Little Robin

Let us pray.

I've been sitting here reading friends' reminiscences since about four o'clock this afternoon. It's taken me all that time to get over the shock.

The world lost a comic genius. The Bay Area lost our favorite son. To those of us who were part of the San Francisco comedy scene of the late 1970's we have lost The One.

I'd like to say there was never a doubt in my mind that he would be The One, but that would be false. From the first time I saw him at the Holy City Zoo, a small comedy club where they literally would turn the lights out on a performer who went beyond his allotted ten minutes, I knew he was genius. But I also thought how in the world could anyone translate this manic energy, this mile a minute mind meld, into a anything more than an exhausting club comic. TV would kill the creativity, film -- yeah right can you see him playing anything other than himself? Even comedy recordings couldn't capture the half of his act that was spot on mime or that look in his eye as he calculated instantly just the perfect retort, barb, or non-sequitor.

Yet still you had to believe he was The One. Comedy clubs could fill on just the rumor he was going to come in and do ten minutes. The Other Cafe had a stage that backed up onto a window along the street. If so inclined passing pedestrians could stop and watch a few minutes of a comic's set, though hearing what was being said was dicey. The street would be jammed when word spread he was there. And this was a world without Twitter or Facebook. He came in second in the first San Francisco Comedy Competition and turned coming in second into a badge of honor for a legion of soon to be great stand-ups. Only The One could do that.

The energy he brought into a club was insane. He fed the audience, the audience fed him, the dynamo filled with electricity till a mere raised eyebrow or sudden change of body language was enough to bring tears of joy and aching of ribs to everyone. Other comics were in awe of that ability. He'd drop in at the Old Spaghetti House in North Beach to work with the improv  group Spaghetti Jam and it was a point of honor to just keep up with him.  Oh some griped, natural jealousy and professional envy are a bad mix. I don't think you could have a conversation about him without hearing "you know he stole that line from (insert name of comic)", but it was also acknowledged that he didn't do it conscientiously. It was just his mind working at warp speed, sucking in something he heard and using it to propel his jet engine.

Everyone has their story of their encounters with him. A party, a club, in the grocery store, he seemed to be everywhere at once. And at the same time he seemed to be nowhere. The yin of the energy on stage was balanced by the yang of the quiet thoughtful off stage persona. You had to think the off stage person was decompressing from the onstage persona, gathering strength quietly like a tropical storm at sea moving towards hurricane status so that it could wreck havoc once unleashed. What we didn't know, what I came to deal with myself years later, was that the "decompression" was really the dark cloud lowering.

Those of us who live with the cloud know the power of those uplifting powders. Let me tell you, cocaine might be a high for you, but for us it allows a brief moment of what we perceive to be regular life. "This is it!", you think, "this is what it feels like to be normal! This is why all those people are happy. I want to feel like this all the time. I want to feel normal."

And that's how you slide into addiction. You think the Blue Fairy has made Pinocchio into a real boy, but in reality the Blue Fairy is the Wicked Witch and she's just fattening you up for the oven.

You don't notice that as the star begins to ascend. Or maybe it was just the times, the age of "everyone's doing it". Still I couldn't see how he was going to go beyond stand up comic. I think everyone thought that. The feeling was so prevalent that the biggest laugh he got one night at the Great American Music Hall was his last comment about how he had to finish so he could catch a plane for Los Angeles to shoot an episode of HAPPY DAYS. Really? HAPPY DAYS? Oh yeah, sure, what a gag.

I guess I was wrong.

Still the cloud followed. It followed Mork and Popeye and Garp and Vladimir and Adrian. It followed him up the stairs to hold the gold statue, an event that truly had me shaking my head in amazement. It followed him to the worldwide fame and the millions of dollars and the adulation. It followed him to Tiburon, that most exclusive of exclusive towns in the Bay Area. It was there that the cloud swallowed him.

I've been reliving my young adulthood over the past few hours, mourning not only him but the harsh reality of getting older. The cloud sits up on the ceiling, a comfortable distance away. I have learned the skills necessary to keep it at bay. My heart breaks that he could not.

I suppose that's the cosmic deal if you are anointed to be The One.

And the congregation says "Amen".

Spaghetti Jam Improv June 1978. Photo by yours truly. 

Hey There, It's Yoga Bear!

Did you miss me?

I've taken a couple of months off from the blog in order to get back into the swing of real life. I've gone back to work, which at first was a bit daunting since nearly everything I was selling before the surgery had been discontinued in favor of new models. The nomenclature of home technology normally requires a glossary of terms to understand, but when you've been away from it for several months a Rosetta Stone would be more appropriate. I felt like I was floating in a sea of  indecipherable vocabulary, occasionally having a shark come up and nudge my leg, reaching out for a lifeboat that keeps moving just out of my reach.

And then it all made sense again.

On the foot front things are progressing as they should be. The wounds have now pretty much closed up. The last to go was the largest one on the left side of the foot, the source of all gauze related discomfort at one time. Now it has neatly scabbed over and per the instructions of, well, everyone I am not picking at the scab. However any time someone mentions not to pick at the scab the only thing I want to do is pick at the scab. Otherwise I never think about it. And if I blink or yawn, you will blink or yawn as well.

Yesterday as I was driving up to The City for another physical therapy appointment I grumbled to myself that this was going to be the last one. For two months I've been going there, riding the bike, making circles with my foot, tracing the alphabet with my foot, bending my foot back and forth, and occasionally having someone twist and turn my foot in one direction or another. Save for the last bit, everything else I could do at home. I didn't need to drive through traffic twice a week, struggle to find parking, and put up with a smelly old gym (yes, the gym's charms wore off a few weeks ago). I was going to go to this last appointment, tell them I'd call about the next one, and quietly slip off into that wormhole of customers who never return.

My resolve to do that only strengthened when my PT assistant of the day turned out to be a kid I have nicknamed Caspar Milquetoast. I'm sure he's a nice kid but as a physical therapist he leaves a lot to be desired, mostly because he refuses to put any strength into the only thing I really need a therapist for -- the resistance work. Whereas all the other guys really force me to push against them, Caspar retreats like a friendly ghost, offering little if any resistance. Having him was just another nail in the coffin of physical therapy as far as I could see.

I'm riding the bike and Caspar asks when was the last time I saw Mr. Miyagi, the actual physical therapist. Not in a couple of months I reply, so off he goes to fetch the elusive Miyagi. I must have turned my head or closed my eyes for the briefest of moments, but suddenly he appeared next to me asking how everything was and had all the wounds healed. When I said they had, he clapped his hands together like a miniature Oliver Hardy and exclaimed that it was now time to really start working on my foot. He turned to Caspar, told him to do ultra sound therapy all the way up to my knee and then a deep massage on my calf and ankle. Mr. Miyagi would then come back and do some resistance work.  Okay, I thought, let's see where this goes.

The ultra sound went fine and then I prepared myself for what I assumed would be the worst leg massage I've ever had.

A BRIEF INTERLUDE: Years ago Betsey and I went up to Calistoga  for mud baths and massage at Doc Wilkinson's Spa. When asked what type of massage I wanted I opted for the Shiatsu massage because I had never had one. After half an hour of having elbows pile driven into my muscles and fingers literally wrap themselves around various tendons and ligaments, I swore I would never have one again. That was until yesterday.

