There is a cliche – the cure is worse than the disease. I’m getting that a lot lately.
I went to see my doctor because my ankles looked swollen and my feet were getting sore. So, he told me to lose weight (again) and gave me a diuretic. I really didn’t have to pee that much, but I guessed it was doing something.
However, as the days passed, my feet started to hurt. A lot. All over. I thought it was just putting weight on them, but I don’t walk that much, and there should be less weight with the diuretics, anyway.
So, back to the doctor. Poke, poke, poke. Nothing. So, the old Columbo stare off into space and then … “Have you ever had gout?”
I had gout years ago, probably directly linked to the amount of beer I was drinking at the time. So, yes, I’ve had gout.
Down for bloodwork. Apparently, the diuretic can raise uric acid levels in some people (“very few”), and I’m in the lucky number. So, I was drying out and re-aggravating my gout at the same time.
Also, this was “all joints on deck” gout – everything in both feet hurt. The beer gout was just in my left big toe, and it hurt like hell, but nothing like this.
The great thing about today’s medicine is that there are pain killers for everything. So, I got a really good pain killer for my gout. I missed the “take with food” instruction the first two days, so I also got magical journeys in my mind. And naps. Naps with dreams of ants crawling on me – but just one ant. (It’s possible it was Rocky the Chihuahua, come to think of it.)
On the bright side, when I went in for the follow-up that found the gout, I had lost 14 pounds in six days. So, the diuretic worked before it crippled me.
My doctor had also looked at my bloodwork and decided my good cholesterol was too low, so he put me on Niacin. Just like in cereal and Pop Tarts, but a huge dose. It’s an easy pill to take, and there are very few side effects. However, there is one – the Niacin flush. This is not flush, like a toilet, where everything comes out at once (thank God), this is flush like Southern ladies blushing (“Oh, my!”)
In fact, it’s a lot like blushing. As your blood vessels dilate from the drug, you feel flush. Actually, you feel like your head and arms are on fire. I woke up at 3am this morning, and my upper torso was on fire. Plus, I had to use the bathroom.
So, now, I’m limping (gout) to the bathroom (no problems yet), with my upper body on fire (Niacin.) It wasn’t until after the episode that I discovered the Niacin flush or I would have blamed it on hallucinations (pain killer.)
So, today is day three of Friday’s AirHogs – Diablos game, and hopefully, it will get finished this afternoon. Unfortunately, we have the same umpiring crew, so it could be a long afternoon. Friday’s game was under threat of spraying for West Nile virus (actually, against West Nile virus), so there was a hard stop in place – no inning could start after 10:15pm. (The usual curfew for the American Association is midnight, and I think we’ve hit that twice in four years.) As the game went on, I thought “What a stupid announcement. I haven’t seen a game go past 10pm all season and I’ve been to almost all the home games.” Oops. This was not a good thought to have.
AirHogs are leading going into the bottom of the seventh, 9-8. There’s lightning in the sky. We’re about to have chemicals dropped on our heads by our local government. Surely, the umpires will just call the game due to poison. Nope.
AirHogs are leading going into the bottom of the eighth, 9-8. There’s still regular lightning. The poison planes are in the air, according to WFAA’s text message. Surely, the umpires will call the game. It was legal a long time ago, and the home team is winning. Nope.
Top of the ninth. Diablos have men on base, two out, two strikes. Justin Dowdy throws strike three. Game over!! Wait. The umpire says it’s a ball. WTF? Then, it happens AGAIN. Apparently, you need five strikes to get some batters out. The tying run comes in. Dowdy makes a gentle suggestion that the home plate umpire might want to visit PearleVision (I’m assuming.) He’s ejected. Hmm. Maybe he wasn’t talking about glasses.
Then, AirHogs are set down in the bottom of the ninth. Tie game. Still, we have a bit of momentum going. Oh, wait. The 10:15pm rule. Game suspended.
No problem, the Diablos are in town all weekend. So, continue game at 5:00pm Saturday to get it finished before the 7:00pm game is scheduled to start. On the bright side, it should be easy to park, since nobody will know that baseball starts at five and not seven.
Saturday, the heavens over Dallas open. Rain. If it were raining frogs, I would assume the umpires were just the first plague of many, but this is just rain.
The bar does good business. The snack stands do good business. Just after 8pm, everyone is told, “By the way, we’re not playing tonight.” Thank you, Captain Obvious.
The last time this happened, the team got a really nasty letter sent to them, the league and posted on their Facebook page. Apparently, some fans don’t know that baseball is not played in the rain, but they will wait until the absolute last moment to announce this. (The absolute last moment being about an hour to an hour and a half after the scheduled start.) If it is sprinkling, they may play. If it is pouring, have a beer and head for the exits. Trust me.
