Today I woke up and had to get on a conference call as soon as I got up. I was trying to wake up as the call got started, but it never really worked. Several times throughout the call, I found myself lost and disinterested. Such is the norm with me and conference calls, but these Monday morning ones are especially brutal. I was called upon to give my input and I gave a less than inspiring account of my daily happenings from the past week. When someone else was talking, a question was posed to determine if one of my customers were experiencing a similar issue. Everyone on the call paused to wait for my feedback.
I had nothing to say. I played it off like I had forgotten to turn the mute button off, but the truth is that I had not really heard the question. Apathy is really putting a damper on my productivity. I'll snap out of it though. There's something about the relationship between my inactivity and productivity. If I stay active, my mind is sharp and I am more focused. When I am not terribly active, like I'm not right now due to the knee injury, everything else in the way of productivity seems to suffer as well. Oh well, I'll get through it soon enough.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
The Aftermath
I found out today that the USC Trojans lost to Oregon State last night. I feel like I was in a coma and when I woke up everyone had long since been over the shock of the whole thing to the point that it wasn't even news anymore. It would've been all that they talked about on every station. All day it has felt like life went on without me and I was not missed.
Where was I? Well, I stepped into a vacuum in the universe known as the emergency room at Summit Hospital in Oakland. What a surreal experience this place was. The same set of characters seemed to be present, but there were no metal detectors to walk through like there are at Kaiser. I found parking rather easily, and hobbled my 1-crutch totin' self on into the registration area. Before I could really get myself into a comfortable position in the chair, the triage nurse had called my name.
This was an interesting character who kept making me laugh even though I was doubled over in pain, and he looked like one of my cousins. I stepped out of this chamber of comedy and found a seat close by at the urging of Senor Triage. I was amazed at how many open seats there were in this place. What kind of emergency room was this? Had I fallen asleep in Downtown Oakland and awakened in Mayberry? There was hardly anybody there and yet a really chatty gentleman named Warren decided to sit right next to me. Okay, not RIGHT right next to me, but just on the other side of an end table about 2 feet wide that held several magazines and a Sporting Green from the day's San Francisco Chronicle. Immediately, Warren starts to peer at the newspaper that I was reading to pass the time, almost leaning into my lap to read.
"Let me get that when you're done," he said
"Oh sure, no problem," I said, counting no less than 15 seats in my direct line of sight without turning my head a single degree in either direction. Warren proceeded to talk, and rather loudly, about the Raiders, the Yankees, John McCain, his knucklehead nephew, his bad feet, and again his nephew. Don't get me wrong, he was a nice guy, I was just feeling like I wanted to sit there and die peacefully, wallowing in my own self-pity for my last few pathetic moments. He reminded me of a lighter-skinned, bald-headed version of the late Bernie Mac and his voice was every bit as booming.
"DEXTER OWENS?"
Saved! I was again amazed at how fast the proceedings were going here. I was called by somebody else to go through some additional paperwork. Five minutes after that I was being whisked into the next room to get the IV hooked up and have some blood drawn. Yeah...an IV. Oh, I got ahead of myself. I apparently picked the wrong day to eat some turkey salad from the Safeway deli and it did quite a number on my stomach. Since I was not yet feeling well at the 24 hour mark since eating this salmonella salad I decided to seek some medical attention.
What a frightening proposition this was! This was the first time that I have needed medical care RIGHT NOW and could not just stroll into to Kaiser, aka the devil I know. Although I would have to endure the indignity of that metal detector and probably stand because their emergency room is so crowded, at least I knew where to go. I had to get some friends to look up some info for me on the internet while I drove in the direction of the hospital.
I'm happy to report that I survived (so far, although I have only consumed chicken broth today) and lived to tell about it. Sure, I was hooked up to an IV for 2 hours, and didn't get home until almost 5 hours after I had arrived, but I felt a little better when I left. It's amazing how much better this PPO stuff is than Kaiser. Maybe it has something to do with getting the bill in the mail at a later date. I'll let you know if I'm still so high on them when it arrives.
Where was I? Well, I stepped into a vacuum in the universe known as the emergency room at Summit Hospital in Oakland. What a surreal experience this place was. The same set of characters seemed to be present, but there were no metal detectors to walk through like there are at Kaiser. I found parking rather easily, and hobbled my 1-crutch totin' self on into the registration area. Before I could really get myself into a comfortable position in the chair, the triage nurse had called my name.
This was an interesting character who kept making me laugh even though I was doubled over in pain, and he looked like one of my cousins. I stepped out of this chamber of comedy and found a seat close by at the urging of Senor Triage. I was amazed at how many open seats there were in this place. What kind of emergency room was this? Had I fallen asleep in Downtown Oakland and awakened in Mayberry? There was hardly anybody there and yet a really chatty gentleman named Warren decided to sit right next to me. Okay, not RIGHT right next to me, but just on the other side of an end table about 2 feet wide that held several magazines and a Sporting Green from the day's San Francisco Chronicle. Immediately, Warren starts to peer at the newspaper that I was reading to pass the time, almost leaning into my lap to read.
"Let me get that when you're done," he said
"Oh sure, no problem," I said, counting no less than 15 seats in my direct line of sight without turning my head a single degree in either direction. Warren proceeded to talk, and rather loudly, about the Raiders, the Yankees, John McCain, his knucklehead nephew, his bad feet, and again his nephew. Don't get me wrong, he was a nice guy, I was just feeling like I wanted to sit there and die peacefully, wallowing in my own self-pity for my last few pathetic moments. He reminded me of a lighter-skinned, bald-headed version of the late Bernie Mac and his voice was every bit as booming.
"DEXTER OWENS?"
Saved! I was again amazed at how fast the proceedings were going here. I was called by somebody else to go through some additional paperwork. Five minutes after that I was being whisked into the next room to get the IV hooked up and have some blood drawn. Yeah...an IV. Oh, I got ahead of myself. I apparently picked the wrong day to eat some turkey salad from the Safeway deli and it did quite a number on my stomach. Since I was not yet feeling well at the 24 hour mark since eating this salmonella salad I decided to seek some medical attention.
What a frightening proposition this was! This was the first time that I have needed medical care RIGHT NOW and could not just stroll into to Kaiser, aka the devil I know. Although I would have to endure the indignity of that metal detector and probably stand because their emergency room is so crowded, at least I knew where to go. I had to get some friends to look up some info for me on the internet while I drove in the direction of the hospital.
I'm happy to report that I survived (so far, although I have only consumed chicken broth today) and lived to tell about it. Sure, I was hooked up to an IV for 2 hours, and didn't get home until almost 5 hours after I had arrived, but I felt a little better when I left. It's amazing how much better this PPO stuff is than Kaiser. Maybe it has something to do with getting the bill in the mail at a later date. I'll let you know if I'm still so high on them when it arrives.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
SO so motivated...
You ever have one of those days where you really don't feel like doing too much? Too much is actually not a fair assessment at all. It would be more accurate to say that you don't feel like doing anything. Breathing seems to be an arduous task. If i could just fall asleep and wake up sometime during the Obama administration with a good knee and a resting heartrate back in the 40s, I'll be good.
