport to one extent or another. So, it isn't that I don't like sports. I don't like baseball.

Except, I actually got a little tingle of anticipation yesterday when I thought about being able to relax and watch not only the Tigers (v. Cardinals), but also the Cubs v. Sox on TV last night. I have seen all three teams play in person, (an irony not to be overlooked that as far as professional sports goes, I have been to FAR more MLB games than any other type of sport... combined), and I like them all. I still remember "Old" Comisky Park, "Old" Tigers Stadium, and thankfully still with us, Wrigley Field.

I have to admit this isn't an entirely newfound phenomenon. Instead, it is the result of years of subtle erosion perpetrated like so many other erosions of my exclusive thoughts and notions, by my wife who likes baseball. I guess if you can't beat 'em...

And I am not one to complain like a lot of guys, because Em likes to watch football and hockey and likes to go to races and sports games. I don't catch flak for whiling away the hours watching sports. She does too, right next to me. It's nice.

Since I can't talk about specifics from last night's contests without the express written consent of Major League Baseball, I will just say at one point I shouted an obscenity, (a really big, hyphenated, polysyllabic one often heard in Richard Prior routines and rap music), at the TV screen. Itself not surprising as I have been one of "those people" my whole life, (one trait I did pick up from my Dad). But for it to be in the context of being swept up by the action of a baseball game is quite something.  

Emily whipped her head around with a quizzical look that was equal parts consternation and delight and just said, "really?"

And so there it is. Today was an early day and I actually stayed up past my bedtime to watch the conclusion of the baseball game.

I don't know where to go from here, but there are a couple things that I simply must come to grips with. The first is, the older you get, the more you like sports because it is a big diversion from the difficulties of adult life. A little vacation right from your Barcalounger. Second is, I am getting old. Third is, number two doesn't really bother me too much. And if it did, I could just sit down and watch a baseball game and forget about it for a few hours.

Friday, June 8, 2012

Diagnosis: Death/The Truth Hurts

I was reading about the suicide of Bob Welch, the great guitarist and songwriter formerly of Fleetwood Mac and a successful solo career in the 1980s. Mr. Welch had an undisclosed illness and decided to go out on his own terms. At the bottom of the article was an article that caught my eye. 10 signs you may have lung cancer or some such thing. It was not a WebMD thing, but another related site that was sponsored as far as I could tell by a pharmaceutical concern. What can be more fun that reading about lung cancer over an east German omelet?

So, I have more of the 10 signs of lung cancer than I am comfortable with. I figured I'd have one or two, since 'symptoms' are often pan-conditional and don't necessarily mean one thing or another. For instance, one of the symptoms is shoulder pain radiating down the outside of the arm. Well, I have had this for many years as my neck and shoulders are afflicted with arthritis. Pain in these areas is de rigeur.

Wheezing - Of course this is a symptom. But I have asthma, so wheezing is something I deal with on a frequent basis.

I don't have a persistent cough, score one for me! But I do have frequent hoarseness. This is typically only a symptom if there is metastasis in the esophagus, so if you didn't know you had lung cancer until this point... well, so long. But again, hoarseness is a common sign of allergies and asthma.

The last is the pain in the areas of the chest cavity where the lungs are... but in my case, that only happens acutely and is the result of gas. I know this because... well, I know this. let's leave it at that.

So, I don't have lung cancer, (I think?), and I am not worried, but it brings up a good point. Don't go to the internet to diagnose yourself, because you will find that you are an encephalitic leper with mommy issues  who is steps from the peace of the grave. And you are likely contagious. All the best diseases are contagious. That ain't no rash, son, that necrotizing fasciitis! Get thee to a bubble!

The same held true when I was studying Psychology in college. Our first day of Abnormal Psychology, Dr. Anneliese Bowlby said in her Swabian slur, "You are all here because you are interested in finding out if you are crazy. I encourage you to refrain from diagnosing yourself with every little thing we read about this semester. After all, we are only in Psychology not to find out what is wrong with the others, but what is wrong with ourselves. We are all crazy to one extent or the other."

True words. Later, Dr. Bowlby would tell me I didn't have what it took to compete in grad school and I should look elsewhere for my future. Words that hurt, up to that time, more than any other words that had ever been spoken to me. Very true words. Dr. Bowlby was in her final year teaching and she was my academic advisor.She was long past mincing words. Later at the end of the year banquet for the Psych department which I attended because my then girlfriend was the salutatorian of the school, Dr. Bowlby apologized for saying what she said. I told her it was okay, and it was right. Perhaps she could work on her delivery, but her message was pretty spot-on.