So, this afternoon at 1pm, the AirHogs and Diablos are finishing Friday’s game. Then, they’re playing Saturday’s game. Then, they’re playing Sunday’s game. Even Ernie Banks would say that’s a bit too much.
Let’s hope they get them in before the spraying (also suspended) starts up again. I would hate to see umpires melting as the pest spray rains down on them. No, wait, I wouldn’t mind that much, at all.
Diablos vs AirHogs, day three. A unique phrase, indeed.
Our kitchen is being remodeled. Remodel is from an ancient French word that means “probable insanity”. We are using Ikea. Ikea is from a Swedish word that means “probable insanity.”
A kitchen remodel is the perfect project to prove the adage that the first 90% of the project takes 90% of the time, and the last 10% of the project takes the other 90% of the time.
All the names have been changed to protect the innocent. Since there are no innocents in a remodeling project, none of the names were changed.
Why do women swoon so over their kitchens? They have spent most of the past few millenia finding other things to do, specifically so they would no longer be spending time in the kitchen.
Here’s an interesting side-effect of completely removing a room from the house even for a short time – all of the house is affected, and not in a good way. Crap that was in the kitchen pretty much filled the spare room, which used to be where my grandson took his naps when he was over. So, last visit, he was driven around the block for a while to sleep. You can’t get to the bathroom off the kitchen any more, and the toilet is gone, anyway, since the floor is being redone (another side effect). The dogs can’t be loose because the contractors tend to leave doors open, so they’re spending a lot of quality crate time (yes, they’re annoyed). You can’t use the garage because the driveway is blocked with a dumpster. I’m making coffee in the guest bathroom. The only advantage was that for a while, the refrigerator and a (new) microwave were in the family room, which made beer and snacks more accessible while watching TV.
On the bright side, I’m actually looking forward to the hour-long commute to the office every morning because it means I’m leaving the construction zone.
This project started because our kitchen floor was buckling. So, there was a leak somewhere. However, after the leak was fixed, there was still a ripple in the floor. Male solution: Fix the floor. Female solution: Fix the floor and while you’re at it, replace vinyl flooring with tiles, put in new cabinets, replace the counter-top, paint the walls a different color, and because it’s adjoining, maybe replace the carpet in the dining room. Oh, and maybe paint the hallway. The only thing that stopped the kitchen remodeling from progressing through the whole house (and an entire retirement account) was a hailstorm. Now, we need a new roof which is limiting the kitchen budget. Sometimes, an act of God is actually a good thing. Thank you for the hail, God.
Spousal Unit: “Don’t you love this tile? It reminds me of my Mom’s kitchen in her home long ago.” Me: “That looks like the tile in my grade school cafeteria.” So, who wins? I will now be having supper in my grade school cafeteria. This reminds me, I have to get the Spousal Unit a hairnet. Actually, considering it will be food I didn’t order prepared by a cranky Italian lady, it will be supper in my grade school cafeteria. All I need now are some spitwads. And detention.
Any time a woman finds something that reminds her of “long ago”, it will be in a section of the store called “retro”. Retro is from an Indonesian word meaning “grossly over-priced.”
Spousal Unit: “Should the walls be red or black?” This is an unwinnable situation, unless one really prefers red or black (Me? Notsomuch.) So, I don’t care. However, you cannot say you don’t care in a project of this magnitude – not because you know your opinion is going to be ignored anyway, but because then it looks like you don’t care. (Think about that for a moment.) However, I really don’t care – I just want Bubba, Joe-Bob and their tools out of my house and their monster truck and mini-dumpster out of my driveway. I don’t really care what color the walls are. The only time I’m in the kitchen is to make coffee, and that means I’m asleep, so my eyes are closed. Just put the coffee pot back in the same place it was before the remodel and nobody gets hurt.
We first priced a couple of professional remodeling services. Spousal Unit’s estimate: $15,000. My estimate: $30,000. Actual estimate: $37,000. I can’t give that much blood in a year, so it was off to Ikea. (Spousal Unit’s estimate: $10,000. My estimate: $25,000. Still open. Let’s just say hers was low.)
Ikea is a Scandinavian firm that produces functional furniture. Saying furniture is “functional” is like saying a girl has a good personality.
Ikea is inexpensive, mainly because they don’t produce products, they produce kits. You get a flat box of parts and an instruction sheet, whether you’re buying a kitchen cabinet or a child’s set of toy blocks. Actually, I’m not sure the kitchen cabinets aren’t made from the child’s set of toy blocks. Many of their products are just assemblies of smaller products, so the instructions are “get two of these boxes, and one of those boxes. Assemble as shown on diagram.”
I am not a handyman. I cannot use tools. So, the mechanically inept hire someone to do the job for them. Ikea has suggestions for companies to assist you. Well, a company. If you pay them a slight extra charge, they will act as a general contractor.