Once again, I woke up this morning to the sound of jackhammers, trucks revving their engines loudly and then backing up while playing the accompanying "beep.....beep.....beep." I tried to ignore it for at least an hour. I tried to roll over to the other side of the bed away from the window. Next I opted for the old head under the pillow trick but that didn't work either. This was worse than about 2 hours earlier when I had finally found that perfect position. Perfectly odd position that is more like it. I had my right leg over the left side of the bed while the whole left side of my body was lying like I was on my back. My right arm was fully extended over to the top right corner of the bed as if it had a nail through it and my left arm was bent over head. I don't know how I ended up like this, but it was apparently the single posture that did not aggravate the sciatic nerve in my lower back to keep me awake. But then I had to go to the bathroom. I cursed my bladder for what seemed like hours, but was probably only 30 or 40 minutes. Before I finally succumbed, I made a mental note of said position so that I could recreate the abstact body-art pose again and falling fast asleep again. Of course it didn't work out like that. Somehow I fell asleep again, but it seemed to be all too short.
I had the remote control in hand for about 10 minutes when I decided that sleep was no longer in my cards and that perhaps I should watch TV. It was almost 9, so Regis and Kelly should be on. I didn't feel like watching them though. My computer was in the other room, but I didn't feel like hobbling over to get it. Everything is such a chore. I finally did get up and get it, but I didn't even feel like checking email or reading anything that the internet had to offer. Pain would zap all of my creative thoughts for the day and apathy would prevent me from doing much work. Food is always good in these instances. I opted to pick up something when my I went to get my daughter from school. I didn't even feel up to making a peanut butter sandwich.
Once again, I woke up this morning to the sound of jackhammers, trucks revving their engines loudly and then backing up while playing the accompanying "beep.....beep.....beep." I tried to ignore it for at least an hour. I tried to roll over to the other side of the bed away from the window. Next I opted for the old head under the pillow trick but that didn't work either. This was worse than about 2 hours earlier when I had finally found that perfect position. Perfectly odd position that is more like it. I had my right leg over the left side of the bed while the whole left side of my body was lying like I was on my back. My right arm was fully extended over to the top right corner of the bed as if it had a nail through it and my left arm was bent over head. I don't know how I ended up like this, but it was apparently the single posture that did not aggravate the sciatic nerve in my lower back to keep me awake. But then I had to go to the bathroom. I cursed my bladder for what seemed like hours, but was probably only 30 or 40 minutes. Before I finally succumbed, I made a mental note of said position so that I could recreate the abstact body-art pose again and falling fast asleep again. Of course it didn't work out like that. Somehow I fell asleep again, but it seemed to be all too short.
I had the remote control in hand for about 10 minutes when I decided that sleep was no longer in my cards and that perhaps I should watch TV. It was almost 9, so Regis and Kelly should be on. I didn't feel like watching them though. My computer was in the other room, but I didn't feel like hobbling over to get it. Everything is such a chore. I finally did get up and get it, but I didn't even feel like checking email or reading anything that the internet had to offer. Pain would zap all of my creative thoughts for the day and apathy would prevent me from doing much work. Food is always good in these instances. I opted to pick up something when my I went to get my daughter from school. I didn't even feel up to making a peanut butter sandwich.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
La Playa Caribe
Thunderstorms crash against a blue-grey sky, interrupting the gentle rustling of the wind through the palm trees, yet still I strive…to find even better locations for recovery. With the distinct exception of my Dominica sojourn years ago, I refuse to accept that I can visit an island without spending some time on the beach.. Here in the Dominican Republic, that quest was on once again. Significantly slowed by this bad wheel, the potential for engaging in my usual adventuresome ways would be all but eliminated. Not to worry though, because I knew that going in. I’m supposed to be convalescing. I’m supposed to be relaxing and recovering. Gallivanting down cobblestone streets or traipsing around museums or seeing any sights is sadly not in the plans.
The beach is a pretty fair consolation though, in my opinion. Any chance I can get to look at the ocean and be close enough to hear the crashing waves, I’m surely going to take. My hotel had a clear view of the Caribbean Sea that began just on the other side of George Washington Avenue, but being essentially in an urban area of this seaside town there was no beach close by.
The concierge and other locals let us know that the beach was a little ways past the airport at a place called Boca Chica. It was interesting to hear the varying reviews about said beach. Some people described it as nice, while others made a screwface and shook their head as if they had just caught a wiff of something unpleasant. Others still said that it was nice, but it has fallen off a bit. (Keep in mind that the bulk of these descriptions were in Spanish).
The very well groomed concierge lady (picture somebody with long hair, high cheek bones and an elegance that suggested perhaps she had adorned an evening gown and a sash at some point) said Playa Caribe was going to be our best bet, but that it was pretty far away and that a taxi could get a bit expensive. We were looking at about $50 each way and then we had to hope that we could catch one on the way back. This didn't seem like a terribly good plan since we had no knowledge of the area. The last thing I want to do is get caught out there with no way to leave. Since persuading a local to take us out there was not looking likely, it was time to make an exception to one of my long standing travel rules. I would have to rent a car in another country.
Technically, I have driven in Canada before, but that's not really like a foreign country. They drive just like we do here. In fact, they drive even slower and really follow all of the rules. Driving in third world countries, and even in very developed countries in Asia is completely BANANAS.This place tended to be closer to bananas than not. We'll call it platanos. The only saving grace here was that there wasn't an obscene amount of traffic as in a place like Bogota. The toughest thing would be pulling out of the hotel onto George Washington Avenue which was basically an expressway with no stop lights in sight. Finding the beach was relatively easy, given that this is an island and most of the time the big road on an island is one that goes around its edges. So we jumped in the red mitsubishi montero that they rented us and I was nominated to drive. I laughed to myself about the crippled guy getting the nod, but then again, I felt safer with my own driving skills. Besides, it was an automatic, so I didn't need my left leg to drive. I only needed to withstand the agony of keeping my left leg bent in this small car while we drove.
After what seemed like 2 or 3 minutes, I finally made the left onto George Washington Avenue and away we went. It never ceases to amaze me how people overestimate or are just plain wrong on distances and times that it takes to get somewhere in other places. It's probably because the breakneck pace of American life doesn't make time such an issue so it's not really paid attention to as much. In about 30 minutes, we had passed by the airport and were going through towns that were much more rural than Santo Domingo. I was surprised at how much it resembled the drive from Saigon up to Vung Tau in Vietnam. There were livestock roaming along the side of the road, chickens meandering around, and children playing way too close to the freeway, but you got the sense that they new better than to stray out there.
The first beach that we came upon was the aforementioned Boca Chica. There were lots of other cars making this turn, so it wasn't hard to find. Unfortunately, there were lots of cars making this turn, so it wasn't all that serene either. It was definitely a party out here at this place. Remember that scene in Boyz n the Hood, or Hustle and Flow where all of the cars were in the parking lot and everyone was rollin' through with the tops down and the music on loud? No? Okay..is D.C. in the house? Do cats still stroll on over to Hanes Point and wash and wax their cars out there on Sunday afternoon while playing their music as loud as possible so that as many people as possible notice them? Well, Boca Chica was like that. Going down that main strip was like driving through a parade and every man woman and child was gettin' their hustle on, trying to sell you dulces, cervezas, fans, agua...you name it. There were so many people on the sand that there was no reason to even stop the car. I was in search of west and wewaxation. People watching is always welcomed, but I'd settle for some crashing waves and a clean plot of sand. Back to the highway it was.
When we had driven another 15 or 20 minutes, it became apparent that we must've missed the turn and had gone too far. We stumbled upon another beach called Guayacanes, but it was just like Boca Chica with way too much goin' on. After doubling back, I saw the little sign that led to Playa Caribe (blink and you woulda missed it). This little stretch of beach was so small that it looked like someone's private seaside hideaway. It wasn't exactly pristine, fine white sand with aqua blue water like you might see in Turks and Caicos or the Bahamas, but it was nice. There were palapas with the Presidente cerveza logo on them all over the place and reclining beach chairs. We found some empties and I hobbled on over and plunked down. Just then the beach "commisioner" rolled up demanding payment for the "rental" of said beach chairs. It was only a couple bucks, so I didn't argue. He also sold us some Presidentes, so it was all good.