I did a quick google search for Dr. Bowlby and am happy she is very much with us at 76 years old. hopefully she has many more years with us. And for some reason, if Dr. Bowlby googles herself one boring morning and comes across this little inconsequential reference to her otherwise stellar and important academic career and life, I have this to add:

We are all indeed a little crazy. Thanks for not only teaching me how to spot it, but also how to be at peace with it.

Now, about scheduling that chest X-ray...

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Family Feuds

I am really enjoying The History Channel's presentation of Hatfields and McCoys. I have only watched the first 2 hour episode, but I am looking forward to the remaining two episodes. It is very well done and I am surprised by my like for this series in a few critical ways. 

First, Kevin Costner cannot act any more than Lindsay Lohan can do complex physics. He is roundly terrible. He has been in some movies that are amazing in spite of his efforts to ruin them completely with his wooden subtlety.

Second, Bill Paxton cannot act, and in fact is a worse actor than Kevin Costner, which is really like hitting rock bottom at full speed, picking yourself up, dusting yourself off and digging for a new bottom. Only Keanu Reeves could possibly compete for a worse male actor than either Costner or Paxton.

In these roles, these guys pop. I am shocked that they are so dialed into their roles and they are both pitch perfect in them. I don't know if it is the story, or direction or what, but they have both come alive on screen and are very good.

The action is intense and the story tellers have done a magnificent job opening with a scene of a Civil War battle before all the doins transpired that show Hatfield and McCoy fighting shoulder to shoulder, saving each other from defeat and certain death. It is from this lofty brotherhood that these two men fall into the abyss of hatred that conspires to create the now infamous and long-standing feud between their two clans.

I don't know if this story as it's told is completely accurate. I was unaware of the nuances of the decline in relations between these families. But I don't really care in the end, because the storytelling is amazing. It is actually riveting. It is gut tying, hand wringing, me-oh-my stuff.

My only criticism of the cinematic aspect is that both Paxton and Costner look pretty well past their primes as the show opens in 1863. Are we to believe that they looked 60 in their 20s and in their 50s? I know times were tough, but even the frontier needs a good makeup lady to fill in those deep grooves.

That aside, the sets and the costumes and the shots are all superb and lend a big hand to moving the story along. The casting is really genius with Tom Berenger, Mare Winningham and Jena Malone rounding out the big name cast, and some really amazing fresh faces to support them.

I love ensembles and this one works. I love epic stories and this one is epic.

So, DVR Hatfields and McCoys. Pop some corn, or pour some white lightning, skip past the commercials and enjoy. You won't be sorry.
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Survey Says!

RIP to Richard Dawson, Icon of my childhood who by watching Family Feud each night at 7:00 pm taught me that kissing girls was really where it's at, and that it is good to know all the answers before you ask the questions.

I appreciated Dawson's reactions to the funny things his contestant said. This was also shown in his Match Game persona, where he could always be counted on to quip the right quip at the right time to make someone's funny joke even funnier.

Dawson would put people at ease and pick out the slightest little thing they said and make it something classic. He was not unlike Carson in this regard.

I am visited by many wonderful memories of my childhood each time one of these men and women of the 1970's TV landscape age and pass on. And that is a positive legacy. After all, Richard Dawson may be deceased, but through the miracle of recorded media, he is not dead.


Wednesday, June 6, 2012

An Open Letter to the High School Graduates

Congratulations! You have made it. Exactly where you've made it to is open for argument and interpretation. But since I am the author and this is my blog, we shall pay attention only to my argument.

You have made it. To nowhere.

Now, I am not putting you down, but you are basically in the process of your first "do-over". I say your first, because if you are like the majority of people in the western world, you will experience multiple do-overs in your lives. Some will be the result of good things, like graduating, getting a promotion, making a lot of money, having children. Some, will be bad things. Those bad things that often begin with the letter "d". Death, divorce and "damn kids".

Whatever the reason, you are at the closing page of your first chapter and we all know, most books aren't loved, revered, respected or even all that memorable after just the first chapter. Your accomplishment of graduating is a big one. But it is the first, and perhaps least important milestone that is ahead of you. In short, what you have done, while worth celebrating, was simply compulsory.

It's the subsequent chapters of your personal book that will be most revealing. Revealing the whole you, your character, your charms, your beauty and. yes, even your inner ugly. College is the next chapter for many of you. The college years are great. This will be the most confusing, hyper, fun-filled, traumatic romp through Idville ever conceived. It has some great bits.

You will spend the rest of your life re-reading the second chapter, which is fine. I would just encourage you to be living in a more mature chapter while you do so. No story is worth the world's time and attention, no life is well led if it never gets past the second chapter.

