Remember When?

Remember when the Web was small and not every square inch of it was considered a billboard for kitschy, tawdry marketing? Remember when you could type in a search word or phrase and if you misspelled it you didn’t end up at a triple-X site that hi-jacked your computer and planted 215 spies on your hard drive? Remember when people on the web were friendly and helpful and didn’t take their personal angst and nastiness out on you? Remember when Yahoo! and AOL were brand new and didn’t think they owned the world? Remember when surfing, a link actually led you to someone’s site, not to a directory of directories that led you to even more directories?

I wouldn’t mind paying a small fee to have that back again.

Just Ask Me #3

In response to Karma’s  three questions:

1) What is your favorite smell?
Freshly mown grass. It reminds me of when I was a very small child and my dad mowed the lawn. I think it’s the first smell I consciously remember.

2) Do you prefer stone, metal, wood or glass?
Stone, most definitely. I feel a very subtle energy running through stone; it vibrates against the palm of my hand. Most people think stone is dead, but it’s not. It’s living, being part of our living earth, which is an organism in and of itself. We have stone tile floors in our entry and bathrooms and I love their coolness under my bare feet.

3) Have you ever seen ghosts/spirits/fairies?
Yes to all three (and more). And none of them frighten me in the least.

Hey, Doc

Here’s a scenario for you. You’re sitting in an examination room of your doctor’s office, after a 45-minute ordeal in the waiting room, where you were exposed to every cold and flu that ever flurried around the runny-nosed head of every kid who’s been kept out of school with a fever and sneezing attacks (with no hand-over-mouth protection that should have been taught by the parents long ago). You’re feeling great! Never better! The doctor walks in and asks you what she or he can do for you.

“Well,” you begin, “I saw an ad on television last night that told me I should ask you about (insert name of new drug here).”
“Are you having any symptoms?” your doctor asks.
“Not that I know of. I feel wonderful.” you reply.
“(Insert name of new drug here) is for a collapsed rectum. Go home and quit wasting my time.”

Why do the pharmaceutical companies give us the lowdown on some new drug, all the benefits (10% of the commercial at a normal speaking speed), then all of the side effects (90% of the commercial at 78rpm), then never even tell us what the drug is for? I saw Dr. Andrew Weil on Larry King’s show last night. He’s predicting that the American health care system is quickly heading for a complete collapse and I agree, and the pharmaceutical companies are leading the way.

Most of us were raised to believe that when we need them, prescription drugs are useful, sometimes necessary aids in the healing of complaints and diseases. I’m not buying it anymore. Not when so-called “common” side effects include seizure, stroke, leukemia, and in the case of my own mother, thrombosis and death. Anymore, I resort to prescription drugs only in extreme situations. Our bodies build immunities to antibiotics. I’m walking proof of that. After having survived peritonitis twice (the first bout put me into a coma during which I had a near-death experience), I have to take massive doses of antibiotics just to whip a small cold. No thanks. I’d rather just ride the thing out with natural remedies. I’m not talking about major life-threatening conditions. I’m talking about the “inconveniences” we all experience from time-to-time.

I don’t like OTC cold remedies like Nyquil because I have a bad reaction to antihistamines. I figure, my runny nose, constant sneezing and coughing are just my body’s way of expelling the bug that’s lodged itself in my mucus membranes. If I dry everything up, he’s just going to stay there. Nope. When I get a cold I sleep it off, drink lots of orange juice and water, and get lots of electrolytes via chicken soup.

Blog Lite

Sorry I’ve been out of it a bit the past few days. I’m just so damned fatigued. I get up in the morning and everything I have to do — be the list long or short — looks like a mountain to me. Just the famous “Libra Lazies,” I guess. I still have the “All The Rest” archive page to rebuild. Meh. No one really cares, especially me, if it’s not done at this very moment.

I became a Live365 preferred member today. That means that for $26 every six months I have my pick of some great net radio with no visual or audio ads, and no interruptions. Plus, I now have access to hundreds more stations. I’m slowly building my play list and am enjoying that. I’ve been listening to Live365 for about a year, I think, my favorite station being an all-Mozart. That one, being a professional station, has no commercials anyway, but I also like a Baroque station. And since we’ve moved into the new bedroom and left the small stereo up in what is now the family room, we wanted to use my computer as our private music system, so that’s why we joined up. Now I need some better speakers.

It’s always something.
Sure hope I feel more lively tomorrow. I don’t like this sluggish crap. That didn’t sound right…

Random Brain Gas

~ We’re half moving stuff between the den and the master bedroom and half goofing off (hey, it’s Saturday, okay?), and I just woke up from an Ibuprofen-induced nap. We’ve gotten almost all of the little crap moved and all of the closets taken care of. It’s great having my own closet, one with room to grow. All of my Levis and black tee-shirts look kind of lonely in there.