It was already late in the afternoon so hanging out there for a couple hours was about all we were able to do. That was just fine though. Watching the waves crash against the cliff in the distance and listening to the rustle of the wind through the palm trees was plenty for me. I was treated to the cat and mouse game that is inevitable when a group of teenagers spend Sunday at the beach. The ratios are always bad, but that never stops the group from having way too much fun. There were a group of about 20 kids who had to be about 15 or 16, but only about 5 girls. Naturally, the boys were acting up and the girls were kind of playing along, only slightly objecting to the throwing of sand or excessive splashing. After many failed attempts at a human pyramid, they switched their attention back to the young ladies. At one point the fellas were really getting crazy as they, standing in water up to their necks, had apparently removed their trunks and began waving them overhead while chanting something over and over again. The girls thought better of this and stayed back out of the water and waited this routine out for the 10-15 minutes that it endured.
The sun kept playing peek-a-boo behind the clouds all day, and it even started to rain. Nobody even flinched at the drops nor ran for cover though. I didn't bother to move the half of my body that was not totally under the shade of the palapa, and just let the warm rain drops hit me. It felt like a Carl Thomas song.
Summer rain
Whispers me to sleep
And wakes me up again
Sometimes I swear I hear her call my name
To wash away the pain
My summer rain
That made the rental car worth it right there.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Sabado Gigante!
It's Saturday and I'm doin' it big in DR. Well, as big as you can do it on one leg. Let me run down the day for you. After getting up and doing my first round of rehab exercises and icing in the easy chair that they have positioned in the corner of my room here at the Renaissance Jaragua Hotel and Casino in Santo Domingo, I had a light breakfast of juevos, papas, y empanadas. The sun was shining and I hadn't been to the pool yet, so that would be my next order of business.
I'm not allowed to swim or even submerge my leg in water yet, but nobody said that I couldn't lay next to the pool with my leg covered by ice bags. Icing never felt so good. First of all, it was about 90 degrees at 11am and very, very humid. Under those conditions, you don't even have to suck it up and fight through those first two minutes of adjusting to the cold ice bags against your skin. Add a strawberry, ice cream and rum concoction and a view of not only the pool and the surrounding palm trees, but also the Caribbean Sea and it becomes very clear that this is indeed the way to adhere to your recovery program. I was sure to slather up with the SPF 30 sunscreen and bring my polarized Maui Jim sunglasses even though the sun kept dipping behind the very expansive, billowy, white cloud cover.
I let my leg thaw out and then put the ice bags on again as Bob Marley blasted through the speakers and I enjoyed my surroundings. It seems as though Bob has written the soundtrack for the sea (at least the tropical sea) as nothing makes you feel the ambiance of windblown palm trees, sunshine, and crashing waves like he and the Wailers telling you to get down with the Kinky Reggae. As you can see, I was in no hurry to leave. But, alas, all good things must come to an end. My ice bags finally turned to water and my stomach started tuggin' at me for lunch.
Some of the employees at the pool bar suggested a spot about 3 blocks back in the neighborhood behind the hotel called El Conuco. Good call! The indoor/outdoor dining area was brightly colored and decorated with tropical birds, some drums and the colorful characters that were waiting on the tables. As usual, I ordered way too much food because I just want to try everything. I probably should've skipped the yucca with onions because my grilled steak with grilled onions was plenty. I forgot to mention the sancocho which I think is now, officially, my favorite thing to eat here. In fact, I'm going to go home and try to re-create this salty beef stew type soup in my own kitchen. Most of the restaurants here serve a small portion of it whether you order it or not. The candied papaya that I had for dessert was absolutely what the doctor ordered to top this late lunch off.
Saturday night proved that my hotel was indeed the place to be. In addition to the various conferences taking place in the ballrooms, and the nightly hustle and bustle of the casino, there was a sold out concert taking place in el Teatro Fiesta located at the rear of the casino. Folks came in droves and best in their elegant best to see Emmanuel, a Mexican crooner who must've been wildly popular around these parts. Walking out and catching a taxi, I noticed the multitude of cars parked any which way they could along the road leading away from the hotel. Later on, as the concert ended and folks made their way on to Santo Domingo's version of Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles (aka Adrian Tropical), the fashion show was on once again. Actually, I'm perhaps not being fair to Adrian's by comparing it to Roscoe's because it's people watching, and even its food, easily outdistances Roscoe's.
I'm not allowed to swim or even submerge my leg in water yet, but nobody said that I couldn't lay next to the pool with my leg covered by ice bags. Icing never felt so good. First of all, it was about 90 degrees at 11am and very, very humid. Under those conditions, you don't even have to suck it up and fight through those first two minutes of adjusting to the cold ice bags against your skin. Add a strawberry, ice cream and rum concoction and a view of not only the pool and the surrounding palm trees, but also the Caribbean Sea and it becomes very clear that this is indeed the way to adhere to your recovery program. I was sure to slather up with the SPF 30 sunscreen and bring my polarized Maui Jim sunglasses even though the sun kept dipping behind the very expansive, billowy, white cloud cover.
I let my leg thaw out and then put the ice bags on again as Bob Marley blasted through the speakers and I enjoyed my surroundings. It seems as though Bob has written the soundtrack for the sea (at least the tropical sea) as nothing makes you feel the ambiance of windblown palm trees, sunshine, and crashing waves like he and the Wailers telling you to get down with the Kinky Reggae. As you can see, I was in no hurry to leave. But, alas, all good things must come to an end. My ice bags finally turned to water and my stomach started tuggin' at me for lunch.
Some of the employees at the pool bar suggested a spot about 3 blocks back in the neighborhood behind the hotel called El Conuco. Good call! The indoor/outdoor dining area was brightly colored and decorated with tropical birds, some drums and the colorful characters that were waiting on the tables. As usual, I ordered way too much food because I just want to try everything. I probably should've skipped the yucca with onions because my grilled steak with grilled onions was plenty. I forgot to mention the sancocho which I think is now, officially, my favorite thing to eat here. In fact, I'm going to go home and try to re-create this salty beef stew type soup in my own kitchen. Most of the restaurants here serve a small portion of it whether you order it or not. The candied papaya that I had for dessert was absolutely what the doctor ordered to top this late lunch off.
Saturday night proved that my hotel was indeed the place to be. In addition to the various conferences taking place in the ballrooms, and the nightly hustle and bustle of the casino, there was a sold out concert taking place in el Teatro Fiesta located at the rear of the casino. Folks came in droves and best in their elegant best to see Emmanuel, a Mexican crooner who must've been wildly popular around these parts. Walking out and catching a taxi, I noticed the multitude of cars parked any which way they could along the road leading away from the hotel. Later on, as the concert ended and folks made their way on to Santo Domingo's version of Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles (aka Adrian Tropical), the fashion show was on once again. Actually, I'm perhaps not being fair to Adrian's by comparing it to Roscoe's because it's people watching, and even its food, easily outdistances Roscoe's.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Off and away again
Here I am in a hotel room in Santo Domingo and I couldn't be happier. I have no plans for the rest of the evening other than eating, I'm icing my knee, and I'm watching CNN en Espanol intently. This is the life. Oh sure, I plan to go outside at some point. I didn't fly all this way just to see the inside of a hotel room. However, I am significantly slowed by this wisp of a left knee that I'm trying to slowly nurse back to health. What better place to get well than in a tropical paradise?