In the USA, a general contractor manages a project and assigns specific tasks to other contractors. I know this, because I spent a week on jury duty when a general contractor was the defendant in a lawsuit. In Scandinavia or Ethiopia or wherever Ikea is located, a general contractor apparently only does the odd jobs that nobody else does. They also listen patiently to the woman of the house railing about the ineptitude of the other contractors. You get to actually do project management yourself, therefore saving money. This is why their general contractor service is relatively cheap – he doesn’t actually do anything to manage the project. I suppose I should be grateful we didn’t get a general contractor kit in a flat box with an odd Scandinavian name on the side. I would still be assembling him.
Our cabinet installer is a company named Traemand. They specialize in cabinet installations – their website says so. Unfortunately, they are installing European style cabinets in a US kitchen, which apparently is hard (their website says so). I assume this means they use metric measurements, since their first floor plan had one cabinet blocking half a doorway. This measurement (ironically) was done by a subcontractor who was actually working for the same company that is our general contractor. So, why not just have the general contractor do everything? Ikea split the jobs up, so it is not allowed. What happens if you just buy all the boxes of parts and hire someone else to assemble them? It’s not warranted. This makes no sense to me, but I’m not Swedish.
After the cabinet into the doorway design was corrected (strangely, we didn’t want a doorway blocked), the second set of measurements didn’t seem to match the actual kitchen measurements. So, we finally had the general contractor re-measure. He must have used an American tape measure, because this time, the plan actually made some sense and fit the kitchen.
It occurred to me that there is an old adage “Measure twice, cut once.” I guess nobody told Traemand that “measure twice” implied getting the same number both times.
Of course, the actual installation didn’t allow the existing refrigerator to fit under an installed cabinet. After the installers “made” it fit by lowering the feet on the refrigerator, the cabinet doors above the refrigerator won’t open. Apparently, this is a strange model of refrigerator that has hinges on the doors and they are on the top. Who knew? So, we’re waiting for a new cabinet to be delivered. Yes, Traemand, the cabinet technically fits. However, it’s useless if it doesn’t open, so it needs to be fixed. Finally, they installed the existing double oven at Munchkin-level, so the lower oven will be at the proper height when the Spousal Unit has her scoliosis kick in. In the meantime, if the lower oven is used where it is, the dogs are going to learn the hard way not to sniff things, and grandchildren will learn “don’t touch” on their own. Other than that, it’s perfect. Oh, except we need a new kitchen table because the new cabinet takes up more space than the one it replaced, so the table won’t fit. Well, the table will fit, but people can’t actually sit around it.
An aside on the double oven – many women lust after a double oven. Women love their double ovens. They use them one day a year on Thanksgiving and the rest of the time, they just lovingly gaze at them while re-heating leftovers in the microwave or toaster oven, because using the oven heats the entire kitchen. You know, a guy gets a lot of grief for wanting a 70″ TV to watch the Super Bowl, but at least you can watch other shows on it during the year. How often do you really need two ovens? Sheesh.
So, Traemand may be installers, but they are certainly not designers or measurers. Actually, I will be happy to say that they are installers if the cabinets are all still on the walls in a week or so.
Dear Ikea, it is staggering to me that any company could certify another company to do product installations when their employees can’t use a tape measure successfully. I would have thought that would have been question one on the installation certification test, or at least in the first five, after “What’s a cabinet?” or “Which end of the screwdriver do you hold?” I may be mechanically inept, but I know how to measure how tall something is.
So, we have a general contractor that’s not managing the project, an installer that can’t measure, and a different company for each piece of the rest of the puzzle, all assembling items purchased from random companies throughout the Metroplex. How can this not go smoothly?
Needless to say, the Spousal Unit is approaching a level of cranky not seen since I managed to miss her birthday, our anniversary and Valentine’s Day all with the same business trip. (They’re all within two weeks, so it really wasn’t that difficult. Come to think of it, I was gone less time on that trip than this kitchen project has taken.)
Also, it is taking so freaking long to get the project done, that we’re pretty much used to eating out every night. So, I’m not sure the new kitchen will get that much use, although I’ve been promised it will. (The male version of this is a riding mower sitting in the garage while the neighbor’s kid is doing the lawn.)
A lesson to anyone wanting to outsource a room remodel – get a general contractor and a designer. Write a much larger check than Ikea requests. Pick cabinets out of their catalog. Don’t special-order anything. Go to France for a month.
I heard a loud crash as I was writing this. Luckily, it was one of my grandson’s toys falling off the table in the family room. So, all cabinets are still attached to the walls. So far. I hope it doesn’t turn out that they only hold European-style dishes, pots and pans.
Yesterday, I thought I was going to die, all alone, while slowly approaching a French Citadel. Isn’t that what a vacation day on a business trip is all about?
