Birthday Babe

It was my mom’s birthday yesterday. She would have been 92 years old. Born in 1920, she witnessed a lot of change, a stunning amount when you think of it. Probably one of the greatest examples she gave me was that she embraced most of it. She watched the advances in aviation through the eyes of my dad, whose long career was all about flying. Advances in medicine became commonplace. She was behind the curve a bit on the social and generational changes, but I think that is just human nature. I’m using myself as an example here. I’ve reached a point where I do not follow popular culture and have no idea what the latest trends are in that made-up social realm. When I see some young hot actor or actress on TV, I have no idea who they are or what has made them hot. Here’s the shocker: I’m just not interested.

My mother decided, early on, that computers were pretty cool. She got her iPad and became pretty proficient with it in her late 80s. She loved playing word games and Solitare. She also enjoyed email, but grew disgusted with the spam. Haven’t we all?

So happy birthday, Mom. Quantum Physics being what it is, I’m sure you’re still here somewhere and I hope you’re having fun.

Changing My Focus

I have decided that I will no longer write about Wall Street, or Banking, or the Economic Downturn. When I think about the unbelievable untrustworthiness and glorified greed that has been evident in those circles I just want to go stand in the shower and scrub myself until I’m raw. I’m going to avoid politics too. I’m pretty sick of that after a two-year campaign, a contentious election, and a fat bi-polar misogynistic pill freak selling advertising. There have been stirring moments of hope, yes. Those moments have buoyed the moments of fear and despair nicely. But now we’re back to day-to-day spin management, obfuscation, and bluster. Business as usual, I reckon.

Will I continue to pay attention? Yes, it’s my nature. I will monitor my perceptions, seek counsel when I’m confused, and if something egregious happens I’ll have to break with my intent and write about it. I suppose something really good could inspire me too, like Cheney shooting his lawyer. So, until it becomes necessary to regress, I will write about fun and interesting stuff, like colonoscopies, bags under my eyes, golf, baseball, maybe hockey, managing my girth, and maybe even sex. That would really creep out my kids.

I feel terrible for Michael Phelps and his family. I think all of the people who have written diatribes about how he’s “defiled” America should go stand under the next booster that launches a space shuttle. Come on, people. Were you ever twenty-three? The same people who wrote despicable things about Michael probably went home and muttered into their cocktails about their kids being on Ritalin. That is the epitome of hypocrisy. For those of you so inclined, go read Terry Southern’s “Red Dirt Marijuana” to get an idea of why powerful elements in our society are dead-set against smoking the weed. It has nothing to do with taxes, morals, or health.

A really bright (or as a good friend would say, “shiny”) spot during the past month is the seemingly miraculous ditching of US Airways flight 1549 in the Hudson River. I’m glad the media have picked this up and run with it, but I feel for the crew who would love to just fade back into the mainstream and get on with their lives. They were, in fact, just “doing their jobs to the best of their abilities” and I salute them for their professionalism, their bravery under duress, and their quiet acknowledgment of the outpouring of interest and affection by a grateful world population. They are truly role models. We’ve had little to cheer about that isn’t partisan and this story has been a blessing. But, as usual, the media will beat this horse long after it has ceased to breathe.

Time to get on with the rest of my day. I’ll be back.

The Tooth Fairy Bites

I have a new goal in life. This is a good, positive thing and I’m glad to have this goal. Well, to be honest there are two goals, now that I think about it. The first goal is to enjoy a good steak again some day. That would be stellar. The second goal is to simply yawn with abandon and let it be a relaxing thing, rather than a touchy painfully embarrassing thing.

Why, you may ask, are these simple goals at the forefront of my thinking? Because I had the dreaded teeth thing happen a couple weeks ago. I’ll tell you one thing, I’ll never take a good comfortable chew for granted ever again.

I’d had multiple teeth removed a few years back, but I don’t recall it being a really big deal. Maybe it was, I don’t know. Maybe my memory has become selective. I know we don’t remember pain. What we remember is the fear the pain brought. I do remember some fear during the last go-round. But this time I said good-bye to nine teeth in one sitting, or reclining, if you will. I have to hand it to my dentist. She stayed with it and stayed calm, even when it became apparent that these teeth would not go gentle into that good night. It was exhausting for me, I know that.