This sure beats the four walls that I call my own on Jefferson Street. I never thought I would get tired of my condo, but I surely was after not having seen "outside" for more than a week. Visitors had even commented on how pale I was. I was going stir crazy in there. I think the worst thing was the realization that not even my bed was a grand oasis anymore. Since I have been in such pain and so medicated, I haven't even been sleeping well. It was time to go somewhere. ANYWHERE!
Santo Domingo had been in the plans for a few months and it never occurred to me that I might not be going, unless there were a hurricane blowing through here or something. Boy did I luck out in that regard. All of the bad storms came through here in succession in the last 2 weeks, but this weeks forecast is crystal clear, save for a few scattered thunderstorms. I've always liked those anyway.
So, I'll be in search of some nice local cuisine tonight and my big plan for tomorrow is to sit by the pool with ice bags on my knee.
This sure beats the four walls that I call my own on Jefferson Street. I never thought I would get tired of my condo, but I surely was after not having seen "outside" for more than a week. Visitors had even commented on how pale I was. I was going stir crazy in there. I think the worst thing was the realization that not even my bed was a grand oasis anymore. Since I have been in such pain and so medicated, I haven't even been sleeping well. It was time to go somewhere. ANYWHERE!
Santo Domingo had been in the plans for a few months and it never occurred to me that I might not be going, unless there were a hurricane blowing through here or something. Boy did I luck out in that regard. All of the bad storms came through here in succession in the last 2 weeks, but this weeks forecast is crystal clear, save for a few scattered thunderstorms. I've always liked those anyway.
So, I'll be in search of some nice local cuisine tonight and my big plan for tomorrow is to sit by the pool with ice bags on my knee.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Withdrawal
The intensity continues to grow and its reach is spreading like a wild fire. I lie here in the dark trying to occupy my thoughts with something else. Anything else will do, just as long as I'm not focused on this pain that is no longer limiting itself to atomic pulses emanating from deep inside my surgically repaired left knee. Now, sly serpent that it is, El Dolor has slithered its way up the side of my leg, across the gluteus and is picking at the sciatic nerve in my lower back like he's Bo Diddly at a Juke Joint. I'd scream if I thought it would help. Audibly, that is. I'm sure my insides have been absorbing my repressed screams for hours now since the last of my meds wore off. It's downright excruciating.
I won't even look in its direction. If I were better at ambling around my condo at this point, I would've moved it off my desk and into another room. If I roll over on to my right side, it is within arm's reach. I look out the window instead. There's nothing to see, but that's where my gaze is fixed. While re-runs of Family Guy are on in the background, I'm turned away from the television hoping that the complex math problems I'm making up and subsequently trying to solve in my head will keep me from thinking about it. I was rubbing the area between my knee and upper thigh, but stopped when I noticed I was all but scratching. It's not that warm in here, but now I'm sweating. Last week, as I rode out the heat wave from within these walls, this would've been understandable but it's just a typical cool Oakland evening right now. I'd be surprised if it were more than 62 degrees outside. I pat at my brow with the top sheet on my bed and try to get back to my math problem.
Finally, I'm so curious that I can no longer fight the urge to glance over my right shoulder at it. It's smiling at me and it's not just any smile. It more closely resembles the wry, very evil, toothy grin of the Joker knowing that I am growing so weak that I will soon succumb. Slowly, I turn my head back toward the window. Its smile changes to a smirk as it must've figured out a way to channel all of its energy to telepathically remote control the television's volume down a few notches. I can no longer really hear what Peter, Brian and Stewy are muttering about. My back is still to all of them.
I'm beginning to re-evaluate my feelings toward Michael Imperioli's Chris Maltisanti or Chris Rock's Pookie, having previously lumped them in the bag with the weak and undisciplined. I can hear Omar Gooding's Demetrius Harris from that all too real portrait of life in Pro Football, pleading with himself to muster up some strength before giving in to The Grip. I start to pray, even though I rarely pray directly for myself, that this pain will go away.
It's laughing at me know. I can hear it. That smile turned smirk has now erupted into maniacal laughter, Vincent Price style. At this, I actually get up off the bed, pick up the suddenly very verbose orange bottle of the narcotic pain killer Norco and hobble into the other room with it in tow. I slam it down violently on the counter of the bathroom and close the door behind me when I leave. It knows I'll be back though. El dolor is still manning his post and will continue to do his number on me. Eventually I'll give in.
El Dolor actually turned it on a little too strong as my body must've been so overwhelmed that I actually fell asleep. That was only 45 minutes ago though. I'm awake again now. El Dolor is still here and you know who is still over there in the bathroom and I can still hear him.
I won't even look in its direction. If I were better at ambling around my condo at this point, I would've moved it off my desk and into another room. If I roll over on to my right side, it is within arm's reach. I look out the window instead. There's nothing to see, but that's where my gaze is fixed. While re-runs of Family Guy are on in the background, I'm turned away from the television hoping that the complex math problems I'm making up and subsequently trying to solve in my head will keep me from thinking about it. I was rubbing the area between my knee and upper thigh, but stopped when I noticed I was all but scratching. It's not that warm in here, but now I'm sweating. Last week, as I rode out the heat wave from within these walls, this would've been understandable but it's just a typical cool Oakland evening right now. I'd be surprised if it were more than 62 degrees outside. I pat at my brow with the top sheet on my bed and try to get back to my math problem.
Finally, I'm so curious that I can no longer fight the urge to glance over my right shoulder at it. It's smiling at me and it's not just any smile. It more closely resembles the wry, very evil, toothy grin of the Joker knowing that I am growing so weak that I will soon succumb. Slowly, I turn my head back toward the window. Its smile changes to a smirk as it must've figured out a way to channel all of its energy to telepathically remote control the television's volume down a few notches. I can no longer really hear what Peter, Brian and Stewy are muttering about. My back is still to all of them.
I'm beginning to re-evaluate my feelings toward Michael Imperioli's Chris Maltisanti or Chris Rock's Pookie, having previously lumped them in the bag with the weak and undisciplined. I can hear Omar Gooding's Demetrius Harris from that all too real portrait of life in Pro Football, pleading with himself to muster up some strength before giving in to The Grip. I start to pray, even though I rarely pray directly for myself, that this pain will go away.
It's laughing at me know. I can hear it. That smile turned smirk has now erupted into maniacal laughter, Vincent Price style. At this, I actually get up off the bed, pick up the suddenly very verbose orange bottle of the narcotic pain killer Norco and hobble into the other room with it in tow. I slam it down violently on the counter of the bathroom and close the door behind me when I leave. It knows I'll be back though. El dolor is still manning his post and will continue to do his number on me. Eventually I'll give in.
El Dolor actually turned it on a little too strong as my body must've been so overwhelmed that I actually fell asleep. That was only 45 minutes ago though. I'm awake again now. El Dolor is still here and you know who is still over there in the bathroom and I can still hear him.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
fire
I just got back inside from standing in front of my building with all of my neighbors. It was funny how there was sort of a block party feel to the very informal gathering. I rarely see anyone save for chance encounters in the garage waiting for a vehicle to be delivered by the cage carousel that is our high-tech Klaus parking structure. What a nightmare this thing is! If you're lucky and your car is right where it's supposed to be, you might be inside it and ready to drive off no sooner than 45 seconds later. If someone down the row has retrieved there's more recently and you need to wait for the shifting and raising process, you're looking at more than 3 minutes. The worst is when you arrive at nearly the same time as someone else because first you could wait the 3 minutes for their car, and then the 3 minutes for things to shift around again for your car.