Caspar Milquetoast turned into the Incredible Hulk ("Hulk like to smash things"). I have never felt pain like I was feeling then. My calf muscles were on fire. I suddenly understood that I could never stand up to torture. If I have the secret codes you will get them with little effort on your part. I swear I thought at one point he was going to ask me if it was safe. I have never in my life asked a masseuse to stop because it hurt too much but I found myself just on the edge of crying out for Caspar to cease when, in fact, he stopped. I'm laying on the table completely drenched in sweat, completely spent, and all I've been doing is nothing.

But damn my leg and foot felt GREAT!

Once again Mr. Miyagi appeared at my side asking me this time if I had ever done yoga. Other than in college when I did it in order to ogle the girls and one time at a Club Med when I was dared to do it, I had not. Then we will start slow he said and guided me down to the floor and onto a yoga mat. This will be for the stretch of your foot he told me and had me kneel down and place my feet under my butt. Then he had me lean back and apply pressure to my calves and feet. You will do this for ten seconds he commanded and we will build up to one minute. In my mind Mr. Snark came out to play. Ten seconds? Really? We gotta build up to.....

OH MY DEAR GOD THE PAIN!!!!

I was cursing every sugary snack I ever ate in life, every time I went back for seconds at the buffet, every time I laughed at my dancer friends who warmed up while I sat there making fun of them. A minute, are you insane?! My knees will pop out and my thigh muscles will explode if I do a minute.

And it was when I was doing that last one, the one lasting a minute, that Mr. Miyagi bent down and asked, "When will we see you again?"

"Next Wednesday", I croaked.

An American Hero

A little something different for this Memorial Day. I wrote this piece about five years ago and truth be told I meant to post it again a few weeks ago on the first anniversary of Jim's passing. Memorial Day seems like a good choice for a second chance.

Today we remember the one small step for man and that giant leap for mankind. Rightfully so we celebrate Armstrong and Aldrin and Collins. Their voyage to the moon and back is legendary, the stuff of American heroes. Much will be written and spoken about them today. In-between all the where are they nows and the looking backs, I’d like to take a moment to talk about someone else entirely. 

I’d like to talk about another American. His name is Jim Freshour and he didn't go to the moon. Instead in the mid 1960’s he got to pack up and move from Sunnyvale California to Huntsville Alabama. The mid 1960’s. Huntsville Alabama. He didn't go to the moon, he went to a whole new planet. And he took his family along with him. 

Those of you my age or older may recall that Huntsville Alabama was dubbed “Rocket City USA” back then. From all over the country came young engineers and scientists to work on the absurd challenge that a martyred president had put forth; to put a man on the moon and return him safely to the earth by the end of the decade. And as if it weren't crazy enough that all these over-educated, underpaid, slide rule gunslingers were plopped down in the middle of the segregated South, they ludicrously were led by a group of former Nazi bomb makers who had just a few years earlier been trying their best to bury London under a blitz of V2 rockets. The whole lot of them were met by a welcome wagon of race baiting, fifteen year olds in the sixth grade, tobacco chewing, George Wallace loving, reddest of redneck natives. 

The Cold War meets Jim Crow. What a sight that must have been. 

Jim did his job. Every morning he went off to work and every afternoon the ground around Huntsville would shake with the testing of the thunder he had created. Every evening he would come home and play with his children and avoid talking about what he had done at work all day. Like everyone else imported to Huntsville, Jim couldn't talk about what he did. The constraints of national security made the merest whisper of what was said or done in the buildings behind the fencing on “that side” of town not simply local gossip, but a matter of treason. 

Everyone knew what those rockets with their red glare were really about. Oh getting a man to the moon was nice, a good story to tell the kids, but what we were really saying to our vodka swilling competitors across the ocean was “Don’t mess with us. If we can put one of these on the moon we can sure as hell land one in Moscow packed with a multiple kiloton nuclear surprise.” 

It’s a beautiful day in Dr. Strangelove’s neighborhood. 

So secrecy ruled the day. Scientists and engineers are not by nature communicative types. The guise of the absent minded professor is a socially acceptable way to avoid human interaction and they like it that way. It’s easier to appear to be lost in the clouds thinking great thoughts than to have to hold a conversation with the next door neighbor. However deep down inside, even the professor needs to reach out to other humans; being unable to can make a life difficult. When life turns difficult there are any number of coping mechanisms that we humans have. Some find comfort in religion. Back then it was hard to be a Baptist in the deep South. Having a Catholic wife made it even more difficult. Compromising on Presbyterian didn’t seem to do the trick. But there is something about that communion wine… 

Alcohol is another coping mechanism. The history of the space program (on both sides) is filled with a roster of Bill W.’s friends and unfortunately many who should have been but never made it to the meetings. Jim fell into that vat and it took many years, a divorce, and many tears for him to finally crawl out again. Still he never talked about what he did. And as the years passed and his kids wanted to know just what it was he did for a living, the simple answer was “I work for (insert name of military contractor)” followed by silence. Asking what he did for (insert name of military contractor) would elicit no further communication. When asked who built the ships that made it possible for men to scramble across the surface of the moon the answer was always (insert name of military contractor).

So while the fly-boys got the cover of Life Magazine and the visits to the White House, Jim and all the thousands of other Jims just like him sunk into the anonymity of the corporate structure and national security. They never got the recognition for their accomplishments. They didn’t get to ride the rocket. They didn’t get the parade. Their names weren’t household; their faces didn’t adorn the front pages. Yet without them Armstrong and Aldrin and Collins wouldn’t have made it to Sea World let alone the Sea of Tranquility. Their sacrifice, and the sacrifice of their families, needs to be remembered today. They are the heroes too. 

Here’s to my father-in-law Jim Freshour. Forty years ago today he put a man on the moon and returned him safely to the earth.

Just a Spoonful of Sugar....

I've been to physical therapy a few times now and as much as it would be comedic to report that I've been folded, spindled (does anyone still use a spindle?), and mutilated, I really haven't. The exercises I've been doing are mostly centered on loosening the muscles and ligaments of my foot in order to regain range of motion. It's a lot of toe lifts and heel extensions, resistance training on the foot ("Point down, now point up, now to the side, no the other side, use just your ankle") and finally Julian the PT assistant bending my foot further down then I've ever had it bent. Not that I haven't always, but I now have a new found respect for ballet dancers who are on point. Oh dear god, you voluntarily bend your foot like this? But oh how it feels so good when it's brought back to normal position.

Of course it also feels so good when the guy hitting you with a ball peen hammer stops doing it.

As well I do a fair amount of time on the stationary bike to get blood circulating better through my leg and to get me back into something of a shape I might have been in prior to all of this. Julian hasn't asked me what kind of shape I was in prior to the surgery and I'm certainly not going to volunteer that information. It's on a need to know basis and he doesn't need to know.

In addition I have been following the news stories surrounding the release of the movie FED UP and I've decided to make some changes in the way I eat. No, that's a little too nice. I have decided to take back control over what is in the things I eat. Specifically sugar, an addiction I have to admit I have been in the throes of since childhood. Reading these reports and seeing even the trailer for the movie I've gone through a Kubler-Ross style progression: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

At first I denied it could be true that sugar is as powerful an addiction as cocaine. Then I looked at my own life and realized how true that comparison is. I always thought my craving was for carbs, but look at most breads, pretzels, chips, etc and prominently in the ingredients you will find sugar. Whether you call it refined sugar or high fructose corn syrup it's feeding that addiction.