To complicate matters, I developed an serious infection a few days later and am still taking some killer antibiotics. I believe that I’ve had this infection for a year or more and the trauma to my gums, jaw, and psyche gave it an opportunity to explode. Not fun. But it’s well-in-hand as I type and a low-level irritation in my right ear that I’ve been suspicious of is clearing up too. I had two docs look in there with the standard ear-canal-viewing tool and tell me there was nothing going on. I didn’t really believe them then and now I’m positive they just overlooked a low-grade infection.

What I’m experiencing here is a rite-of-passage into, um, mature life. I’ll just go with that euphemism I think. I don’t feel like an old guy. And really I’m not. I’m only 58. If this were 1908 I’d be old, I guess, but this is 2008 and people are starting to commonly live into their 90s and beyond. My dad just turned 91 and he and my mom are still living on their own, taking care of themselves and are enjoying their friends and neighbors. I’m sure they don’t feel particularly ancient. Oh sure, sometimes we all do, but the cliché is really true: You Are Only As Old As You Feel. How you treat yourself and your genetic make-up collaborate to give you what you get.

I find this transition fascinating, watching my body change, watching myself develop patience I didn’t know I had. Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll even learn to cut myself some slack. I’m also beginning to see my children look at me with newly-realized respect and also with a trace of worry because I am changing. I am showing signs of aging. But I’m learning so much. The engine is still running like a champ and I learn something cool every day.

I am a blessed man. Thanks for listening.

Miles of Smiles

As I watched the opening Olympic ceremonies from Beijing last night I was struck by a comment either Costas or Lauer made about the participants being reminded to smile because it made the experience "less intimidating" to the world-wide audience. While it's true that most smiles are less intimidating than scowls and leers, I have personally experienced smiles that were darn near terrifying in their intimidation. For example, when I was a kid I was up in an apple tree eating an apple. Okay, the apple wasn't "mine" and it was, I suppose, stealing. I was really enjoying the apple and heard a sound that I came to identify later as the cocking of the hammers on a double-barreled shotgun. I turned to look into the eyes of Mr. Rogers, the owner of the apple tree and the apple. He was smiling. It was intimidating. So was the rock salt he blasted in my direction. (I don't think he tried very hard to hit me.) Over the next few years we developed an interesting friendship after that decidedly inauspicious beginning.

But I digress. Smiles are, indeed, magical. I have smiled at myself in the mirror and felt a load lifted from my psyche. I have smiled at my kids and watched their behavior and attitudes change in an instant from sullen and withdrawn to attentive and curious. I've smiled at strangers and seen their blank stares become smiles in milliseconds. It's almost automatic.

So when the drummers and the dancers and the Tai Chi people smiled as they performed in Beijing last night I was transported by the joy in their faces and in their actions and in the way they carried themselves. They weren't acting. They were truly having the times of their lives. It was cathartic in a most fundamental way. I felt connected to the people of China in a way I'd never before experienced. Isn't that the point of having an Olympics? No matter what happens now, no matter what the competition brings, these 2008 Olympics are already a success for me.

What is it in a smile that does that for us? If you smile at a dog, the dog worries a little because you are baring your teeth. Smile at a cat and the cat yawns and pays no attention. Smile at a cop and you may be asking for trouble because he or she may wonder how many whacks on the pipe or bottle you've had. But smile without an agenda at another person, even if it's at yourself in a mirror, a strange chemistry ensues. Your mood lightens and your heart relaxes. I'm fairly certain endorphins are involved in some way, but don't ask me any specifics. If you are interested in the whole phenomonae of smiling and what it means to us humans, you can access the following, which might lead you on a wonderful wild goose chase.

http://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/news/fullstory_66660.html

The next time you find yourself grumpy, out-of-sorts, or just generally listless, go find a mirror and smile at yourself. It can be a cynical this-is-silly smile. That's okay. But keep it up. I'd be willing to bet that if you persist the real response will wind up being a genuine smile and you'll be in a better place within seconds of looking in the mirror.

Try it. If it works or not, I'd be interested in your reaction. Just drop me a line via this blog.

Hometown happening

A plane crashed into a house today in what I consider to be my hometown. I didn’t grow up there. Most people who know me are adamant that I never really accomplished growing up … I’m not sure what that means, exactly, but the term Grown-up carries some kind of responsible baggage with it. I’ve embraced responsibility, I guess, but I’m still resisting the grown-up thing. Obviously, I’ve never seriously embraced it.