So here we are out in the night air and it occurs to me that this might be the highest occupancy of pets in a building that I have seen! Is it now en vogue to have a pet in your urban condo? What is this? Surely the smells must permeate all through their units, as they did in the elevator ride back up once we got the all clear from Fire Marshall Bill. False alarm as usual. I almost didn't make it out of the building anyway. First of all, I was nodding off on my couch and was scantily clad because it's always hot up here in the summertime, and I hadn't left the house all day. My routine had been, ice my knee, play with my computer, ice my knee, think about making my way over to the kitchen for some food, ice my knee, stare at the world outside my window longingly, do my physical therapy exercises, ice my knee...you get the picture. When the alarm went off and I realized that it was actually the building wide one and not just the single alarm in my unit, I had to find some clothes. Well, first I had to find my crutches. Next I found some clothes. My shirts are way over there in the closet and I don't feel like expending the energy to get all the way over there so I opted to just zip up my sweat jacket all the way. Shoes were a problem because I can't bend my leg long enough to put the left one on. I finally decided on flip flops. And since it was chilly outside and I didn't know how long we'd be, I was sure to look for a beanie or hat of some sort to keep me warm. All of this took at least 8-10 minutes of me trying to amble around quite ineffectively before finally locking my door and crutching it toward the elevator. I know, you're not supposed to take the elevator in an emergency, but after a millisecond of thought, I decided that 6 flights of stairs were not happening on crutches tonight. No way. No McCain.
I didn't even care that I probably looked like a total idiot coming out of the elevator in the front lobby for everyone to see. I would be a spectacle anyway, hunched over on these two metal rods, looking tired and sad and worn out. It was just another reminder of how vulnerable I am right now to some special circumstances. Oh well. I can think the good Lord for allowing me to move at all and delivering from danger, even if there was none present this time. We were just practicing. When it was all said and done, I was quite relieved that I hadn't picked up the wrong keys and made it a point to come in and be thankful.
So here we are out in the night air and it occurs to me that this might be the highest occupancy of pets in a building that I have seen! Is it now en vogue to have a pet in your urban condo? What is this? Surely the smells must permeate all through their units, as they did in the elevator ride back up once we got the all clear from Fire Marshall Bill. False alarm as usual. I almost didn't make it out of the building anyway. First of all, I was nodding off on my couch and was scantily clad because it's always hot up here in the summertime, and I hadn't left the house all day. My routine had been, ice my knee, play with my computer, ice my knee, think about making my way over to the kitchen for some food, ice my knee, stare at the world outside my window longingly, do my physical therapy exercises, ice my knee...you get the picture. When the alarm went off and I realized that it was actually the building wide one and not just the single alarm in my unit, I had to find some clothes. Well, first I had to find my crutches. Next I found some clothes. My shirts are way over there in the closet and I don't feel like expending the energy to get all the way over there so I opted to just zip up my sweat jacket all the way. Shoes were a problem because I can't bend my leg long enough to put the left one on. I finally decided on flip flops. And since it was chilly outside and I didn't know how long we'd be, I was sure to look for a beanie or hat of some sort to keep me warm. All of this took at least 8-10 minutes of me trying to amble around quite ineffectively before finally locking my door and crutching it toward the elevator. I know, you're not supposed to take the elevator in an emergency, but after a millisecond of thought, I decided that 6 flights of stairs were not happening on crutches tonight. No way. No McCain.
I didn't even care that I probably looked like a total idiot coming out of the elevator in the front lobby for everyone to see. I would be a spectacle anyway, hunched over on these two metal rods, looking tired and sad and worn out. It was just another reminder of how vulnerable I am right now to some special circumstances. Oh well. I can think the good Lord for allowing me to move at all and delivering from danger, even if there was none present this time. We were just practicing. When it was all said and done, I was quite relieved that I hadn't picked up the wrong keys and made it a point to come in and be thankful.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
Now I understand...
The long, rectangular, ceiling mounted flourescent lights were coming in and out of focus. In one instant I could see the vivid detail of each raised dot on the surface of the light's flat glass covering, looking every bit as jagged and imposing as the Andes Mountains. In the next, it was blurred and too bright. The doctors and nurses scurried around me, first rather quickly, and then not so fast, and then not at all. One of them stood over me, blocking the light, and making a shadow where their face should be and said something that was vaguely meaningful. I must've understood because I think I nodded and said okay to whatever it was that they asked me or told me.
It was cold in the room and my left arm was especially cold from whatever they were pumping into me through the intravenous stream. I tried to say something witty to one of the nurses buzzing around the room, but it probably didn't leave my mouth as coherent as when it was conceived in my brain. Lying on my back this whole time, I looked back as far as I could without rolling my eyes back into my head, trying to see the back left corner of the room and then the back right. I scanned around to either side and then as close to my blue "footied" feet as I could see. The anesthesiologist came back around to check on me. Well, not really to check on me, but to keep smiling that giddy smile that she'd had this whole time. It's as if she knows something so funny that she just can't contain it and it's almost hurting her to keep it in. It's too early for all of that. Who is that tickled at 605am? Should I be alarmed that the anesthesiologist seems to have had a taste of the goods to make sure they were suitable for consumption? She's not a chef. It's not like she's about to send a dish out of the kitchen and wants to make sure that it is properly seasoned first.
"Let me know how far I make it in the countdown. I think I've only ever made it to 97. My goal today is to get to at least 96. Let me know how I do...," I said, or at least I think I said. I definitely said it, but I don't know if I articulated it at all. It may have sounded like an old 33 1/3 record that is playing too slowly. Yeah, that must've been it because on came another onslaught of the laughter from Chef Joker. I started to say something else and then I lo--.
Now I'm sitting upright in a chair, fully clothed and suddenly coherent right in the middle of a sentence. It's as if someone has been talking to me and engaging me in a full blown conversation but I had been asleep until right now when the lights came on and I took control of the joystick again, flipping off the auto-pilot switch. I'm laboring a bit to breathe, but I'm okay, other than the fact that I feel like I've been asleep for 15 hours and am somehow still tired. The attending nurse was asking me questions about who is going to pick me up and also instructing me to engage in the exercise of flexing my ankles, pointing my toe straight out and then extending them back toward me, over and over again. She explained to me how they had done a little more than they thought they would be doing to my knee and about the exposed bone and the big bone chips floating around but it's not really sinking in. I'm not terribly concerned.
It feels like they removed my left leg and attached the leg of an African elephant in its place. It is so heavy as well as heavily bandaged, as I can see by looking at it covered by my blue sweatpants. The nurse gave me a percocet tablet and handed me a prescription to fill so that I could take another one in 4 hours, and every four hours after that. I'm only half listening to her right now. It's as if I'm in a movie and she's talking to me, and the other sounds from the recovery room, including the other patients, are all very audible but I'm not really paying attention to them. It's that point where the camera would zoom in to see that my eyes and my mind had moved on to some very distant place and then pans around and behind me to see what I'm looking at from my vantage point until I start to look down at the floor and it backs up to get the wider angle shot that gives a better idea of the melancholy mood that has overcome me so suddenly and without explanation.