So I moved on to anger. I was angry that I'd been duped by large corporations into thinking even supposedly "healthy" processed food was good for you when in fact it's just as loaded with sugar as a can of Coke. So called "diet" products are just as filled with sugar as their regular versions, it's just sugar under a different name. Food you don't associate as having sugar in it, a can of soup for instance, is loaded. Why? Because sugar is a cheap preservative. And it makes you crave that product again. Which will make the producer more money. And who cares if our citizenry becomes obese and lethargic and 33% of them have diabetes cause that's gonna keep the health care companies the food producers have invested in making, you guessed it, more money! Hey all you food companies, why are you acting like the tobacco companies when we found out their products were causing cancer. "Oh our products aren't loaded with sugar. Well maybe they are but it's not a public health risk. OK it is a public health risk but people make their own decisions and it's just a lack of will power on the consumer's part. Yeah that's it, let's blame the people we've addicted for their addiction." Is it shocking to find out that many of our largest food producers at one time or another were tobacco producers?

Talk about drinking the Kool-Aid.

Let's make a deal. I won't eat the stuff that has obvious sugar in it. Ice cream, sweets, that kind of stuff. Just let me go on with the soups and the frozen egg rolls, and the other stuff that's down the middle aisles of the local Safeway Nob Hill Lucky's. I'll eat the fresh fruit and vegetables, just give me an occasional pass on the frozen pizza. What the hell do you mean it doesn't work that way? I'm trying to change, be healthier, give me my occasional frozen pizza for chrimeny sake.

Oh man how am I ever going to get through this? Everything I like to eat will be gone. I want to crawl underneath the covers and come out when they've replaced all the sugar with something not addictive. I want the food companies to suddenly realized how wrong they've been and change their ways. Yeah, like that's gonna happen. Leave me alone, I'm gonna sit here in the dark.

All right, all right. The only way to beat an addiction is to go cold turkey, I accept that. I'm getting off the sugar carousel. Fresh food only. More trips to Segona's and fewer to Safeway. I'm gonna read labels on anything even remotely processed and put it back on the shelf if it contains sugar. Fruits for breakfast, nuts and berries for snacks, gulp, no frozen pizzas for a quick dinner. Club soda. Shh, once in a while a bit of bourbon, heck that's natural sugar. All right maybe not.

When it's time for a change, think fresh fruits and vegetables. It might just save my life.

Let's Get Physical

I started physical therapy today. I had been warned by Dr. Knee that the place she was sending me to was going to be Hans and Franz. She was mistaken. Instead of getting Hans and Franz, I got Mr. Miyagi.

Wax on, wax off.

First of all the therapy took place in a gym on Valencia Street in San Francisco called Mission Fitness. For those of you not familiar with Valencia Street in San Francisco, once upon a time tough men would not walk down the street in fear of the even tougher women who frequented the local bars. But that was long ago and far away in a time known as college. Today it is Ground Zero, the capital of Hipsterville. Got a trend? It's a pretty safe bet it started around here. Gourmet toast. I'm not kidding you can look it up. It's also where old time residents and tech nerd newcomers duke it out over rising rental prices, gourmet restaurants replacing coffee shops, and high end clothing stores replacing the local shoe repair.

Mission Fitness (named so because the entire area is called the Mission, not because it's a play on words name) falls squarely in the old resident column. It's an old style place, crammed full of  equipment that hasn't been updated in years. Don't call it "retro", there has to be a small amount of nostalgia for something to be that. No, Mission Fitness isn't "retro". It's a dump. The smell of sweat and lineament wafts through the place, encouraged on by the giant fans blowing constantly. The carpet is torn and stained, the desk is two filing cabinets with a plank across them, and I can't be certain but I'm pretty sure the hot water in the showers is at best tepid. No fancy individual TVs or juice bars or a girl walking around refilling your water bottle here. This is a place to work out, to sweat and groan under the weight of heavy objects or the exertion from climbing a never ending staircase. It's population is longtime locals unconcerned about looking good in the mirrors combined with those like me looking for physical therapy. Paris Hilton would be appalled to be seen in here.

I fell in love with it right away.

In a side room off the main floor resides Orthopedic Physical Therapy. I was ushered in by an assistant therapist who took my info and did all the basic work up. Then in came John Soriano PT. I am not exaggerating when I say he looks exactly like Pat Morita's Mr. Miyagi from THE KARATE KID, right down to the small pony tail and the Fu Manchu beard. Even the accent is the same which is strange since it's obvious he's Philippino and not Japanese. I'm talking the real one, not that crappy remake.

He studies my foot for a moment, then asks if he can smell the wound. He assures me this is not out of some fetishistic desire, but to determine if there is an infection. I place my foot on a chair and he bends down, breathing deeply of what I can imagine is nothing that smells anything like pleasant.  His verdict is that there is a small infection, not too bad, but the wound should breath more and makes me promise to not wrap it in all the gauze that it's been wrapped and re-wrapped in for the past several weeks. Just use a large band-aid over the gauze inside the wound. Well he didn't have to tell me twice, I've fought the Battle of the Gauze far too long.

From his expressions and body language I was sure the next step was going to be him running out to the local herbalist to concoct some lethal smelling plaster for my foot to live in, but instead he outlines a course of exercises and massage therapies they I will do over the next several weeks. Then he hands me back to his assistant Josh and off he goes.

Josh puts me through some pretty basic exercises and stretches informing me that oh yeah tomorrow you're not going to be loving life. At least for the moment I'm doing okay. And next week I go back again.

Maybe this time I'll try the gourmet toast.

The Future is Yesterday

I love technology.

Here I am sitting by the gently flowing fountains of my northern California home while I listen to the New Orlean's Jazz and Heritage Festival via an internet stream from WWOZ.org and at the same time watching on my giant television screen a football (soccer to some of you) game from Turin, Italy and composing a piece of writing that will be available to anyone in the world with an internet connection. Meanwhile at the ever ready is my mobile phone with more computing power than was used to develop the atomic bomb and a tablet computer capable of giving forth to me all the literature the human species has ever produced and oh by the way all of it's music as well. All of this possible at this moment because a surgeon sliced out a piece of my heel bone and  tightened up some tendons necessitating a convalescence that would have been twice if not three times as long just a few years ago. I didn't even have to use something called a wound vac that apparently was considered and dismissed by the doctor as counter productive. Reading up on it I am kinda glad she did.

Which brings us to today's noontime update from the bridge (a nautical term we who frequently voyage upon the open sea use).

Dr. Knee is pleased with the process of the major wound healing, enough so that she's given me the go ahead to start physical therapy. Hans and Franz here I come.I'm able to walk a pretty good distance without the assistance of the cane, but I'm holding onto the cane as a reassurance against unforeseen problems. This morning I went to our little workout room and did two fifteen minutes sessions on the stationary bike, broken up by a few minutes on each of the two leg press machines. While I've been so concentrated on my foot, the thigh and calf muscles of that leg have been neglected and need toning.