My hometown, Gearhart, Oregon, is in the throes of an ongoing tragedy. People have died, most of them, I think, are most certainly not grown-up. We have dead kids there. This is wrong. Kids are not supposed to go before their parents. Not in this country. Not Now.

But kids die all over the world. They are the most vulnerable of the vulnerable. They starve. They get blown up. This is common elsewhere. In Gearhart, Oregon, it is most rare, indeed.
It's curious why I think of Gearhart as my home town. I’ve lived in Portland since 1979 (you do the math), but I still think of the North Oregon coast as home. Why is that?

I think it’s because the love of my life grew up there. I kind of pinballed around until I caromed into her in Gearhart, of all places. Our eldest was born in Seaside because that’s where the hospital was. It was a good time and a good place to be born. It was before Reagan and the whole Bush-fueled descent into our Twenty-first Century hell. Life was easy in a lot of ways. It was hard to make ends meet, but we were working people and it’s always been hard on working people. We carry the load. We shoulder the debt incurred by all those nice folks who make the proverbial killing at the expense of everything else, the planet, the economy, the working people.

Am I bitter? Hell, no. It is what it is. I’m having a great ride. I have wonderful people who think I’m wonderful (mostly, anyway). Life is too short to take it too seriously. If there are angels, I think their best advice would be: Lighten up. Have some fun. Share your joy. In the end, it’s who loves you and who you love. That's the important stuff. Next time you start going sideways, let that pop into your head and see if it doesn't smooth things a bit.

Abidee, abidee, abidee, that’s all folks!

Scary Business ...

I saw a photograph the other day of one of my favorite musicians. He looked like a bloated caricature of a cartoon monster. He’s a few years older than me, but has been a music icon in this country for forty-plus years. We kind of grew up together, he in the public eye and me in total obscurity. We’ve never really met, but have rubbed elbows a couple times. After looking at the picture I just want to go slap him and yell “What’re you doing? Is this what forty million dollars does for a guy? Go look in a mirror! Have some respect for yourself.”

Okay, so it’s one picture and it could’ve been a bad angle and my reaction might be over the top. But I am horrified and I wonder why. After examining my reaction I realize that what the picture really does is scare the hell out of me. That could be me looking like a melted meat-and-cheese sandwich. I don’t ever want to look like that and any notion that it might be inevitable is terrifying. The notion of aging gracefully and the photograph of my clay-footed hero are diametrically opposed.

What I’ve taken from this little experience is some very strong motivation to slow down on my bad habits and put some more oomph into the few good ones that I’ve managed to develop over the years. In that sense, the cartoon guy is still working as a role model. Sure, it’s a reverse kind of role model, but he’s still doing some good, in my life anyway. Maybe I should tell him that instead of yelling at him. Just because he’s got forty million bucks doesn’t mean he’s a really happy kind of guy.

That’s a fundamental truth, I think. Developing and maintaining a positive attitude about most everything really works to ensure a clear head and a healthy outlook. Think healthy, be healthy. Or something like that. It seems very simplistic, but maybe that’s part of the life lesson we should all pay attention to and learn from. Simple doesn’t necessarily mean limited. It also doesn’t always mean easy.

I think what I’ll do this evening is go find a recording my reverse role model made years ago, put it on, and listen carefully. I’ll contemplate the vagaries brought on by time on the planet and how they manifest differently for different people. Fate, whether real or not, is an interesting concept. Where were we when this music was recorded and how different are our lives now? Who’s to say if there’s a “better” to be understood? All I know is that I really don’t want to end up looking like that photograph. My ego won’t stand for it and has fueled a positive response that might serve me well for years to come. Wisdom is learned and, more importantly, invariably earned.

Shhh! Don't Talk About That Stuff

Among people who know me, I am simply a remarkably dilapidated seventeen year-old. How am I doing at fifty-eight? Not too bad. My health care system tells me that my “numbers” are good, mostly within range, and that my blood pressure is fine. I had the dreaded Sigmoidoscopy and asked if I could keep the video. The answer was no. Then, last year I had the even more dreaded knock-yourself-out-full-meal-deal colonoscopy. I got to sleep through that, which was just fine with me.

This stuff is important. I had a very good friend who woke up one morning, went into the bathroom to study the constitution for a while (I just do a crossword puzzle) only to discover he was seriously bleeding. He drove up to the hospital and was told he had cancer of the colon and was dead six weeks later. He’d had no symptoms until he happened to look down before he flushed the toilet that morning.