Years ago, the Spousal Unit and I went to Southern France for a couple of weeks – I was on business, she was on vacation. Part of the time, we were both on vacation. On one of those days, we took the train to from Nice to Entrevaux, a Medieval city about two hours north of Nice. (Nice is a seaside town that is at the edge of the Mediterranean on one side and the edge of the Alps on the other.) So, Entrevaux is in the mountains.
Apparently, many years ago, somebody thought it would be a good idea to fortify the town by building a citadel (which means a fort way the hell up in the sky.)
“Monsieur, some evil people are attacking the town!”
“We need a citadel. How about putting it way up there out of sight?”
So, Entrevaux has a Citadel. The Spousal Unit and I shot some photos of it last time. From the ground. However, this time, I was not with my wife, I was with two of my co-workers. Co-workers desperately afraid they will miss something interesting while on a business trip with an open weekend in France. So, we climbed up to the Citadel. On foot.
So, the rest of this is a remembrance and tirade about taking a walk. Those of you in good shape who exercise regularly can roll your eyes and stop reading now. Those who know me and are already giggling or enjoy seeing me in pain (hello, family!) can continue on.
There was a helpful French guide at the foot of the climb who sold us our tokens to enter the passageway up. Three euros. Each. She said there were seven switchbacks along the way. She lied. The brochure says there are nine, as in the number of circles of Hell.
So, David from Austin, Sakamoto-san from Tokyo and I started the ascent. In retrospect, it is very clever to charge people for the opportunity to walk straight up into the sky. If you didn’t charge them, many would get to the foot of the walkway and decide against such a foolish escapade. With a charge, the thought is – “Hey, I don’t want to waste three euros!”
This is the same theory as joining a gym. At least you can skip going to the gym more easily than skipping the walk.
Quote: “How to get to the Citadel: Go through toll-gate [Editor: with the 3 euro token] and walk straight up for about 20 minutes. Easy walk on recently restored cobbled path (difference in height: 156 meters.)” Some key points, for those who don’t easily read between the lines:
Straight up. This is not an exaggeration, even though the path has seven to nine switchbacks.
Recently restored. France is in Europe. “Recently restored” could be sometime in the 1800s.
156 meters. For Americans, that’s actually 511 feet which sounds a lot higher than 156 meters. However, you don’t actually walk straight up, you walk fifty-seven miles through the “seven” switchbacks. Rappelling would be 156 meters.
This is not information. It is a warning.
David and Sakamoto-san are a lot like me, except for age, weight and general disposition. As they sprinted up the recently restored pathway, chatting happily, I got through the first switchback just barely before my heart began to pound.
Maybe I’ll just stop here and take a couple of photos. I’m not out of breath or anything, this is just a good vantage point, since it’s so close to the ground and all.
My colleagues are now out of sight. As well as out of earshot. So, at least now I can whimper in peace.
So, I’ll guess I’ll just stop here in the middle of the second switchback to {huff, puff} take some more photos. Wow. It’s already a long way down. I’m making progress! Wow. It’s an even further way up. I’m going to die.
Continue climbing.
Horrible realization – I don’t have a pen with me. I can’t leave a note for David and Sakamoto-san to find on the way down, asking them to deliver the camera back to the Spousal Unit. I also don’t have a safety pin to attach the note to my clothes before I breathe my last. Should I be concerned I’m already planning my last minutes on earth?
I’m only concerned about the camera because the Spousal Unit lent it to me before I left and asked me to re-shoot the town of Entrevaux, especially the Citadel. Hey! That means this is all her fault! Feel slightly better. Still out of breath.
Realize if I die on this walk, the Spousal Unit will just buy a truly expensive camera with her inheritance money. If I die, I’m throwing this camera off the mountain.
Continue climbing.
Horrible realization deux – I now know why I don’t remember the climb being this difficult the last time I was in Entrevaux. It’s not just because that was eight years and probably fifty pounds ago – it’s because we didn’t actually make the climb. So much for age and experience. I would yell at David for dragging me up this mountain, but he’s already at the top, and I’m here on the third switchback, out of breath. I mean, taking photos.
Well, {choke, wheeze}, at least I’m almost half-way there.
Continue climbing.
If Lance freakin’ Armstrong goes by on his bike, I’m putting a stick through his spokes.
Well, {sneeze, cough, whimper}, at least I’m almost half-way there.
Hey, that fort over there looks a lot lower.
Continue climbing.
Why am I not making any progress? I wonder what David and Sakamoto-san are doing at the top? I wonder if they will pass me on their way down? I wonder if they will recover my body?
Continue climbing.
Stop to catch my breath, uh, I mean, take some photos.
Meet a couple on the way down. Try to be polite without heaving too much. “Bonjour!”