On the negative, I'm still not ready to go back to work. Dr. Knee won't sign off on that till the wound is completely healed. Were I the type who worked in an office and sat at a desk all day she might agree to half days, but since I am on my feet all day in a retail environment work is going to have to wait a few more weeks.

That's okay. I suppose not everything can be as we want it. In the grand scheme of things this is but a short interlude, an intermission. Everyone knows it's the second act that produces the thrills. Meanwhile I'll let the music of New Orleans wash over me while I enjoy a sip of Kentucky's finest.

Sterling and Silver

Why is no one asking how or why over the last few days we are being bombarded with the tape recorded racist rantings of a billionaire asshole?

Let me say right off the  bat, of course he believes the shit he was saying. Of course he's a racist. That's been shown again and again by statements he's made in the past. And this bimbo maybe half black maybe half Latina no one is really sure girlfriend who is being sued by his wife for a couple of million dollars (let's not forget that's the real reason all of this came out) knew those were his feelings and lead him into this conversation. She probably posted the photos of Magic Johnson and Matt Kemp in order to goad him into this fight.

Which she tape recorded. Secretly.

Many Americans have been numbed to the idea that someone has to be operating a machine in order for you to see and hear what is going on. They believe reality shows magically have video and audio to show what the cast of Survivor is doing. I got news for you folks, the couples on Naked and Alone might be the former but certainly not the later. Someone is there with a camera. Another with a boom mike. Another with a clipboard and a stopwatch. Hell there's probably a catering truck just out of view. The point is that it is a deliberate act that records the so called reality of what you see on TV.

So we get to the question of how it is possible that a private conversation in a private home between consenting adults was recorded and made public fodder. Somebody had to have recorded it. Somebody had to have "leaked" it to TMZ. We are debating in the country right how far the NSA or CIA or FBI can invade our privacy and record our conversations. I don't think they should be able to without a judge signing off on a search warrant. And if the government can't do it then private parties, even private parties that are party to the conversation (that's you Richard Nixon), should not be able to do it. I don't care what such a recording would prove or not prove.

This is an age of instant and total openness about everything in our lives. Even if you're not on Facebook, a friend takes a picture you happen to be in and the world knows what your drunk face is. Michael Philips takes a puff off a joint and the whole world knows. One of those English princes pulls his pants down in Vegas and the whole world knows. Your doctor makes an inappropriate comment and the whole world knows. The concept of privacy is under attack and this episode is just another sortie in that battle.

The girlfriend knew the conversation was being recorded, either because she herself was recording it or because she had someone recording it. Was it to show the world what a horrible person her boyfriend was? Only in the sense that she was out for material gain. Forget for a moment that she slept with a guy 50 years her senior in order to get a million dollar condo, a Bentley, and other baubles. Round here we have a name for women who screw men for material gain and it's not Meg Whitman. Let's get to what her half of the conversation contained or more to the point didn't contain. You're so outraged at what he said? Where was her indignant stamp of the foot and hearty "If those are your feelings I'm out of here"? I'll tell you where it was --- in the million dollar condo and the Bentley and the other baubles.

And speaking of whores, it's pretty apparent that Sterling had no problem expressing similar feelings to any of his business associates. I don't know about his real estate business, but I do know that he has owned the Clippers since 1981. That's over 30 years. Twice a year the league holds owners meetings. That's at least 60 times that the other owners in the league sat down with this slime. And you want me to believe that in all those times he never once expressed a similar sentiment? That his racism was reserved for his home only? Just like I don't believe Penn State didn't know about John Sandusky's extracurricular activities, I don't believe that these astute business titans of the NBA didn't know what kind of a jerk Sterling was. But they didn't say anything cause it might have hurt their bottom line.

When we get down to it, the bottom line is what this is all about. The whore, er, I mean girlfriend made the recording as evidence in the lawsuit she was named in by Sterling's wife (and by extension we have to assume Sterling). Maybe evidence isn't the right word. Maybe the word is extortion. Extortion as in "dismiss this suit or I go public with this". At the very least, the phrase would be "poisoning the jury pool". The NBA is wringing it's hands and keening over how they didn't know. They've gone into damage control, which is really spin control, because unlike the sponsors who are abandoning the Clipper ship, they can't go anywhere. They are stuck with him. They can't force him to sell his franchise.

Nor should they.

Freedom of thought means you have a right to think whatever you want. I might not agree with what you think, but I'm not going to stop you from thinking it. In fact I'll defend your right to think it. You want to believe that some people are inferior to others I'll actually agree with you on that. I believe though that their inferiority doesn't have anything to do with the color of their skin. It has to do with the content of their character. I'll tell you who I think is inferior to me. The owner, the girlfriend, people who believe reality TV is real, the business associates who never said a word and anyone who is acting all surprised that a rich white billionaire who lives in the bubble of his own mendacity would think such things.

Citizen Cane

I brought the knee scooter back to the medical rental agency yesterday. It served well it's purpose. I know I couldn't have done half as well as I did without it.

I am now using only a cane and to a large degree it's mostly for my own reassurance. Funny thing about having a cane in your hand though is that people treat you different. When I was using the scooter it was pretty much people staying out of my way, like they didn't know if this odd hybrid of wheelchair and skateboard was safe to be around.

A cane though is a different matter.

It's as if there is a unspoken societal red carpet spread before those who use a cane. A door will always be held open. A place in line will always be respected or for that matter given up in order to accommodate the cane bearer. Sympathy pours forth from the facial expressions of those encountered. Assistance will be offered without so much as a raised eyebrow of need.

A cane is a symbol of injury; sympathy must be given. A cane is a symbol of seniority; your elder must be honored. A cane is a symbol of urbane savoir faire; Fred Astaire incarnate. A cane is a symbol of potential threat; a rapier hidden within.

All this as opposed to a pair of crutches. A pair of crutches are sneered at, albeit at the unspoken "there but for the grace of god go I". Crutches imply the user is a klutz who comically fell down a flight of stairs or attempted the experienced ski run instead of the more appropriate bunny slope. Crutches are clumsy even for the most graceful of us, a cudgel of a medical device. Crutches are weakness, the metaphorical made real. Tennessee Williams even used them as a metaphor for impotence or at least an improperly close for the 1950s relationship between two men.

A cane is a great prop, it adds dimension to the person wielding it. It's George Burns' or Ernie Kovac's cigar silently punctuating the joke.Twirled though the fingers or standing upright next to it's seated owner it signifies an importance, attention must be paid. The best you can do with a pair of crutches is to pretend one of them is a rifle pointed at the enemy. How gauche. A gentleman uses a sword.

At least that's the way I see it. And you should listen to me because I use a cane.

One of Those Days

Ever have one of those days?

Yeah, we all have. I'm having one right now. It started this morning when I decided to go to the gym for a little non-impact work out. I'd ride the stationary bike, get my legs and my blood moving. The apartment complex has a small gym we can use, but it's over on the other side of the complex. Rather than risk not being able to walk back home by overdoing it by walking to the gym, I decided to drive. That was when I realized I'd never driven over there before. Well, to be totally truthful I realized that when I couldn't find the driveway to get into the parking lot and pretty much passed by that entire side of the complex.