Now, really, does anybody really want to talk about this stuff? Hell, no. Apparently, it’s not politically correct. It’s not genteel to discuss bodily functions, fluids, and solid wastes. To quote a good friend: “Erpie pew-pew.” I mean, if you’re in an elevator somewhere and either you or the darling administrative assistant next to you cuts the cheese, drops a Cobalt bomb, or however you want to euphemize passing gas, and the result triggers your gag reflex, you can’t just smile and say: “Whoa. That’s awful!” or “Jeez. Stick a cork in that superfund site!” No. It’s not polite. You can comment on a friend’s gas, but not a stranger’s. I guess it has something to do with embarrassment, yours and the stranger’s. This same reluctance transfers to open discussions about the health and performance of your guts, or anything that involves gooey physical detritus.

I propose that we have a national Talk-About-Your-Guts Day. We would all benefit. If we can save one life by encouraging frank and honest dialog about how to educate people to pay attention to their what-goes-in-and-what-comes-out system, wouldn’t it be worth it?

And the next time you catch yourself idly thinking about a friendship, I think you can be enlightened by answering the following question: are farts funny? If your answer is yes, most likely you have yourself a good friend.

Next time, let’s riff some more on this Political Correctness theme. It’s one of my pet peeves. If you’re going to keep a pet, it’s best to keep it fed, eh?

Recovery Time

In the dim and misty past I was something of an athlete and party animal. Both of these activities placed large amounts of stress on my physical person, the protoplasmic envelope in which I exist. I like this envelope. It is certainly limiting and slow compared to the rest of the animal kingdom, but I derive a great deal of pleasure from simply living inside it. I am blessed with a strong and decent machine. I don’t have movie-star looks, but I pass muster and have also been blessed with a confident nature that helps others look past my obvious faults. When I was a young man I was fairly invincible and enjoyed working out with weights and walking long distances. My knees have thanked me to this very day for nurturing an intense loathing of any kind of distance running. I prided myself on being darn near unbeatable in a fifteen yard sprint. At sixteen yards I went from first to last. So I learned to stay with what I was good at.

I remember all of this very well. My wife thinks that I use my prodigious creative talent to enhance my memory, but that’s a story for another day. I went along gracefully through life, thinking that it was perfectly normal to work all day and party all night and then get up and do it again. What’s the big deal? Sure, I might feel a little tiredness as day after a short nap began, but that passed and I grew stronger as the time went on. Serious hangovers were a different matter, of course, but again, those stories are for a different day.

This was life. It went on for years. The future was forever and the past was just the past. No thoughts of old Glory Days came up because I was living the Glory Days and I knew it. Money was scarce, but so what. We were having fun and the future was a bright glow at the start of each day.

Then something strange happened. Intense physical activity had always brought stiffness and the ache of lactic acid in the large muscles, but all you needed to do was stretch, get some blood flowing to those sore muscles and it went away. Nothing to it. But one morning, I don’t remember which one, exactly, but it was there ... yes, one morning the stretching didn’t work. The second stretch didn’t work either. It wasn’t until the third or fourth stretch that things went back to fluid normal. I would imagine that I just shrugged and paid this anomaly no more heed.
Until, of course, this anomaly became a regular occurrence. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that I needed to limp a little bit even AFTER a shower. All of a sudden I had to pay attention (always a challenge for me). I started to ask the real athletes I knew about this. Those my age all nodded and shared my puzzlement. Those older just sighed. “Welcome to the real world, kid,” they’d say.

Hmm. Real world? What the hell were they talking about?

It became apparent all too soon. I began to learn about something called Recovery Time. I was a Pitcher on the baseball team in school, a reliever mostly. I threw hard every day. I kept playing Ball after school. My arm was made of steel. Recovery time meant a good night’s sleep. Now, like the professional players, it meant four days of resting it. That made sense because of the enormous stress put on it. But the rest of me was good to go. Wasn’t it? Suddenly, it wasn’t. I started noticing soreness that lasted a full day. Then it became two days. I actually had to work out more carefully and move the target group of muscles around each day. Hell. Nowadays my body goes into shock and I don’t even GET sore for two days and it lasts a week.