Why do they look so damn happy? Oh, maybe it’s because they’re going down. Bastards. Wonder what “bastards” is in French? If I could get a WiFi signal, I could use Google Translate. Who am I kidding? If I had a WiFi signal, I would call for help.
Continue climbing.
Well, at least I’m almost half-way there.
I wonder if David and Sakamoto-san remember me?
Hey, I made it all the way through that switchback without stopping. I wonder why my heart is beating so far out of my chest?
I think that was switchback 27. If I ever make it down to safety, I’m kicking that cute tour guide in the butt, as soon as I catch my breath. And can move my legs.
Damn. More people coming down. Look pleased to be here. “Bonjour!” Well, at least a little old couple hasn’t passed me on their way up.
At least I’m almost half-way there.
Hmm. What kind of message does dying on Father’s Day send? I’d better get moving. I’ll just take a couple of photos, since this is a nice vantage point.
Dear Lord, if You could just give me one more chance and let me survive this easy climb on a restored cobbled path, I’ll build You a freakin’ chapel at the top, next to the Citadel.
At least I’m almost half-way there.
If I puke, will I hit the houses?
Holy Crap! (Sorry, Lord.) Another couple is heading down. How many old people think climbing a mountain to see an old fort is a rational idea? Were these guys stationed here at one time?
If this freakin’ Citadel is closed for lunch when I get up there, someone’s going to die. Unless I die first.
Bonjour. That man looked pleased to be descending. I’m pretty sure the woman said “Almost” in a slight whisper as she passed me. Almost to the top? Almost dead? Almost is some French word for “look at the fat guy dying on his easy walk”? I’m pretty sure that was a pity smile she gave me.
I wonder if it’s time to start saying “Bon soir”? I’ve been climbing for about fourteen hours (twenty minutes my ass) and it was late morning when we started.
Hey, at least my pants are getting looser. It’s either the altitude or the 37 1/2 pounds of sweat I’ve produced so far. It’s a bit warm in Southern France today.
If one of these couples calls the authorities, and I get med-evac’ed off this stupid easy climb, the first thing the Spousal Unit will say when the US Embassy calls is “Was he wearing sunblock?” What is wrong with her?
At least I’m almost half-way there.
Hey! That’s David up ahead! Hmm. I don’t remember him wearing a white robe. Why is there so much light behind him? Why is he telling me to come into it? Why are my grandparents behind him?
I think I have enough time to shoot some more photos.
At least I’m almost half-way there.
As I turned another corner in the 42 switchbacks, I wondered how the French architects and builders managed to make the switchbacks at the top longer than the ones at the bottom. I wonder if the French army lost any wars just because their soldiers couldn’t make it up to the fort in time. I wonder if the enemy soldiers could just dodge any arrows shot from the Citadel since it would take a half-hour for them to reach the ground?
Man, I thought that can of olive oil the Spousal Unit requested I purchase in Nice was going to be overweight luggage. Wait until IBM has to ship my corpse home. That is going to be one big-ass internal mail envelope.
Wait! This time, it really is David. I’m at the top. That was easy.
Where’s the welcoming party? The snack bar? The oxygen tents? The snack bar?
We’re at the damn top at last, let’s take some photos. Hey! A bench! Let’s rest, then take photos.
Well, that was fun. Let’s go down. Does France have a Care-Flite service?
Going down wasn’t nearly as bad as going up, and I did take a few more photos.
French soldiers were stationed here, waiting for attack. I’m waiting for a heart attack.
I even kept David and Sakamoto-san in sight most of the time. Most of the time.
I only stumbled once, but I didn’t even fall, since I’m an experienced climber now. I did, however, have a flash of rolling down a recently renovated cobblestone path, wiping out co-workers and tourists as I fell. Bowling for Tourists.
At the bottom, we saw a young couple with two bouncing sons in tow, approaching the entrance. I thought “That hike should calm those kids down.” Then, I thought, “This is going to be the vacation those kids discuss with their therapist.”
Once safely at the bottom, I realized that I had forgotten to build the Lord His chapel. Considering what He’s overlooked in my life so far, he may let that one slide. Come to think of it, it may not be the first chapel I’ve shorted Him.
Lord, I would go back and build Your chapel as promised, but I think that climb was a once-in-a-lifetime event. Mainly, because the next time would kill me, and I know how You feel about suicide.
I’m still alive. Next time, I’m buying posst cards at the gift shop and just telling people I made the climb.
David said he signed the guest book as “IBMers from Texas and Japan”. So, the next time you’re at the top of the Citadel, you can see my name in the book. Implied.
So, day two of the Spousal Unit’s unscheduled visit to Forest Park Medical Center, and as I negotiated with our dog sitter to go walk the PsychoPuppies, and am getting ready to send out the patient update, I realized that I can’t live without texting.