Thirty minutes later I'm sitting at Doug's Restaurant waiting on an omelette, pancakes and some home fries when I find myself staring out the window as if that sunlight out there is millions of miles from attainable for me. I imagine that this is what a prisoner must feel like whenever they get a glimpse of outside. I'm listening to my friend talk about whatever he's talking about but I'm overcome by such a sadness that I think I'm going to cry. It's so intense and quite overwhelming. What's wrong with me? I can't recall ever feeling this bad, not even when somebody had passed away. The weight of the whole world seems to be upon my shoulders and it is entirely too much to bear. I'm saddened and frustrated at how hard it seems to breathe, even though my body is taking care of this quite effortlessly. Paying attention is very difficult. I don't know what he is talking about, so I'm trying to regain focus but it all seems so hopeless. Why is this happening to me?
I just want to sleep. I don't want to eat or talk anymore or sit here or anything. I just want to sleep...FOREVER. I don't like feeling this distraught. I wish I knew why. It's as if someone has just dropped the news on me that I have a terminal illness and only 3 days left to live.
The food came, and I ate it. It tasted okay, but I don't think I was really too concerned one way or the other. I usually really enjoy eating, but it was such a formality. I ate every last bit of it; the large omelette, the huge pancake and all of the home fried potatoes. It must've been this food that brought me around because it suddenly occurred to me what was going on. It was the drugs. I never really believed that...well, wait a minute. "Believed" might be a bit strong. I never really could relate through any first hand experience how commercials for drugs on television could make the claim that "this may cause depression or increase risk of suicide in some patients", so I didn't really think it was true. I had always reasoned that anybody who actually did that was prone to do it anyway and the drug just stripped away the inhibitions. Now I believe it. Now I understand.
Life is good for me. I've got no complaints. This big hearty plate of comfort food finding a suitable resting place in my belly allowed me to come back to Earth and realize just that. These drugs are amazing! How can they so cavalierly prescribe this stuff to people. Perhaps they should really have a serious conversation about the side effects and the need for supervision with patients. As soon as I got home to my computer, I did a search on percocet and found that it did indeed have depression as one of its side effects. I'm sure that this effect was enhanced by an order of magnitude by whatever else they had me for anesthesia. Wow! Now I really understand.
It was cold in the room and my left arm was especially cold from whatever they were pumping into me through the intravenous stream. I tried to say something witty to one of the nurses buzzing around the room, but it probably didn't leave my mouth as coherent as when it was conceived in my brain. Lying on my back this whole time, I looked back as far as I could without rolling my eyes back into my head, trying to see the back left corner of the room and then the back right. I scanned around to either side and then as close to my blue "footied" feet as I could see. The anesthesiologist came back around to check on me. Well, not really to check on me, but to keep smiling that giddy smile that she'd had this whole time. It's as if she knows something so funny that she just can't contain it and it's almost hurting her to keep it in. It's too early for all of that. Who is that tickled at 605am? Should I be alarmed that the anesthesiologist seems to have had a taste of the goods to make sure they were suitable for consumption? She's not a chef. It's not like she's about to send a dish out of the kitchen and wants to make sure that it is properly seasoned first.
"Let me know how far I make it in the countdown. I think I've only ever made it to 97. My goal today is to get to at least 96. Let me know how I do...," I said, or at least I think I said. I definitely said it, but I don't know if I articulated it at all. It may have sounded like an old 33 1/3 record that is playing too slowly. Yeah, that must've been it because on came another onslaught of the laughter from Chef Joker. I started to say something else and then I lo--.
Now I'm sitting upright in a chair, fully clothed and suddenly coherent right in the middle of a sentence. It's as if someone has been talking to me and engaging me in a full blown conversation but I had been asleep until right now when the lights came on and I took control of the joystick again, flipping off the auto-pilot switch. I'm laboring a bit to breathe, but I'm okay, other than the fact that I feel like I've been asleep for 15 hours and am somehow still tired. The attending nurse was asking me questions about who is going to pick me up and also instructing me to engage in the exercise of flexing my ankles, pointing my toe straight out and then extending them back toward me, over and over again. She explained to me how they had done a little more than they thought they would be doing to my knee and about the exposed bone and the big bone chips floating around but it's not really sinking in. I'm not terribly concerned.
It feels like they removed my left leg and attached the leg of an African elephant in its place. It is so heavy as well as heavily bandaged, as I can see by looking at it covered by my blue sweatpants. The nurse gave me a percocet tablet and handed me a prescription to fill so that I could take another one in 4 hours, and every four hours after that. I'm only half listening to her right now. It's as if I'm in a movie and she's talking to me, and the other sounds from the recovery room, including the other patients, are all very audible but I'm not really paying attention to them. It's that point where the camera would zoom in to see that my eyes and my mind had moved on to some very distant place and then pans around and behind me to see what I'm looking at from my vantage point until I start to look down at the floor and it backs up to get the wider angle shot that gives a better idea of the melancholy mood that has overcome me so suddenly and without explanation.
Thirty minutes later I'm sitting at Doug's Restaurant waiting on an omelette, pancakes and some home fries when I find myself staring out the window as if that sunlight out there is millions of miles from attainable for me. I imagine that this is what a prisoner must feel like whenever they get a glimpse of outside. I'm listening to my friend talk about whatever he's talking about but I'm overcome by such a sadness that I think I'm going to cry. It's so intense and quite overwhelming. What's wrong with me? I can't recall ever feeling this bad, not even when somebody had passed away. The weight of the whole world seems to be upon my shoulders and it is entirely too much to bear. I'm saddened and frustrated at how hard it seems to breathe, even though my body is taking care of this quite effortlessly. Paying attention is very difficult. I don't know what he is talking about, so I'm trying to regain focus but it all seems so hopeless. Why is this happening to me?
I just want to sleep. I don't want to eat or talk anymore or sit here or anything. I just want to sleep...FOREVER. I don't like feeling this distraught. I wish I knew why. It's as if someone has just dropped the news on me that I have a terminal illness and only 3 days left to live.
The food came, and I ate it. It tasted okay, but I don't think I was really too concerned one way or the other. I usually really enjoy eating, but it was such a formality. I ate every last bit of it; the large omelette, the huge pancake and all of the home fried potatoes. It must've been this food that brought me around because it suddenly occurred to me what was going on. It was the drugs. I never really believed that...well, wait a minute. "Believed" might be a bit strong. I never really could relate through any first hand experience how commercials for drugs on television could make the claim that "this may cause depression or increase risk of suicide in some patients", so I didn't really think it was true. I had always reasoned that anybody who actually did that was prone to do it anyway and the drug just stripped away the inhibitions. Now I believe it. Now I understand.
Life is good for me. I've got no complaints. This big hearty plate of comfort food finding a suitable resting place in my belly allowed me to come back to Earth and realize just that. These drugs are amazing! How can they so cavalierly prescribe this stuff to people. Perhaps they should really have a serious conversation about the side effects and the need for supervision with patients. As soon as I got home to my computer, I did a search on percocet and found that it did indeed have depression as one of its side effects. I'm sure that this effect was enhanced by an order of magnitude by whatever else they had me for anesthesia. Wow! Now I really understand.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
It was written
1 What is the source of quarrels and conflicts among you? Is not the source your pleasures that wage war in your members?
2 You lust and do not have; so you commit murder. You are envious and cannot obtain; so you fight and quarrel. You do not have because you do not ask.