~ Lynette introduced herself to the new neighbors across the street this morning. Seems they’re only here for three months whilst their house is being built. Too bad. She says they’re really nice. They sure have been spending a lot of time and energy decorating their front porch and yard for only a three-month stay. Guess I’d do the same thing.

~ I used to have really neat handwriting. Actually, I’ve always printed and had the hand of an architect or an engineer. Nowadays it’s just scribble. Damned internet.

~ What do you do with something you really like but has lost its usefulness? I have a beautiful forest green tassel that used to hang on the bedroom doorknob, but it lost the braided cord that I hung it up with. Now all it can do is lay on my desk, looking useless. Guess I could fix it. Wouldn’t be all that difficult.

~ There’s little scarier than looking down to see a huge sewing needle in the carpet, next to your foot.

~ I need another cup of coffee. Be right back.

~ I emptied the dishwasher while I was at it.

~ I didn’t even think of my Saturday crossword in the paper until this very moment. I must be coming down with something.

My Confession

I have a confession to make. It’s something I’ve never divulged here in this blog, and you all know how I love exposing myself being honest here. I’ve always been an open book and although I’m not entirely a “what-you-see-is-what-you-get” kind of person, I have never been afraid of people knowing all of my secrets. Ask me a question about myself and I’ll tell you, much to some people’s horror. So I have this confession. It’s something that everyone who knows me personally knows, and I think many people probably suspect. Nevertheless, here it is.

I love to fart. I love for other people to fart. In fact, I love sitting around farting with friends. I love categorizing them, naming them, analyzing them, showing them off, posing while doing them.

Oh, don’t give me that “T.M.I.” crapola. You know you like it.

Really, I don’t understand how some people go their entire lives without eking one out once in a while. And when they do, how can they not laugh? I remember my ex once asked me (in her exasperated tone of voice), “For the rest of our lives are you going to laugh every time you fart?” I told her that I certainly hope so, because once you stop laughing at them, farts fall into the realm of “disgusting body functions.” We can’t have that.
Come to think of it, I think farting is kind of like masturbating. 90% of people say they do it, and the other 10% are liars.

Of course, I don’t go around farting in public. Well, I have, but only when Ville’s been around to laugh at me, but it’s not a common practice of mine. No, I’m an at-home farter for, as my dad used to say, “If a man can’t fart in his own home, where in hell can he fart?” He was a robust Austrian and taught me everything he knew about fart humor.

I’m so well-known for my effluviation fascination that one year Ville bought me a battery powered, remote controlled whoopie gizmo. I like to tuck it under a chair or sofa cushion and set it off when my poor victim least suspects it. The thing has about five different kinds of farts programmed into it. For years I’ve wanted one of those little hand whoopies like Leslie Nielsen carries around with him wherever he goes. I figure if a 70-plus year-old man of Nielsen’s caliber and reputation can enjoy his farts, well then so can I.

That’s it, really. I think you know everything about me now. But here are some things you might not know:

• If you fart in extremely cold weather conditions, it can be seen like a white plume of steam.
• People create within their bodies about half a liter of fart gas everyday, resulting in an average of 14 daily farts.
• If you were floating in space, and farted, it would propel you forward several feet
  People who hold farts in all days fart in their sleep. Remember that next time you have a big night planned.

This & That

Hate-Mongering:
I have to shake my head in utter disbelief. Nathan came home from football practice last night and told us that there’s a play the team uses called, “Smear the Queer.” He doesn’t like it, so he doesn’t use it, but we’re wondering what we should do about it. If we make a fuss the guys on the team will make his life a living hell. It gets really difficult when you have to balance changing the world with protecting your kid. What the hell are they teaching at that school anyway? I’m increasingly growing discontented with this place. But on to other things…

Wal-Mart:
The evil Wal-Mart wasn’t at all bad yesterday. The trick, you see, is to go in the morning before the college kids get out of bed. It was actually like shopping yesterday, not like braving the L.A. freeway system. As much as I hate dragging my insomniac ass out of bed to take Lynette to work (we have only one car and six people, three of them teenagers), it’s worth it if only to ensure an enjoyable shopping experience for myself, not to mention the freshly stocked shelves and associates who haven’t yet grown grumpy from the dumbasses who flock there. When is this town going to give us a selection of super markets? Sheesh! We have a population of over 40,000 (without the OUS student body, I believe and the populations of tiny bergs like Perkins, Hennessey and Pawnee). Who does one have to sleep with to get another store? We have an Albertson’s (too expensive), an IGA (too small, not enough selection — a neighborhood grocer, actually) and the evil Wal-Mart. C’mon! There’s talk of another Wal-Mart going in here on the west side of town. While I’d rather have a Super Target, at least another Wal-Mart would cut the traffic in the ice cream aisle down by one half, and shopping for the week’s groceries wouldn’t take two full hours due to congestion at the checkout. I know what’ll happen though. By the time they start getting more selection in everything here (we have no really good places to go out to dinner either — everything is fast food and sit-down fast food, being geared toward the student population), we’ll be leaving for Vienna.