Cell phones are great, but then you have to talk. Sometimes, it’s just not worth a conversation, and other times, you don’t want to give the recipient an opening to change the subject.
Email is useful – you don’t have to talk, so you won’t get off on side issues – but not everyone has a mail client available all the time.
Texting gives you the advantage of interrupting your recipient wherever he may be. It also forces you to get to the point, since you have a limited number of characters per message. (From a recipient standpoint, once your phone is on mute, you’re ignoring the world, and can reply at your leisure. Also, a text at the right time can get you out of any number of interminable situations, even if you didn’t really receive one.)
Unlike phone calls, you can send one text to multiple people – or I can with Google Voice, anyway. (There are services to create distribution lists, as well.)
During the weather shitstorm in Dallas earlier this week, newscasters were reminding people that everyone was trying to call friends and family simultaneously, and texting used a lot less bandwidth, so if a call wouldn’t go through, a text might.
About the only negative is that we’re all being charged for using excess bandwidth that’s there anyway. However, given the number of messages I’ve sent from a hospital room recently, it’s worth it.
I don’t like going to the doctor and I’m very allergic to surgery, but I may be tolerating both very soon. It may be time to finally fix my knee.
My right knee went out yesterday while I was bending down to look at furniture at IKEA. If I tried to build it, it would probably be fatal. So, I’m back to limping around and no male my age likes to hear the word “limp”.
A bit of back-story – I hyper-extended my right knee in soccer practice in high school, either 1977 or 1978. I’m pretty sure it was junior year, so 1977. It hurt like hell when it happened, but the pain diminished rather quickly over time.
It was a stupid injury. I remember it like it was 35 years ago. I was playing fullback, chasing down a ball, cut back around one of my classmates, slipped and landed full-force on my right knee. I landed so hard, I kicked myself in the butt. This is known as “hyper-extension” and it is very bad. In exotic dancers, it’s called “flexibility” and is much more popular to watch.
I spent a couple of days at home with ice or heat (who remembers?) on my knee and spent the rest of the season on the sidelines. I was on the JV anyway, so it wasn’t that much of a demotion.
My mom took me to see an orthopedic surgeon and he said it wasn’t hurt badly enough to fix. Apparently, in the 70’s, there were knee injuries and then there were real knee injuries. He invited me to come back if I ever really hurt it. So, I finally had a knee injury after six or seven years of playing soccer, which would be cool, and it wasn’t worth fixing.
So, I can still say, “Yeah, tore up a knee playing soccer”, but there’s no cool scar to show off, and if you played soccer in Texas, it meant you couldn’t make the football team.
Over the years, it would go out every now and then. I would limp for a couple of days, and then it would straighten itself out and I’d be back to normal. So, I never really saw a reason to have it checked since a) it didn’t cause pain very often and b) it wasn’t bad enough to fix anyway. The most annoying part of the recurring pain was that it was completely unpredictable and it didn’t help determine the weather, like some injuries. Maybe only bad hips can tell when it will rain.
Fast-forward to December, 2009. My knee went out again. My wife convinced me to go see her knee specialist – she has a guy for almost every part of her body, which is not as slutty as it sounds, it just means she gets injured a lot.
First question – “When did this injury occur?” “Uh. That’s a good question – either 1977 or 1978, I’m not really sure.” Dramatic pause. “Why are you coming to see me now?” A clever answer would have been “Because now I have insurance and can afford you”, but I told the truth – it only went out sporadically and I had an existing (approximately 32-year old) medical opinion that it wasn’t worth fixing, anyway.
Dramatic pause. “Somebody told you it wasn’t worth fixing??”
“Yes, I had it checked right after the injury happened.”
“Ah. 1977. Well, back then, it might not have been worth it. Now, we can fix it.”
I assumed this meant prices have risen enough to cost-justify the doctor, hospital and related costs associated with out-patient surgery. (I also wondered if it was the same doctor, since he was not exactly young.)
So, then the questions went on – had I considered rebuilding it? Would I use my own tendon or a cadaver’s? (“Wow. Literally a dead man walking.” Even the doctor smiled.) It sounded painful, but doable – just a matter of scheduling. Then he mentioned the one major problem – no travel for up to six weeks after surgery.
Remember, this was in December. I was still in Lotus. January is Lotusphere. I was presenting. So, no surgery in December or January. February I had customer visits scheduled. March was end of quarter and completely unpredictable as to travel. By April, I had forgotten my knee had gone out.
A few months later, I received a lovely card from the doctor, as did my wife. He was retiring. “Oh, shit. I was going to have him fix my knee.” So, I forgot about it.
A couple of weeks ago, my knee went out. Ouch. I hobbled a bit, and it went back. Then, my left knee popped.
An unsettling thought occurred – “Hmm. Which knee did I actually injure in high school?”