3 You ask and do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, so that you may spend it on your pleasures. --- From the Book of James, chapter 4, verses 1-3
It never ceases to amaze me how the greatest reference book ever written has stood the test of time and is always relevant. I'm aware that reducing the Holy text to the term reference book is probably not the most reverential thing to do, but indulge me for a moment while I allow it to underscore my point. Battles both large and small are waged daily all over the world that largely could be avoided if we were all on the same page. This page is in the New Testament and deals, in a nutshell, with how to get along with one another if I may put it into lay terms. To find that page one must have the right book. Imagine that. Could this be yet another instance where we as a people neglected to read the directions before getting started?
Why does one country wage declare war upon another? Is it because the desire for oil to supply power to all of the machines of one country is so great? Sounds like a good place to start, doesn't it. The United States of America is staring in the face of shortages in energy, money, goodwill, and compassion for its fellow citizens of the world and yet the best ideas that it can come up with to address these issues are war and asking God to bless America. It is indeed so audacious for a people to ask for a blessing with selfish motives as these. Bless America, but don't bless anybody else. Bless America so that it alone may enjoy the fruits of those blessings. Just as it was written, the blessings are not likely to come when they are sought with the wrong motives.
Bringing it closer to home, I'll ask why do we fight with our brothers, sisters, best friends, fathers, and mothers? Human nature dictates that we seek things that will make us as individuals happy. The thing that will make me alone feel the best is the thing that I want, is what we tell ourselves. Not surprisingly, the desires of one are often obtained at the expense of another, not unlike that oil sought from the country with the surplus. Just as that country is very unlikely to just sit idly by and allow its resource to be gobbled up and taken away, so to is that other individual surely going to put up some resistance to stand their ground. None too pleased that the pursuit of desires have been derailed, retaliation is in order and then its on. It's war and until cooler heads prevail, there is no peace for anyone in the line of fire. But why?
It's this why question that keeps me up late at night. Why can't we just pump our brakes and take a step back before encroaching on others? Would we really do what we do all of the time? Surely had not Jesus been tempted we couldn't expect that any mercy be granted us. I'm reminded of this as a parent and before that as a coach, trying to be the guide for those that endeavor to go places that I've already gone and do things that I've already done. In my parental role, the lessons that I teach and the actions that I make in the presence of my children are all in preparation for them to be cognizant,compassionate, and responsible individuals that are able to make good decisions when called upon to do so in my absence. They are prone to fall off track and that's when I must step in to remind them ever so gently that it's time to get back on the course.
When I coached high school basketball or track and field, I ran those kids until they felt like they couldn't stand up anymore. I had them do the same drills over and over again until they were ingrained in them like involuntary movements. I had them perfect their techniques of jumping, hurdling, or shooting jump shots through mind numbing repitition in hopes that when they were out in the heat of competition that they would perform without hesitation and without mistakes. Of course, they did not and sometimes faltered, and of course, I was sometimes frustrated a great deal by their shortcomings. Perhaps I didn't want them to make the same mistakes that I had made. Perhaps I had hoped that my wisdom would help them to eclipse my achievements with even greater achievements of their own, and was disappointed for them. Perhaps I felt that their failure, however insignificant, was a reflection of my inability to properly prepare them for success and thus made me a failure as their preparer. Surely, some of the raw emotion escaped and I let them know in no uncertain terms that it was for just such an occasion that we ran that extra lap or shot those extra shots despite their protests and had they been more willing instead of doing so begrudgingly then we wouldn't be having this conversation. We would instead be celebrating and being thankful that we emerged victorious and performed to the best of our abilities. I was not above getting angry or being disappointed. It is always very tempting to lash out in frustration at others when you feel like you weren't able to control the outcome of a situation to your satisfaction.
Even though I'd been entrusted with leading them toward the pursuit of perfection, I was not perfect, so I could only do the best that I could in preparing them. I retrospect, I can take comfort in the knowledge that even Jesus was tempted and even got frustrated. I'm not nearly gifted enough as a writer to make an analogy that could adequately put into perspective the magnitude of his frustration at Gethsemane (Matthew 26:36-45), but I'll continue nonetheless. Supposing for a moment that my campaign as a coach for the Menlo-Atherton Bears Boys Varsity High School Basketball Team were instead the much more exalted post occupied by Coach Mike Krzyzewski and his Duke University or Olympic "Redeem" Teams. Had I (he) fallen short of the gold medal, there surely would've been a talking to in that locker room after the game.
Coach K might have started in, thoroughly frustrated that the gold was not delivered and that he would now have to face what he indeed did not want to face (in his case the wrath of the media and in Jesus' case a much more grave fate). But then he would have (just like I usually find myself doing) let cooler heads prevail and realizing that his players are only human and summoned the courage to go face the music.
45
Oh how sweet it is to know that He can relate.
2 You lust and do not have; so you commit murder. You are envious and cannot obtain; so you fight and quarrel. You do not have because you do not ask.
3 You ask and do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, so that you may spend it on your pleasures. --- From the Book of James, chapter 4, verses 1-3
It never ceases to amaze me how the greatest reference book ever written has stood the test of time and is always relevant. I'm aware that reducing the Holy text to the term reference book is probably not the most reverential thing to do, but indulge me for a moment while I allow it to underscore my point. Battles both large and small are waged daily all over the world that largely could be avoided if we were all on the same page. This page is in the New Testament and deals, in a nutshell, with how to get along with one another if I may put it into lay terms. To find that page one must have the right book. Imagine that. Could this be yet another instance where we as a people neglected to read the directions before getting started?
Why does one country wage declare war upon another? Is it because the desire for oil to supply power to all of the machines of one country is so great? Sounds like a good place to start, doesn't it. The United States of America is staring in the face of shortages in energy, money, goodwill, and compassion for its fellow citizens of the world and yet the best ideas that it can come up with to address these issues are war and asking God to bless America. It is indeed so audacious for a people to ask for a blessing with selfish motives as these. Bless America, but don't bless anybody else. Bless America so that it alone may enjoy the fruits of those blessings. Just as it was written, the blessings are not likely to come when they are sought with the wrong motives.
Bringing it closer to home, I'll ask why do we fight with our brothers, sisters, best friends, fathers, and mothers? Human nature dictates that we seek things that will make us as individuals happy. The thing that will make me alone feel the best is the thing that I want, is what we tell ourselves. Not surprisingly, the desires of one are often obtained at the expense of another, not unlike that oil sought from the country with the surplus. Just as that country is very unlikely to just sit idly by and allow its resource to be gobbled up and taken away, so to is that other individual surely going to put up some resistance to stand their ground. None too pleased that the pursuit of desires have been derailed, retaliation is in order and then its on. It's war and until cooler heads prevail, there is no peace for anyone in the line of fire. But why?
It's this why question that keeps me up late at night. Why can't we just pump our brakes and take a step back before encroaching on others? Would we really do what we do all of the time? Surely had not Jesus been tempted we couldn't expect that any mercy be granted us. I'm reminded of this as a parent and before that as a coach, trying to be the guide for those that endeavor to go places that I've already gone and do things that I've already done. In my parental role, the lessons that I teach and the actions that I make in the presence of my children are all in preparation for them to be cognizant,compassionate, and responsible individuals that are able to make good decisions when called upon to do so in my absence. They are prone to fall off track and that's when I must step in to remind them ever so gently that it's time to get back on the course.