Speaking of Vienna:
Lynette and I have been discussing what of our belongings we’re going to have crated to take with us. Turns out, not much! Some things we’re going to sell and some things we’re going to give either to our friends or to the kids once they’re in their own apartments. I thought this would be a sad process, but we’re so looking forward to getting a fresh start and leaving the things behind that came from our past marriages (the dining set and hutch are from her marriage and the coffee table, stereo, and miscellaneous tables are from mine. The one piece of furniture I’m taking is my wingback chair, and that we’re going to have reupholstered once we’re there. Meantime, I’m clipping pictures from magazines and catalogs and putting them in a binder so that when the time comes, we can go out and find the kind of things we want for our Vienna apartment.

On the computer:
I got rid of the InsomniaCam until I get all the archive pages restored. I can’t even begin to think of trying to figure that crap out.

A word to the wise:
Never drink milk when eating broccoli at dinner.

Happy Birthday, John

It’s nearly impossible to believe John Lennon would have turned sixty-five today. His influence on my life has been astounding, not for having been a Beatle, but for who he was as a human being. When I first put it together that he was a Libra and I was a Libra, I made the decision that if I was going to be a Libra, I was going to be a Libra like John Lennon. Having him as a role model throughout the years, I’ve seen how that decision has only helped me to be a better person. Not without his human foibles — and not ashamed to reveal those in ways that were sometimes painful to watch — John taught me to own my humanity, faults and all, and to look life squarely in the face with an attitude of, this is who I am. Sorry if you don’t like it. It has never let me down.

“I’m not going to change the way I look or the way I feel
to conform to anything. I’ve always been a freak. So I’ve been
a freak all my life and I have to live with that, you know.
I’m one of those people.”

“If being an egomaniac means I believe in what I do and in my
art or music, then in that respect you can call me that…
I believe in what I do, and I’ll say it.”

“We’ve got this gift of love, but love is like a precious plant. You
can’t just accept it and leave it in the cupboard or just think it’s
going to get on by itself. You’ve got to keep watering it.
You’ve got to really look after it and nurture it.”

I Suck

At poker, that is. Ville and Beau invited us over to play Texas Hold ‘em last night. Beau just got some new professional grade chips and they’ve been trying to get “Poker Night” established for a while. After the day we had, it seemed only natural to carry on with the absurdity, so we accepted. On our way to their house we stopped by the Stillwater Airport to watch the away team leave in their Frontier A319 Airbus. That’s such a great jet. Our trip from the States to Amsterdam was in an A330 and we loved it. We got to the airport just as the jet was making its taxi out to take-off position. Perfect timing. And when it left the ground it was right in front of us. We then headed on over to Ville and Beau’s house. (Side note: The Buffs wiped the floor with our Cowboys. What a miserable loss.)

The hilarity began the minute we walked in the door. We pour drinks, then tucked into a great dinner of bratwurst, sauerkraut and baked beans (yeah, I know…). Nettl had never played before, so she sat out and observed a while. When she finally felt brave enough to be dealt in, she (pretend) pouted for a while, saying things like, “I’m going to lose. I don’t understand” and so forth. On her first hand she cleaned house with a straight flush. We weren’t buying that anymore and showed no mercy. She finally just wiped us out and we had to reclaim everyone’s chips and start over. As usual, I lost. I did score a straight, but mostly I sucked.

I Got Up Early For This?

It’s 8:00 on Saturday morning. A morning breaking too soon after a night of playing online poker with Ville drinking too much boxed wine and eating too many Flaming Hot Cheetos. Lynette is gently waking me, telling me my coffee is already made. She then gives me the bad news: “Don’t forget we’re going to the Plasma Center today with Ville, Liebchen.” We’ve never donated plasma before, but with two short paychecks we need money if our family of six wants to eat this weekend. Plus, rent is due. My stomach aching, I stumble out of bed and take a shower. Then the Cheetos hit me.

Note to Self: Never, ever, under any circumstance, eat those again. Especially with boxed wine.

With trembling hands I get myself ready to be hooked up to a blood recycling machine for 45 minutes. Aspirin? No, my stomach can’t handle that this morning. Tagamet? No, it might be on the list of things I can’t take before donating. Breakfast. No, there’s nothing in the kitchen except leftover sauerkraut and baked beans. Oof… no thank you.

While tying my shoes, the phone rings. It’s Ville, who says, “I was kind of drunk last night. Did we say you guys were going to pick me up this morning?”