If you can’t remember which knee you hurt in high school, perhaps your time there were not your “Glory Days”, in spite of what the Boss may say.
Both knees straightened themselves out in a couple of days.
Yesterday, I knelt down to look at the back of an entertainment unit my wife wanted to purchase and when I straightened up, BOOM! My right knee (“Dammit! That’s the one I hurt!”) popped out. It hurt. A lot. It was excruciating. It was much worse than usual. At first, I could barely wobble, and even though we were in a furniture store, there weren’t any chairs around to get off of it. So, I staggered around drunkenly until I found the proper limping motion to keep the weight off my leg, and then I was able to walk. Barely.
Bravely, my wife continued shopping. It’s why I love her so.
Eventually, we loaded the five boxes of the entertainment center parts into the car. Ouch. We drove home. We unloaded the five boxes of the entertainment center parts. Ouch. Ouch. (I dropped the end of one of the boxes on my foot. Try hopping in pain on a bad knee. It’s redundant.)
We went out to dinner. We parked uphill across the street from the restaurant. Ouch.
We went home. We walked the dogs. Ouch.
Finally, I tried to just lie down and put my leg up, but I couldn’t find a comfortable position. Luckily, I had dogs pushing me in various directions, trying to help me find the right way. Ouch.
I thought, “The last time this happened, I slept it off. So, I should be better in the morning.” That was last time. This time, notsomuch. So, for the first time in years, I called in sick – although I can actually just work from home, so I’m not really out sick, I’m just not in the office. Technically, it was more calling in “can’t drive“.
I had to tell some of my team why I wasn’t in. I’m sure the word has spread on the floor, so now everyone at the office knows why hiring the elderly is a risk. Also, I weigh slightly more than I did in high school, so nobody believes the “tore up my knee playing soccer” line, anyway.
Tomorrow, I go to see the orthopedic surgeon. Not my orthopedic surgeon, of course, since he retired. His replacement. I have a feeling my knee may have a replacement, as well.
If they fix one knee and not the other, I hope I don’t walk in circles.
So, we’re living in hard times – I hear that all the time. Constantly. It’s a battering ram for one political party against the other. It does seem like there is less of a lot of things these days. (Saying there is more of less just seems wrong.)
However, maybe it’s us. Maybe, just maybe our priorities are screwed up.
This occurred to me last night while we were at a Lady Antebellum concert. Three acts – Thompson Square, Darius Rucker, and Lady Antebellum played a sold-out show at the American Airlines Center. We had tickets through the Darius Rucker fan club, but we had still paid over $100 for a pair of floor seats. A $59 ticket is a full day’s work, given a minimum wage of $7.25 per hour.
(This is not meant as a rant against Lady Antebellum or the other acts. It was a good show. This basic thought occurs to me every time we attend a concert.)
So, there were 21,000 people in attendance, since the band announced it was a sell-out and that’s what Wikipedia says the AAC holds for concerts. (Two unimpeachable sources.) I’m pretty sure we got a deal on tickets, since the box office was selling someone tickets for $99 (“good seats”) while we were at wll-call, and a scalper was selling his floor seats for $300. Each.
That’s a lot of money.
There were an amazing number of iPhones in attendance, which are not free, plus you have to pay to use them. There were some fairly sluttily-attired women, and from my understanding, looking slutty can be expensive.
The Spousal Unit and I had two cheeseburgers, a large Dr Pepper and a bottle of water before the show. That was another $29. We saw enough alcohol being consumed to require an AAC staff member to make the rounds with a mop. Seriously.
My point is that there was a lot of discretionary spending going on in the AAC and these are not the 1% that are supposed to be universally hated.These are the 99% that are constantly being told they are suffering. (This is not based on any specific research other than my understanding is that very few of the 1% actually own gimme caps.)
Maybe we are spending $200 a night plus $800 for a phone and $100 or more a month so we can take photos for Facebook to try to forget we’re poor. That might be the problem.
Now, I’m sure that some of these people will attend this one show this year and nothing else. However, it’s still a lot of money.At $59 a seat (and many paid more), there was over a million dollars of seats sold last night. The band announced it was their sixth sellout of the tour, so it’s not just Dallas.
Jimmy Buffett will be in town this summer, and he wants $136 EACH for tickets. Four hours after the show was announced, the only tickets at that price level were in the second tier. (To be fair, seats on the lawn – i.e. no seat at all – are only $36. We’re not going. I can’t see spending $300 to hear a bunch of songs I heard live when I was in college.) It should be noted that Jimmy Buffett probably does not set his own personal ticket prices. However, he reaps the benefits.
[Based on attendance at the last Buffett concert I attended, some of the Parrotheads are the 1%, trying to relive a life they never had. Doctors and lawyers make bad pirates. Well, doctors, anyway.]