Finally making it into the gym I climbed on the bike and started pumping my legs. I've ridden these bikes for years, I know how they work, but since I intended to set it to the easiest levels possible, it didn't occur to me that I was moving my legs but the little diode on the screen wasn't moving. That's when I realized I hadn't actually been doing a program, I was just pumping my legs. Sigh.

Got back home and took a shower which turned out to be fortuitous since shortly after finishing, the water stopped running. In the entire apartment. We had gotten a notice that tomorrow they are going to be working on the pipes, but apparently the complex managers got the dates confused and the water was off today. We only found this out because Betsey stormed into their office and demanded an explanation. Betsey is very good at storming offices and demanding explanations.

The water being off I decided to brave driving my car over to the car wash. It had been sitting out in the parking lot for about ten days so it was covered in all the things associated with a car being left outside near pine trees and flocks of birds. I was braving it since this would be the first time I had driven alone since the surgery. Not that I thought anything would go wrong, but still my brain conjured up images of a sudden pain shooting through my leg making me crash the car into a lagoon or something of that ilk.

Got finished with the car wash and decided to run over to Safeway to pick up some ibuprofen (which has become like popping Certs for car salesmen to me). Being the nice guy that I am I took the parking spot one down from the only available handicapped parking space, got out of the car and suddenly realized the key ring I keep my house keys on wasn't in my pocket. I scoured the car and the area around the parking spot, but all to no avail. I jumped in the car and drove back to the car wash. Searching there proved fruitless, so I went into car wash office to see if any keys had been turned in. No luck. I left my phone number with them in case someone turned them in.

Figuring I would have to go into the leasing office to get them to get the apartment door opened, I drove back home. Along the way I kept imagining the conversation I was about to have; how I was going to have to grit my teeth and ask them for a favor only hours after my wife had reamed them over the water. It was only as I turned into the parking lot that I realized there was one last place the keys could be. Sure enough, I pulled up to the same exact parking space I had pulled out of an hour earlier and there on the pavement were five nice shiny keys on an undistinguished key ring.  Grabbing them up, I said a silent thank you to the forces of the universe that I didn't have to make an ass of myself with the management office.

Still I needed ibuprofen, so back to Safeway I went. This time I wasn't a nice guy and took the only remaining handicapped space. Now if you know me I have a rather tenuous relationship with Safeway. I have even gone so far as to make some suggestions for improvements I feel would help their customer service. This is a 24 hour a day store, they close only on Xmas eve. My question to them would be, what are the workers who are there at three in the morning doing and couldn't they possibly be restocking shelves? I do not understand why management feels 11 AM on a Monday morning is a perfect time to crowd the aisles with boxes, carts, and workers moving merchandise around. Especially when all I want is a freaking bottle of ibuprofen. And no, I didn't feel like going over to CVS and dealing with THEIR tsuris (look it up here).

And it wasn't even noon.

I console myself that I'm having a better day than David Moyes. It's a soccer reference, don't strain yourself trying to figure it out.

Spring Breaking

I went to college in San Francisco, so I never had a need, want, or desire to go "do" spring break. I mean really, when you go to school in the best place in the world why would you go to some uncivilized outpost like Cancun? Even Paula Prentiss wouldn't have been enough to get me to Fort Lauderdale (hey, brunette, beautiful, and brainy -- what more can I say?).

This year however I needed to get away from the daily grind of, well, maybe not a grind but a very dull recovery period. So when Betsey needed to head up to Lake Tahoe to map out a tour she would be doing three weeks hence, I decided to tag along and we decided to make it into an overnight trip. A chance to get away, to get out of the ordinary, and a test of how well my surgically repaired foot would react to unfamiliar terrain and a four hour drive.

So we loaded up the Civic and headed to the Sierras.

I really love the drive up to Tahoe. It's the history of California in reverse. Start out in modern Silicon Valley, travel east through farmland, a quick cross over at Sacramento with it's gleaming towers of corruption and power, then out to Placerville, the last of the Gold Rush towns, still with it's quaint Main Street, even if that street's storefronts are being filled with Subway sandwiches and Starbucks coffee. Then up to the gold fields. The higher you travel the older relics. Stagecoach stops become Pony Express stations which give way to explorer camps till there is only the tundra, the expanse of the Sierras, the majesty of the sky and the realization of how small we all are in comparison to nature.

Neither of us had been to Tahoe in a long time. Best we could figure was that it was about twenty years since we had taken the boys on a family snow trip. Tahoe though was a deep part of Betsey's history. While in college she had worked in one of the casinos as a restaurant hostess. Back then Tahoe rivaled Las Vegas. Vegas was The Strip, tawdry and broken down. Tahoe was hip. It was ski all day and party all night. Middle aged businessmen who drove Buicks and voted Republican went to Vegas. Tahoe was BMWs and environmental concern. The place was jumping, crowded with ski fit gamblers and casinos needed such a large workforce that being slightly underage to legally work in a gambling venue just meant they gave you a job in a bar or a restaurant. Betsey lived with dealers, croupiers, waitresses, pit bosses, slot machine repair men, the entire menu of gaming services personal.

Which was why we were really surprised to see how quiet the South Shore was when at last we swung off Highway 50 and into town. Traffic was minimal, no one was on the streets and when we crossed Stateline into the Nevada side Harvey's, the Hyatt, and the other casino hotels all looked ready to be boarded up. True, this was late in the ski season, but the ski runs were still open. The weather was beautiful, warm with just a touch of cool to remind you how high above sea level you truly were.
Where was everyone?

To make matters sadder, the BMWs were gone. Hell there weren't even Buicks. It was all pick up trucks and ratty looking minivans. The only sign of a spring break contingent was a solitary volleyball game on the lake beach. I know Tahoe isn't a huge spring break local for collegians, but in the past it always drew a good number of them.There seemed to be no life, no excitement in the air. It could just as easily been a cool day in Laughlin.

We drove around getting the timing for the tour and locations to stop at settled. Next we checked into the hotel we had booked, a Holiday Inn Express. We had booked it when we decided to make this an overnight, not even considering the big hotels because we assumed they would be booked up. I'm sure they would have loved to have us, cane, knee scooter, and all. As it was, the Holiday Inn Express folks were happy as all get out to assist us when Betsey asked for a room on the ground floor to accommodate her mobility challenged husband. I believe the phrase used was "pick which one you want".

The experiment with car travel had gone well. It was more comfortable to ride without the shoe on the bad foot, but I had no problem either with the travel or putting the shoe back on when stopped. I was able to walk around with only the cane for support and at times even walked without the cane. I was feeling pretty darn good about things.

For dinner we opted for the indigenous food of the region, the casino buffet. More accurately it was the $17.99 surf and turf special at the Lakeside Inn Casino. Walking into the casino we were greeted with the unmistakable aroma of the gaming room. Cigarette smoke, spilled liquor, and overuse of perfume combined with the air-conditioned accented scent of failure and greed. Oh yeah, now I remembered why I didn't like Nevada casinos. We made our way to the restaurant. Instead of fresh faced college kids looking to make some extra bucks, it was staffed with veteran hash slingers hoping to make this week's rent. But the surf and turf was quite good and a bargain to boot.