Welcome to the real world, kid. This decline leveled off to a plateau that slowly descended as I gained weight and lost muscle mass. I became a working writer, which put my expanding butt in a chair for hours every day and I lost my wind and, slowly, my desire to compete. I “retired” from playing Ball at what is now the frisky age of forty-eight. Things kept popping and straining and ripping loose. These were actual injuries that required medical attention and extended healing periods. My machine had become an adversary instead of a trusted friend. I even had to quit smoking, which is something I will write about in the future.

Waitaminnit! The realization hit me like the hot slap of a flabby forearm. I was getting OLD! How could this be?

Stay tuned for more on this insane revelation.

The Eyes Have It. Or Not.

The eyes have it. Or not, in my case. Of all the issues I’ve had to learn to deal with as I experience this aging thing, losing my ability to see things clearly, close up, has caused me the most grief. It started out innocently enough. I’d be at a restaurant and suddenly the light would be insufficient and my arms were just not long enough for me to comfortably read the menu. And the typeset … why was the type so small? Unbelievable.

It slowly dawned on me, much to my wife’s delight, that I needed reading glasses, that I was succumbing to the condition called presbyopia, which is a Latin word meaning What Does That Say? At first, I liked the fact that I needed to fish glasses out of my pocket to read what was in my hand. It made me feel studious and smart. It advertised that I knew how to read. Hey look! This stuff is so important that I need to apply extra effort just to read it. Wow. It must be important. It made me feel like I’d joined some exclusive club. Yeah. The Can’t See Shit club is always groping for new members.

In some cases, it is very important to read things, operating instructions on a nuclear submarine, for example. Your restaurant bill too, because what you point to on the menu might be poisonous or worse, like cost over thirty dollars. I mean, how would you know? If you’ve ever been to a fancy joint that publishes no prices on the menu, you know what I’m talking about. If you can’t read the price, it might as well not be there. So I am relieved to fumble for the glasses, put them on, and knowingly study. You can’t be pulling a fast one on me. Nope. I know stuff.

Without the need for glasses to defeat this presbyopia thing, none of this entertaining drama happens. But I tire of drama. Reading isn’t the only thing that goes away with aging eyes. I love working on my motorcycle. I like to feel connected to my Flaming Engine of Death and when I’m trying to ascertain if, say, a gasket is properly aligned, I need to be able to see the sharp edges of the surfaces involved. If I’m in the electrical system, I need to see connections and deal with small screws. Without my glasses I’m helpless.

Okay. Now, I’m starting to lose my patience. It’s one thing to look studious and engage those fantasies of brilliant professorship. It’s entirely another to be completely at a loss while looking sideways at a tiny screw hole as your glasses slip down your nose and you Can’t See Shit. That damn club keeps demanding dues.

I'm learning to compensate. I have glasses in every room in the house, including the bathrooms. I have glasses in my tool chest. I have glasses in my saddlebags, my jackets, all of my vehicles. I’m starting to feel pretty smug. But that only lasts until I experience the unthinkable. I put on my pair of glasses and I slowly realize that I still Can’t See Shit. How can this be? What happened to my glasses? They worked great yesterday. Dread clutches at my heart as I slowly realize that my eyes have decayed beyond the capabilities of the glasses I’ve so meticulously stocked everywhere. What? I need NEW glasses? Sometimes, irony is not pretty or even particularly entertaining. Off to the store I go, looking for glasses that advertise a bigger number. +1.25 just doesn't cut it anymore. Fortunately, I've discovered that there is a great way to recycle glasses that don't work anymore. Just leave them in restaurants, or the library, or the counter at the supermarket. Believe me, some aging boomer will really appreciate it when he or she discovers that their own glasses have mysteriously vanished.

More dues to pay. This Can’t See Shit club is really getting on my nerves now. This impatience with my condition ebbs and flows. Sometimes it’s funny and sometimes it’s just a pain. Light is certainly a key factor. If I can shine enough light on what I’m trying to see, I almost don’t need the glasses. Some days are better than others. But the bottom line is that I have resigned myself to this dance of augmenting the ability of my meat machine to function at peak performance. So far, as I creep toward sixty, my eyes are the friction point of my aging process. I have yet to experience much of what is supposed to come as I slide out to pasture. My parents, who are vastly amused when they hear me whine about this stuff, have assured me, with no small measure of satisfaction, that my "time is coming." My mother says: "Getting old is not for the squeamish." Oh boy. I wish this felt like Christmas did when I was little.

Next time, I’ll bring up physical recovery time and see what happens. Stay tuned.