I pray you all look at the world around you, dream a solution to just one thing near to your heart and go about working for change. Everyone can complain. Everyone can commiserate, but did you know that nothing changes if you don't make the change you seek? If you don't vote, don't volunteer, don't fight for the furtherance of your beliefs, you are not holding up your end of the bargain. That is uncool which is just as bad to be when you are older than it is now. Life never stops being a popularity contest. The good news is that all the things that make you unpopular now, like being careful, making good decisions, studying, working hard... these make you a rock star later on. That guy who played sports and bullied people and never grew up will be a security guard at the company you own; and even though you will recognize him, you will pretend you don't when you walk by him every day looking all important and rich. And even though that is wrong and mean, it will feel so good you won't stop.

Sorry, this isn't about my unresolved issues, I digress.

Let's sum up and get back on track. You have taken much from the universe to get you this far, which as you will recall from my premise statement is essentially nowhere worth bragging about. Even with that said, it is still a great and important achievement.

So, what's the good in all this? Well, I am glad you asked because this is where it starts to get really interesting. The good in all this is that you will soon be an adult. You will be the master of your own decisions and your own destiny. So long as you stay within the bounds of the law, (or stay quiet about breaching them), the world will leave you alone.

Remember ever saying as a kid, "I can't wait to grow up and I can be the boss of something..." and the adult to whom you declared this smiled at you and said, "Oh, TimmyJ or SuzyQ. Don't rush to grow up. These are the best moments of your life right now!"

They were lying.

Adulthood is awesome.

Aside from the hours I work in a week, my life belongs to me. I can volunteer, I can take classes, I can work on a cause, I can stay out all night, (but I don't), and my status as the breadwinner of the house has afforded me the unquestionable and inalienable right to both the remote control and the biggest piece of meat on the platter for all  perpetuity! Or until I die, whichever comes first.

It's a pretty good deal. And that is the good news. Of course this is a great day in your life. A great accomplishment. You should feel proud! I hope you do. I am  proud of you! But the good news is that you ain't seen nothin' yet! It gets so much better. It will keep getting better if you look for it to, and take steps to make it so!

Chapter 2 is coming up and you deserve to write a good one. Chapter 3 will start out fast and furious, like chapter 2, but will slow precipitously. Some parts will seem a little boring and mopey. It will be difficult to go back and reread parts of this chapter which makes up your 20s. After all, at that point you're not quite all the way grown and not quite living in your parents' basement. You are somewhere in between.

Chapter 4 is your 30's and it rocks if you let it. More money, travel, true love, better friends, less puking... it's all good stuff. Sure, you won't be able to walk a tightrope while doing a beer bong and then go to work the next morning and be "fine"  like you could in your 20's. But you won't care. By the time you hit your 30's, your idea of fun is different and thankfully less bad for you.  Unless you're into all that weird stuff like climbing mountains with no safety gear, or jumping from a perfectly good plane to test your revolutionary rocket suit that runs on rainbows and ambition. If you are one of those people, I fear there is little hope for you.

I assume it gets better from there, but I don't know yet. I am looking forward to what comes next. You should be, too. I think in short, life is great. If you make it so. And that is the one thing you can resolve to do today, and every morning you are blessed by God to walk on his Earth. 

Today, at the time of your graduation, remember you are good, we are proud, we love you, you have done a wonderful thing and we salute you. But you owe us. You owe us for the help studying and the talks about every boy or girl who broke your heart and made you want to die. You owe your parents for shelling out the equivalent of the GDP of a small country to buy you school supplies, instruments, computers, sporting equipment to say nothing of clothes, whose purchase you continually honored by storing them in giant heaps on your floor, under your bed, or if you were really a go-getter, the bottom of your closet. And we haven't even begun talking about hocking the house and selling your younger sibling into slavery to afford tuition for that lucrative liberal arts degree you'll pursue with vigor. Remember that each time you skip class to watch a rerun of The Waltons or The Price is Right. Trust me, it happens.

You owe the world for the amount you have used and thrown away. You owe all of us and you can pay us back by starting over from this day with an eye toward the positively impacting the future of the world and all human kind!

I proudly proclaim to you, the high school graduates of 2012 that today is the last day of the first part of your life and the first day of  the first part of the second chapter of what we all hope will be a long life ahead. Don't screw it up. We're expecting big things from you.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Little Places in the Woods

One of the reasons I like summer and warm weather, is the removal of nature's constraints on movement. Weather can be an encumbrance or an aid, a reason to go or a reason to stay. For me, summer says, "go." And so we did this past Sunday after church. We hopped in the Corvette with the tops off and took an uncharacteristically long trip for little reason other than it sounded like a good idea.

We were headed to Kalkaska to look at a cabin on some land whose listing I fell in love with while cruising the Zillow app on my iPad. It is one of my favorite apps. Real Estate in general is one of my favorite things. One day, perhaps I will be a realtor. I have always felt I would be good at it.