We have a lot of money for concerts and concert accessories, apparently.
I’m as guilty as the rest, too – so I’m not just pointing fingers. There’s a certain list of artists who I will go see when they come to town, regardless of price (mostly.) I won’t pay $300 for Jimmy Buffett. I’ve paid more than that for Sir Paul McCartney. We paid close to that for Tom Petty floor seats after his Super Bowl show.
I can almost understand the price levels when there are only 21,000 seats available, since there are a lot of fixed costs involved with moving three bands around the country and setting up the stage and the light show. However, the prices don’t go down when you get to larger arenas (Cowboys Stadium, which has shit acoustics, seats five times as many people.) In fact, some times the prices go up.So, economies of scale don’t enter the equation.
You know, this started as a rant about the economy, but it’s turning into a rant against the music business.
Here’s how to help the music business – next time a touring band comes to town, and you wince when you see the ticket prices, just go down to your local bar, pay the cover (if any) and throw $10 in the band’s tip jar. You’re helping a small band, the local economy and you’re saving money. (If they don’t suck, buy a CD. Buy two. If they really don’t suck, ask if they’re on PledgeMusic or Kickstarter for their next project. Pledge.) Find your local community radio station, like KNON. Pledge. A lot.(Really. We’re in the middle of pledge drive at KNON.)
When you do see a local band, take the CD home and play it. See how it sounds very close to how they sounded live? That’s because the band plays the music, whether live or recorded. Now, do the same thing with a big touring act. Does it sound the same? It depends on how many musicians they have on stage with them. Also, you’ll never notice because the thousands of dollars of light show distracts you.
Maybe popular music should take a hint from classical – when you go to an orchestral concert, you have the music. I’ve never seen a cellist rise up from the middle of the stage at the Dallas Symphony. There isn’t a light show. The violinists don’t dash across the stage to trade solos. Why? Because people are there to listen, not see.
So, as always, the fundamental problem with the universe is MTV. I’m glad we got that cleared up.
A final note to national touring bands – you can stop telling us you appreciate how we’re spending our hard-earned money on you. We get it – you’re grateful. You’re also rich, so you don’t have to remind us that we’re not. If you’re really grateful, why not leave drop $20 off the ticket prices. Either that, or buy everyone a beer.
A final thought – yes, this is contrary to my earlier post, and yes, we had screamers behind us last night. Sigh. How many times has Barbra retired?
One day next week, I’m changing jobs. I’ll be moving back to Developer Relations from my current technical sales job.
I was never meant to be in sales. In a way, I’m surprised I survived as long in technical sales as I did. I took the job because two people I trust recommended that I do so, but I really didn’t get what I expected.
I’m a geek. I admit it. I keep score at baseball games. My favorite part of a cruise is mapping the captured GPS coordinates when I get home. I love computers because they will do something repeatedly if you take the time to teach them to do it once. I love programming – I always have. It’s unfortunate that there aren’t more pure programming jobs I could apply to do – without relocating, anyway.
I finally realized today why I would never fit well into a sales organization – this story happened a long time ago, back when I was a real programmer. I’m surprised I didn’t recall it until today, although my brain may have been trying to protect me from the knowledge. It’s a warning to anyone in a technical field that thinks sales looks like fun – not a warning to never do it, just a warning that the mindset is completely different, so be prepared.
I was working for a company that sold a Lotus Notes-based customer relationship management system – my job title was “consultant”, and my actual job was to customize the system for each specific customer. In this case, our customer was a heavy equipment manufacturer. We went to one of their largest dealers to ask the staff what features they required in a CRM system, besides what we already had.
Two of the interviews stand out – the parts manager who ran the depot and the senior sales manager. I talked to the parts manager, and his suggestion was to add an inventory of all the equipment that the customer owned, so when he looked at a customer’s record, he could easily find what they had, which told him what parts they might need. This sounded like a reasonable request to me – in fact, once I heard it, I was surprised I hadn’t thought of it before.
The sales manager said that would be nice, but what he really needed was a section for the customer’s secretary’s name, her birthday and what type of flowers she liked.
That’s the key difference between technical and sales. Technical is concerned with the problems that may need to be solved and how to solve them. Sales is concerned about accessing the right person and schmoozing them.
I can schmooze with the best of them when absolutely required, but I really don’t want it to be the centerpiece of my job.
I’d rather talk to machines than people. They talk back less.
Although some of us have known this for a while, the AirHogs finally announced this week that Skipper Ricky VanAsselberg has signed a two-year deal to continue managing the team. So, the skipper will be back from the championship team. Now, we just have to wonder how much of the crew will return. The transaction log has been relatively silent (for the AirHogs, anyway), but I assume that will be changing as the countdown to the start of the season begins in earnest.
Unfiltered Thoughts 