When I coached high school basketball or track and field, I ran those kids until they felt like they couldn't stand up anymore. I had them do the same drills over and over again until they were ingrained in them like involuntary movements. I had them perfect their techniques of jumping, hurdling, or shooting jump shots through mind numbing repitition in hopes that when they were out in the heat of competition that they would perform without hesitation and without mistakes. Of course, they did not and sometimes faltered, and of course, I was sometimes frustrated a great deal by their shortcomings. Perhaps I didn't want them to make the same mistakes that I had made. Perhaps I had hoped that my wisdom would help them to eclipse my achievements with even greater achievements of their own, and was disappointed for them. Perhaps I felt that their failure, however insignificant, was a reflection of my inability to properly prepare them for success and thus made me a failure as their preparer. Surely, some of the raw emotion escaped and I let them know in no uncertain terms that it was for just such an occasion that we ran that extra lap or shot those extra shots despite their protests and had they been more willing instead of doing so begrudgingly then we wouldn't be having this conversation. We would instead be celebrating and being thankful that we emerged victorious and performed to the best of our abilities. I was not above getting angry or being disappointed. It is always very tempting to lash out in frustration at others when you feel like you weren't able to control the outcome of a situation to your satisfaction.
Even though I'd been entrusted with leading them toward the pursuit of perfection, I was not perfect, so I could only do the best that I could in preparing them. I retrospect, I can take comfort in the knowledge that even Jesus was tempted and even got frustrated. I'm not nearly gifted enough as a writer to make an analogy that could adequately put into perspective the magnitude of his frustration at Gethsemane (Matthew 26:36-45), but I'll continue nonetheless. Supposing for a moment that my campaign as a coach for the Menlo-Atherton Bears Boys Varsity High School Basketball Team were instead the much more exalted post occupied by Coach Mike Krzyzewski and his Duke University or Olympic "Redeem" Teams. Had I (he) fallen short of the gold medal, there surely would've been a talking to in that locker room after the game.
And he cometh unto the disciples, and findeth them sleeping, and saith unto Peter, What, could ye not watch with me one hour?from verse 40
Coach K might have started in, thoroughly frustrated that the gold was not delivered and that he would now have to face what he indeed did not want to face (in his case the wrath of the media and in Jesus' case a much more grave fate). But then he would have (just like I usually find myself doing) let cooler heads prevail and realizing that his players are only human and summoned the courage to go face the music.
45
Then cometh he to the disciples, and saith unto them, Sleep on now, and take your rest: behold, the hour is at hand
Oh how sweet it is to know that He can relate.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Irony
I'm stuck on irony today. For the last few days, gas prices have gone steadily down to the point that in many neighborhoods you can actually get a gallon for less than $4.00. That is, of course, if you steer well clear of San Francisco. This has never made any sense to me, especially when you consider that San Francisco, Oakland and surrounding areas are quite near to the refineries in Richmond. When then, would gas cost so much in these areas, and be as much as 0.25 to 0.30 cents cheaper some 90 miles away in places like Modesto, that are definitely far from the refineries. It would absolutely make sense for these places to have additional cost added to their gas price due to the labor and transport costs of trucking the stuff all the way out there. Inversely, it should cost more for us out here to get goods that they have out that way like produce. While that is usually the case, it doesn't work that way for gas apparently. Taking the irony a step further, gas prices last took off like a rocket when Hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf back in 2005, sending prices well past $5 in some areas. There are no less than 3 Hurricanes out in the Caribbean right now and yet gas prices are dropping. If we buy the story that they gave us in 2005 about being worried that production might be hampered by the severe storms, then we should expect an increase right now.
The Republican Convention started over the weekend. Could that be a reason why gas prices are coming down? Just coincidence? Could it be that in somebody's speech they want to be able to point to some unrelated action and claim that it was because of them that gas prices not only stabilized, but started to come down? After all, at these prices, plenty of profit has surely already been taken this quarter. I don't doubt that this crossed somebody's mind as all of the Republicans started to descend upon the Twin Cities last weekend. Perhaps The Man called an emergency conference call and the consensus was that gas ought to come down to try to appease the masses for a few days while their little soiree took place. And what a soiree it was/is!
The clips that I saw on the news made it look like the place to be. Perhaps it was TOO good of a party and some realized it as they tried to cover their faces when the news cameras showed up. You would've thought they were caught coming and going from a house of ill repute how they all scattered and ran for cover when the cameras started rolling. Despite McCain's rather tepid appeal to the party that they should chill and be mindful of the pain and suffering going on in the Gulf, the parties raged on. Oddly enough, I don't recall hearing him call for folks to actually go down and lend a hand. I guess, giving a moment of silence is just as good, eh John?
But let me get back to irony now. I know I'm not nit-picking too much by suggesting that had Obama chosen Sarah Palin as his running mate, the media would've had a field day with it. Hannity and Combs, Larry King, Wolf Blitzer, Anderson Cooper, and even little John King with his graphical map would've gone on and on about how she has no experience with foreign policy and that being the mayor of a town of 6,000 and governor of the state of Alaska for a couple years does not a VP make. They would've jumped all over her statement that
“As for that VP talk all the time, I’ll tell you, I still can’t answer that question until somebody answers for me what is it exactly that the VP does every day? I’m used to being very productive and working real hard in an administration. We want to make sure that that VP slot would be a fruitful type of position, especially for Alaskans and for the things that we’re trying to accomplish up here for the rest of the U.S., before I can even start addressing that question.”
The fact that her own 17 year old daughter is 5 months pregnant would've been huge news were she the democratic VP nominee. The Christian Conservatives would've had a field day with this too, saying that this lack of good family values is not at all what this country needs. Instead, it's spun as "hey, these things happens...kids make mistakes." Irony? I think not. Like I always say: Control the media and you control the messaging.
The Republican Convention started over the weekend. Could that be a reason why gas prices are coming down? Just coincidence? Could it be that in somebody's speech they want to be able to point to some unrelated action and claim that it was because of them that gas prices not only stabilized, but started to come down? After all, at these prices, plenty of profit has surely already been taken this quarter. I don't doubt that this crossed somebody's mind as all of the Republicans started to descend upon the Twin Cities last weekend. Perhaps The Man called an emergency conference call and the consensus was that gas ought to come down to try to appease the masses for a few days while their little soiree took place. And what a soiree it was/is!
The clips that I saw on the news made it look like the place to be. Perhaps it was TOO good of a party and some realized it as they tried to cover their faces when the news cameras showed up. You would've thought they were caught coming and going from a house of ill repute how they all scattered and ran for cover when the cameras started rolling. Despite McCain's rather tepid appeal to the party that they should chill and be mindful of the pain and suffering going on in the Gulf, the parties raged on. Oddly enough, I don't recall hearing him call for folks to actually go down and lend a hand. I guess, giving a moment of silence is just as good, eh John?
But let me get back to irony now. I know I'm not nit-picking too much by suggesting that had Obama chosen Sarah Palin as his running mate, the media would've had a field day with it. Hannity and Combs, Larry King, Wolf Blitzer, Anderson Cooper, and even little John King with his graphical map would've gone on and on about how she has no experience with foreign policy and that being the mayor of a town of 6,000 and governor of the state of Alaska for a couple years does not a VP make. They would've jumped all over her statement that
“As for that VP talk all the time, I’ll tell you, I still can’t answer that question until somebody answers for me what is it exactly that the VP does every day? I’m used to being very productive and working real hard in an administration. We want to make sure that that VP slot would be a fruitful type of position, especially for Alaskans and for the things that we’re trying to accomplish up here for the rest of the U.S., before I can even start addressing that question.”
The fact that her own 17 year old daughter is 5 months pregnant would've been huge news were she the democratic VP nominee. The Christian Conservatives would've had a field day with this too, saying that this lack of good family values is not at all what this country needs. Instead, it's spun as "hey, these things happens...kids make mistakes." Irony? I think not. Like I always say: Control the media and you control the messaging.
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