The next morning I had been thinking of going to the Red Hut Waffle House, a near legendary diner on the outskirts of South Shore that for years had been the hangout of the gaming industry workers. Finding out the Holiday Inn Express served a complimentary breakfast made it easier to chose to not be disappointed to find the Red Hut a ghost of it's former self. Coffee, yogurt, and losing out on the last banana and we were back in the car, headed home.

All in all a pretty successful trip. Betsey accomplished routing out all the possibilities for her tour and I found I could make a four hour car ride without needing hospitalization. A nice way to spend spring break.

Shoes for Industry...

I'm wearing a pair of shoes. I'm beyond ecstatic.

For the first time in over two months I have two shoes on. Real shoes; not slippers, not Crocs. And I've got socks on too! My foot is still bandaged, but the ace bandage that covered the gauze bandage is gone and that allows me to put a sock and a shoe on.

And because I have two shoes on I'm able to walk a little bit. Still not without a limp, but at least I'm on two feet and did I mention that both of them are in shoes. It's the little things that get me excited these days.

So with two shoes on and almost walking without pain, Betsey took me off to buy new clothes. Usually I have to be dragged kicking and screaming to buy new clothes, but today I had no problem with the concept. Macy's was having a big one day sale which is catnip to my wife. She drove us over to there and even though all the handicapped parking spaces were taken we lucked out and found a parking spot that was actually even closer to the front door than the handicapped spots. From there I was able to walk into the store and make my way down to the men's department. That's pretty much as far as I got. I found myself a nice padded seat over by the fitting rooms and Betsey brought me clothes to approve or laugh at. Very few got laughed at as she has a marvelous fashion sense and I have no sense at all. Three pairs of slacks, three button down shirts, a pull over, a sweater, and two t-shirts later Mr. Macy got 117 of our hard earned dollars and we got out of there before they decided we didn't pay enough.

And truth be told, my dog was barking pretty loud.

While sitting in the bowels of the world's largest department store (or at least it's San Mateo outlet) I mused on how just one week ago life was looking very different. I thought I was never going to heal. I was going to be living in pain and unable to walk for the rest of my life, I was certain of it. Now here I was having walked a fair distance from the car to where I sat and while in a bit of pain it was the pain of muscles long out of use, a pain I knew to be transitory. It was a Miracle Near 34th Ave in San Mateo.

In other words, life is beginning to look up. When life looks up, it's time to laugh. Who better to laugh with than the Firesign Theater (if you didn't understand the post title, just wait till the end of the clip).

Porgy Tirebiter, he's a spy and a girl delighter!

Ninety-six Dead in Hillsborough

For most of you, today is merely April 15, the day your taxes are due. Not to minimize the impact of that, but this April 15 marks the 25th anniversary of the Hillsborough Disaster, an event few Americans have any idea about but which should be remembered in retrospect as a reason to always question what those in power tell you.

The short version is that on April 15, 1989, 96 soccer fans were killed at Hillsborough Stadium while attempting to get into the FA Cup semi-final match between Liverpool and Nottingham Forrest. Too many tickets had been sold, standard procedure at a time when many spectators stood in a series of three "terraces" to watch instead of sitting in seats. Because of the numbers in the crowd, police decided to open an exit tunnel that normally was kept closed instead of evenly funneling people into one of the other terraces. The ensuing rush to get in caused 96 people to die and 744 other people to be hurt.

If this sounds familiar, it is almost exactly the same series of events that led to eleven people being crushed to death at a Who concert in Cincinnati in 1979. The big difference between the two events though was in the aftermath. The Cincinnati venue operators, police, and local officials all owned up to their responsibility in that disaster. The English authorities went in a totally opposite direction. Those authorities ranged from the police at the stadium all the way up to Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and media mogul Rupert Murdoch.

Six minutes into the match fans began falling out of the terraces onto the field attempting to flee the panic and crush. The television broadcast of the game shows police trying to prevent people from getting onto the field, actively chasing survivors off, and stopping fans who were trying to help others from doing so. Medical authorities were not called till late, so fans pulled advertising boards (called hoardings) off walls and used them as make shift stretchers. Of the army of ambulances waiting outside the stadium only one was allowed to get through to the field. Dozens who might have been saved with immediate professional care died as a result.

As bad as all of this sounds, it is only the beginning.

Once the crowd was cleared and the dead and wounded carried off, the police immediately claimed that it was all caused by the fans.They claimed drunk and ticketless hooligans rushed the gates crushing those in the front. They claimed no spectator was willing to help the police with the wounded and in fact many were looting the bodies of the dead. This despite the fact that the whole event was broadcast on live television and showed nothing of the sort. Again and again they claimed all the spectators were drunk. In fact, in the aftermath the two questions posed most insistently by investigators of the survivors and the families of the dead was if they had been drinking and if they had tickets. No official was interested in hearing anything else and certainly not anything that would implicate the police as being culpable. It would come out years later that many of the statements given by witnesses were altered by the police to support their position.

In the days following the establishment rallied around the system. Prime Minister Thatcher toured the stadium and pronounced the official view that hooligans were the cause of the disaster. Rupert Murdoch's Sun tabloid screamed a headline proclaiming "THE TRUTH" and giving voice to the lies the police spread about looting the dead, fans urinating on police as they attempted to help, and beating up police as they attempted to help. Though no official investigation had even commenced, the establishment had it's story and was going to stick to it. When challenged, the editor of The Sun stood by the story. Years later it came out that his boss, Rupert Murdoch, told him to go with the story and to stand by it even though no one else at the paper thought the story was even close to "the truth". Remember that this predates the News of the World phone hacking scandal by decades. In fact it was one of the things James Murdoch apologized for at the phone hacking parliamentary hearings.

So why was the British establishment so determined to blame everything on the fans? Keep in mind the times. This was Margaret Thatcher's England, a land where if you had money you were the good guys and if you didn't you were the bad guys. Every "riot" was the fault of the malingerers, those on the dole who sucked at the teat of the government and refused honest work. Every police man was the noble incarnation of what was good and right about the land. Soccer hooliganism was the byproduct of the cradle to grave welfare state. Any evidence of such hooliganism was proof once again that the welfare state needed to be torn down.

In such an atmosphere it was impossible for the real truth to come forward. All the institutions of the establishment were aligned and in place to prevent the actual story of what happened that day from coming out. What the establishment didn't factor into this case though was those killed weren't malingerers living off the dole. They were middle class football fans who believed in the system. Many of the dead were teens or young adults from good hard working families. Those families believed the system would bring justice. When instead it brought lies and evasion they had the passion and the means to pursue real justice. It took twenty years, the fall of Thatcher and the swinging of the national mood against the abuse of power by those in power for them to set the record straight.

In September of 2012 a report was issued by the Hillsborough Independent Panel exonerating the fans from any wrong doing and placing the blame on the police. 164 statements were found to have altered by the police. It found that the police had engaged in a systematic program of impugning the reputation of the victims. It was determined that 41 of the 96 dead would have lived with even elementary first aid. Most tellingly it found that Conservative Party MPs disseminated false information and media outlets accepted that information without challenge.

The politicians lied, the media didn't challenge the lies, the public was told to ignore the evidence of their own eyes from the television coverage, people died because the forces of the establishment failed them. All that's needed is for the government to claim the fans had weapons of mass destruction and it's the war in Iraq. Remember the 96 because sadly they were only the test run for an even larger deceptions.