Around 9:00 I pour a cup of coffee for the car ride and we leave, looking forward to the $85 that we will each make donating plasma. The plan is to go get groceries afterward, so we pick up Ville and we’re all laughs and wisecracks as we drive across town. It’s game day and all of the streets within eight blocks of the university are congested and irksome. As we enter the Plasma Center down on the Strip, near the campus, I note that most of the people waiting to donate are dressed in OSU orange and black. "Poor sods are probably here to get money so that they can buy tickets to the game", I think to myself.

We turn in our two forms of ID, get the papers to fill out and sit down. Of course, Ville and I joke about some of the questions. One asks what was the last thing I ate and I write down “toast and a soft-boiled egg”. Why in hell did I do that? I never eat that for breakfast, especially not today. I was afraid that if I hadn’t eaten they might reject me. Now I’m stressing out about not having that egg. What if, when my blood and urine tests come back, they tell me, “Sorry. You can’t donate. You have no trace of egg in your system and we never accept plasma from people who’d stoop to lie about a stupid egg.” Ville tells me I’m a stu.

Across the room is “Rasta Dude”. Next to him is “Middle-Aged Football Fan” and next to Ville is “Rice Krispies & Beer for Breakfast College Boy”. Then, in walks “She Who Will Not Stop Talking”.

We each get called into little interview cubicles, where we are given specimen cups. After I fill mine up to the line, “Anemic Male Nursing Student”, in front of everyone in the waiting room, dips a slip of litmus paper into my cup and tells me in his monotone mumble that I can now get rid of it. Get rid of it? Can I just sit it over by the coffeemaker? I take it to the bathroom instead and return to where Ville and Nettl are held hostage by “She Who Will Not Stop Talking”. After Ville goes through the specimen cup routine, she’s told that her blood sugar is up too high and she cannot donate. Must be all CokaRummas she drank last night, not to mention the half-a-bag of giant M&Ms. What will she do while we’re in the big room having our blood removed and returned to us? I mention that there’s a college bar across the road, but it’s only 10:30 in the morning. I then say that if we were in Vienna no one would even notice if she drank a couple of beers at 10:30 in the morning. She says she’s cool. She doesn’t mind waiting.

While this discussion is going on, “She Who Will Not Stop Talking” informs Nettl that they only give $15, not $85, for plasma. To make the full $175 a month you have to come in twice a week, not twice a month. Oh, nice! What if I get pulled over by a cop who takes one look at my track marks and promptly throws my ass in jail, which automatically disqualifies me for donating plasma for a full 15 months? Plus I have a hefty fine to pay as well as bail! WTF?

Nettl is called to the counter, where she gets her finger poked. When she comes back she tells me the lancet is really tiny. “Didn’t hurt at all.” When it’s my turn, “Anemic Male Nursing Student” rams a jousting pole into my fingertip, which is immediately taken over by a huge purple bruise. I jump about two feet into the air. Nettl’s called into a cubicle and when she returns she informs me that she can’t donate because they couldn’t find her veins. When I’m called, I’m told the same thing. “You can, of course, let us try,” the nurse says. “No thank you,” I say with a laugh. “If a lancet could be as painful as that one was, I don’t think it’s worth fifteen bucks to have two huge needles driven into my arms.” I go back out and tell Nettl and Ville that I’ve been rejected too. I notice “Rasta Dude” was accepted, as well as “Middle-Aged Football Fan” and “Rice Krispies & Beer for Breakfast College Boy”. “She Who Will Not Stop Talking” is a regular. Go figure.

“Well, that was a wasted morning!” Nettl grumbles.
“At least we spent the morning together,” Ville replies, the eternal optimist.

I suggest that since we all need to brave the evil Wal*Mart Super Center sometime today, we might as well get it over with and go together. This meets with approval, so we head to the dreaded store of hate. It’s a nightmare. Not only is it Game Day, it’s also the first of the month and a Saturday, and the place is full of screaming kids, toothless Uncle Dads, obese people in scooters and your typical Wal*Mart denizens in polyester and John Deere caps. After Ville rants about the “stupid people” I explain to her that these people are just hillbillies, without the hills. We look at each other and say in unison, “They’re just Billies,” and we laugh so hard we’re afraid we’re going to wet ‘em. There we are, standing next to the corn dogs and Little Juan burritos for some time, concentrating on not peeing our pants. Later, in the cereal aisle, Ville tells me she always liked Lucky Charms, especially the marshmallows, and I say that those marshmallows are the reason I always hated Lucky Charms.

“They’re not really marshmallows, are they.” I say. “I mean, marshmallows get all soft, but these just turn slimy and weird. If we can put people on the moon, Ville, why in hell can’t we have a reasonable marshmallow facsimile in our Lucky Charms?”

We finally check out and head for the car. Then we take Ville home and help unload her groceries. Tonight, Nettl, Joel and I are going over there to play poker. Think I’ll be leaving the Flaming Hot Cheetos at home.