One thing I would try to do better than most realtors, though, is take better pictures of the properties I am representing. The pictures for this cabin were only so-so. I wanted to go look at it in person to see if it was as nice as it looked. I also wanted to know what the drive was like and all that.

See, in my head, I want to buy this thing. I tend to obsess, so we went ahead to look to get it out of my system.

Avoiding the 70 MPH highways, we pealed off 131 at M46 east. I used to take this road back and forth to college and I smile from ear to ear when I am on it now. Not much changes in this rural setting. There is still the sign that says "ceramics" that I still and without fail mistakenly see as "crematorium", and the place called Larrys... no, not Larry's or Larrys', just Larrys, thank you very much. I have no idea what Larrys is, sells or does. I picture a room of Larrys, sitting around, waiting for someone to need a Larry. If you need a Larry, I know a guy. Or guys. Whatever.

On to M66 which makes M46 seem like a bustling superhighway. M66 is hilly and on this day, all but deserted. It goes through a few quaint towns, but there are few other attractions aside from the increasingly green and hilly countryside.It is a fun road to take sort of slow and lopey in the 'Vette, enjoying the sun and struggling to hear Queen on the stereo.

We stopped at a little gas station to stretch and put in some gas as I never have trusted the gauge in my old car. I am 37 and I have driven what I believe is the majority of a million miles in my life and I haven't run out of gas yet. I wasn't about to start now. The attendant actually referred to Emily as a "city folk". Charming.

Avoiding the highways was a good choice. It was very windy already, so driving more slowly was less taxing. We got to see large electricity producing windmills whomping in the near distance arranged prettily, though seemingly haphazardly through the hilly terrain. It was almost like someone said, "Let's put these in for maximum asthetic effect." It worked.

Our trip took nearly three hours, but it was nice. the car performed perfectly and we were having a good time. I didn't think about the fact that I needed to take my poor 33 year old car a good way down a pretty rutty dirt road to get to said cabin, but we took it easy and the car didn't protest too much.

The cabin and the property it sits on was lovely. It was not without need of TLC, but it was just TLC, not a basket case. I am intrigued about the story behind this cabin as it looks to have a new roof, new furnace, new windows, new carpet and an updated bath. The appliances are newer or at least in good shape and the land this all sits on is really nice. Yet, it has been on and off the market for years and the price keeps falling. Is it haunted? Was this where the Idaho Hiker Hacker made his final stand? I don't care either way. I'll rent a shaman and a priest and a spirit healer to come and smudge, bless and talk the property out of anything untoward.

We walked a little on the paths that meandered through the property, rising and falling, revealing little clearings where the sun streaked through, dappling the ground with light. It was quiet, despite the wind that was causing the tall white pines sway madly at their tops. Down on the ground all was still, quiet and peacefulm the pines settling the stiff wind down to a small breeze. It was about 5 degrees cooler here than it was when we began the trip, given the shade and the fact we were 130 miles north of where we started. A perfect place to come cool off during the dog days of summer.

Emily christened it "Whispering Pines". Oh, jeez... now we're both in love. She was supposed to be the one who was grounded and rooted in reality. We can't both be smitten.

It is no matter, though, as buying a second home is not in the cards right now, even though this seems like the perfect option for a price that is literally unbelievable. If I had a wealthy benefactor willing to front me the down payment, I would stretch to make it fit into my budget. As yet, I have not found that person or people. Of course, I haven't looked, either.

There are a lot of golf courses nearby the cabin and property which makes me think the area could pick up. Who knows, if I bought this thing, maybe in a decade I would be a millionaire as I sell it to make room for the next must-play championship designed course.

We drove into the town of Kalkaska, 7 miles to the north and looked around. It had been years since I had been there. It is nothing too special, just one of the many towns in northern lower Michigan.

Relenting to time and not wanting to push my luck much further, we stuck to the freeway all the way home, stopping in Cadillac to enjoy a sinful dinner at a place I cannot say the name of. Once you says its name, you must go there. It's a state law. I can say it rhymes with Baco Tell.

Our sinful mealwas about nine dollars and all told we burned about 30 gallons of fuel to go about 275 miles which comes up to just less than 10 miles to the gallon. Oy.

My wonderful old car, like a family member to me - driven proudly to two proms, to college with me during the summers, driven away from my wedding, with my new bride, lost for a period to the wilds of Nevada, pursued and returned to me.

But now I wonder if it isn't time to move on. Sell her to someone who wants to put in the time and money and effort required to maintain or even improve her. Then I can take that money and put it in the cabin fund. If it was this cabin, I would be OK with that. If not, there will be another some day.

It was such a wonderful trip. The question remains, what made it wonderful? The cabin, or the car?