Hellooooo Nurse!

A doctor makes a house call these days and it's gist for a human interest feature on local TV. "Ah, remember the good old days" wistfully cries the anchor who is far too young to remember when doctors made house calls on a regular basis. Hell, I barely remember it and I'm in the fifth age demographic down on most surveys.

Nurses on the other hand are made of sturdier stuff. The signal is sent. They jump in the car with their bag filled to overflowing with bandages, tapes, saline solutions, etc. and off they go to save the day once again. Batnurse!

So far the nurses visiting have numbered four. Robert was first, followed by Rod, Val, and today Emma. Emma assured me that I've now gone through all the male nurses in the company. While each is trained and efficient, they all have their own ways of attempting to make me feel comfortable and establish a relationship. Rod for instance took an interest in the soccer match I had on the TV, though it was quite obvious he didn't know anything about soccer. Robert gave a blow by blow commentary on what he was doing. Val, well Val just got in and out (he was only coming the once, subbing for Rod). Emma gave me a behind the scenes of the company and the personalities involved.

What they all have in common is threefold. First, they all feel it necessary to ring the doorbell and before I can even get up to let them in, they begin to bang on the door. At first I was annoyed, but I realized I'm probably the youngest person they deal with. Second they take one look out the back window and talk about how peaceful our community is. Well yes, lagoons, fountains, ducks swimming by, yeah I guess it's pretty tranquil. Third, they all demand to know if I'm diabetic. Um, isn't that in your notes that I'm not? I sure hope it is and I'll thank you to put that insulin away Mr.Von Bulow.

All of this leads up to the moment when my leg is propped up and the bandage comes off and I see a giant gaping slash down the side of my foot (it's a good thing I can't see the one on my heel). "Oh it's so good, it's red" the nurse will exclaim, "that means the tissue is regenerating and growing again." I bet you say that to all the boys because it sure doesn't look good to me. To me it looks like the Joker had just pronounced "Let's put a smile on that face!". But no, they continue in their insistence that everything is fine. Hey, if it was fine, you wouldn't be here. The dressing gets changed in a timely and professional manner. My blood pressure, pulse and temperature are all recorded for posterity. I'm signed sealed and delivered. Someone will be by tomorrow between noon and one.

If I sound like a grouch then I apologize. All of this probably comes from my natural dislike of having people I don't really know in my home. Let's face it, most people feel awkward when a repair person comes tromping through their house. It's triple awkward when that repair person is there to fix your body. If a man's home is his castle and your body is a temple then when that nurse is here my castle is under siege and my body is being desecrated.

I'm sure this is just my own paranoia, but each simple question asked makes me think there is an ulterior motive for it. "Do you have a plastic bag?" asked only so they have something to throw used gauze into has me wondering if they are judging as to my carbon footprint on the earth. "Where is the bathroom?" makes me wonder if I cleaned the toilet and if I didn't, well then what the hell is (s)he going to think? They glance around the house and I worry they are secretly the scouting crew for the next episode of HOARDERS.

It's okay, I'll get a grip. The two month anniversary is approaching and my mind is wandering since my body can't. When my mind wanders I find it helpful to laugh. So let this be your Friday fun, from the only cartoon series I let Brian and Dan watch when young. Mostly because I thought it was so damn funny:

It was 30 years ago today...

And they said it wouldn't last.

We've had some amazing adventures in our 30 years together (32 1/2 if you count the living in sin). We've seen the Aurora Borealis explode into the Swedish night and the sun as it rises and peeks through the skies of a Norwegian fjord. We've zip lined through the Costa Rican jungle and rode a broken down school bus over dirt "roads" in Denali. We survived an earthquake at the World Series and the longest day of our lives waiting for Brian to come out of brain surgery. We've lounged on beaches from Monte Carlo to Montego Bay, tromped through tulips in Holland and Aztec ruins in Cozumel, had gourmet meals in Paris and frog legs in Myrtle Beach, drunk bourbon in Kentucky and wine in Napa, made pilgrimage to the Reeperbonn in Hamburg and Madame Marie's in Asbury Park.

And so many others.

This surgery and the recovery I'm currently in is for the sole purpose of being able to keep on having adventures like these. Having them with the love of my life, Betsey.

Here's to 40 more.

Home Sweet Home Care

Friday night's visit to the emergency room turned into a weekend of new experiences.

As you might recall both we and the ER doc had left messages with Dr. Knee's service, but all weekend she didn't return the calls. Not a big deal as there was nothing she could have done that was different from what had already been done. The major accomplishments of the ER visit were to get proper antibiotics going again and to set up a home health care nurse to come out and change the dressings. I groused that doctors won't make house calls, but now nurses will and how the world has turned upside down again. Betsey on the other hand was relieved that she would not have to be the one to change the dressings. I also think she expected one of the ladies from CALL THE MIDWIFE to show up.

I haven't watched that show, but I'm pretty sure none of the characters is a 5'-0" gay Philippino man. I might be wrong, but I'm pretty sure. At any rate Robert (this time I made sure to get the name) came by on Saturday evening and proceeded to go about the business of home health care. That business consisted largely in the signing of paperwork and the outlining of the information stored in the ten pound booklet he plopped onto my lap. The booklet outlines the do's and don'ts of home health care. Apparently it is enough of an issue that Sutter Health felt it necessary to put into writing the admonition that the nurse will NOT go out to the liquor store and pick up some hootch for you. Nor will they wax your floors. They WILL do light housekeeping including small window washing, but it is up to the nurse to decide just how large a small window is. They WILL cook a meal for you, but not for anyone else in the house which had me wondering why you would need the nurse to cook a meal when there was someone else in the house capable of opening a can of Spaghetti-O's.

Having agreed to all the terms and conditions as set forth in said booklet, Robert began the process of changing out the dressing. From within his bag of tricks came forth bandages, saline solution, tape, and all the other necessities for the task at hand. I asked him where he wanted me to sit; when he indicated that it wouldn't matter I took a seat in the big black chair that we bought specifically for my recovery time. It quickly became apparent that while he didn't care where I sat, where I sat didn't have enough light for him to work. Nor did the second chair I sat in. At that point I put my (good) foot down and told him to just tell me where to sit.

While he worked he chatted away, asking questions about how I came to be in this situation. As I told him he began to make suggestions of services I might want to avail myself of; services that his company of course would be happy to administer. I have done sales all my life and I know when the pitch for the "add-ons" is being given. I know that because I'm the king of the add-ons. Come in for a television and you will walk out with the tv, a sound system, a Blu-Ray player, the five year extended warranty, and a bottle of screen cleaner. So I accepted as part of his job the attempt, but he was awfully ham-handed about it and it's a point of professional pride that I smile pleasantly and dismiss ham-handed attempts. I mean I do have standards.

Robert finished up, we made an appointment for Sunday, and off he went. I think he was a little disappointed in only changing the dressing; maybe he thought he was going to make dinner or tell me that he wouldn't wax the floor. At any rate the dressing was dry and my foot actually felt better. I decided to stand up and test the waters, so to speak. Standing was no problem. I did a little stretching of my calf muscle, no problem. I took a step.

Big problem.

Pain shot up through my body like electricity suddenly returning after a blackout. It was so bad that I couldn't bring my right leg forward to balance myself and almost took a header into the carpet. After a deep breath and several self-admonitions to remember patience, I grabbed hold of the scooter and worked my way back to the black chair. There I sat for the rest of the evening catching up on episodes of HOUSE OF LIES and slowly beginning to wonder just how long this process was going to take.

Sunday came, Robert returned and did a new dressing, this time trying to teach Betsey how to change it. Halfway through she got up, walked away, and with a shudder pronounced that we'd continue having a nurse, whether Robert or another, keep coming in to do this. I don't blame her. I can't recall there being anything in our wedding vows about stuffing gauze into wounds.

This morning at the crack of 6 AM, Dr. Knee called. She apologized profusely saying that the answering service had not forwarded our messages to her. Given the problems I had leaving the messages in the first place I didn't doubt that. Even though she didn't have office hours today she wanted me to come in for an evaluation. Once in her office she examined the wounds and pronounced that though it was not the way she would have dressed them, it was still a very good job. She ordered new x-rays to make sure I hadn't broken anything, as well as some blood work to make sure the antibiotics were working. As it turned out I hadn't broken anything and we'll see about the blood work tomorrow.

So that's where it stands on day 53 of my recovery. It is totally accurate to say that this weekend was a case of one step up, two steps back so we'll let The Boss play us out tonight:

A Bump In The Night

This is going to be short and sweet today.

I ended up in the Emergency Room last night because my foot was so swollen I couldn't put pressure on it. I had thought it was simply because I had over done it my first day without the cast. When Betsey came home though she saw that the ace bandage was soaked through. Unwinding it, she discovered both incisions were horribly red and the bandages were pretty much disintegrating. So off to the ER we went.

Luckily I was able to be seen right away. The ER doc evaluated it as cellulitis and prescribed some heavy duty antibiotics. They redressed the foot and send us on our way.

Today I'm feeling okay, but not great. The foot is still swollen but apparently that is to be expected until the first 48 hours has passed. I'm back to using the scooter temporarily (I guess it's good we still have ten days left on the rental), but I'm really trying to stay as sedentary as possible.

Just a bump folks on the road to recovery.

The End Of The Beginning

And so we come to the end of the beginning and head into the beginning of the end.

While the die may be cast, the cast is at long last gone. My foot now is exposed to the light of day, the sweet goodness of the morning air and a couple of draining bandages. Oh yes, those two gashes on the side and heel of my foot are still large and in charge and demanding attention be paid. At least now when either of them bark at me I can see (sort of ) what is causing the problem. As well, I get the unique opportunity to have a nurse visit me at home to change the bandages. Who knew anyone still made house calls? 

Perhaps unrealistically I went to this appointment thinking the cast would came off, I'd just hop off the table and simply walk away. As I was quick to find out I was dreaming the impossible dream. The cast came off with no problem, the drain bandages in the gashes were still there and working, a whole lot of dead scaly skin was everywhere, the tan line on my leg was very noticeable (ah sunshine you did your job), but still I thought life was good. Dr. Knee replaced the drains, shaved off some of the dead skin, and wrapped my foot in an ace bandage. Then she said "Okay, stand up".

I want you to imagine the worst sprained ankle you ever had. The absolute worst, the one you thought for sure must have been broken with the bone sticking out. Remember how you felt when you stood on it and the pain seared through your entire body, like an electrical jolt to your central nervous system?

Now multiply that by a factor of one hundred. That's what I felt.

My knees almost buckled. I reached back for the stability of the exam table. Surely, I thought, the bones in my foot haven't knitted together properly. The muscles in my lower leg have atrophied and will never return. I am going to be walking with some kind of aid the rest of my life. As all of this is skidding through my brain I had to listen to this from both Dr. Knee and my wife:

"I can't believe how good that looks. Look at how you're standing, it's night and day from before"

Were they saying that just to make me feel better? Were they saying this sarcastically? The expressions on their faces indicated they were genuine in their platitudes. I just couldn't believe it. Looking down at my feet though I saw both sitting properly on the floor. Maybe there was something to their exhortations.

Dr. Knee asked me to walk. With the pain I was feeling I didn't think I could, but actually walking from one end of the small exam room to the other made my foot feel better. The muscles I was certain had atrophied jumped back to life as I limped along. Being conscience to keep my left foot flat on the floor as I walked, I thought I was doing pretty good. Dr. Knee informed me though that I was "leading with my hip" and not "allowing your foot to naturally fall from back to front".

In other words I was doing all the things I had done in order to walk before the surgery. I was going to have to learn to walk all over again. She gave me a referral slip to the guys we kiddingly called Hans and Franz back at my first post-op visit. They will twist and turn my foot and yell and tsk at me as I attempt to relearn the art of mobility. It's been 55 years since I've had to learn how to walk. Something tells me this isn't going to be as easy as the first time.

GROSS PICTURE WARNING: Just to give you an idea of what my foot looks like at this moment:

Don't Take My Sunshine Away

Betsey has been having a particularly busy week. She's dealing with an enormous group visiting San Francisco. They have been working her till late at night and getting her up early in the morning. Because of that we decided it would be best for her to take a hotel room up in The City from Monday night till Thursday. Of course that means I'd be home alone so to speak for that period of time.

Most of this recuperation has found me alone in the house as Betsey has been working or running around getting me everything I need from the outside world. Alone I can deal with. Inside can get on your nerves real quick.  My one solace is that I have been able to take advantage of our patio area, but because of the position of the patio in relation to the sun, it is only from 10:15 till 12:10 the sun shines fully on the area. I have attempted to spend as much of that time as possible on the deck, soaking up sunshine and the vital (so I'm told) vitamin D it gives off. As well there have been the occasional moments when I've ventured out of the house, but of course always with Betsey. With her up gone for four days that's meant me being unable to leave the house, so patio time is even more important. That's where the weather comes into play.

Monday and Tuesday were filled with overcast skies, cool weather, and occasional downpours of rain. Besides risking a soaking, venturing out on the patio wouldn't have given me my oh so precious two hours or so in the sun. So I sat in the house all that cold cold wet day.

Mr. Cat wouldn't even put on a hat to amuse me.

There's only so much television one can watch. There is only so much reading or writing or crossword puzzle solving one can do. By the time Tuesday afternoon came around my eyes were rolling up in my head and my feet, even the surgically repaired one, were itching to set out for open spaces. I was tired of breathing recycled indoor air, unable to even open a window lest rain, cold air, or both come pouring through it. Making everything worse was my upgrade from scooter dependent to cane enabled. Here I was, able to finally walk after six weeks of wheeling around and I couldn't even get out to the patio. I was getting a lot of practice with that cane pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. Well, maybe a caged penguin.

I wanted, no, needed to be outside, if only for a few moments.

Oh this morning though. I hobbled out to the kitchen to see sun creeping through the window. I looked out onto the patio to see dry cement with a hint of steam rising off the fence. I waited with baited breath for 10 o'clock to come around. Sure enough the sun shone on my chair. When I ventured outside it was warm and cozy. The sun shone on my face. I sat down and closed my eyes and allowed the sunshine to baste me with it's golden rays.

It's the little things.

I Stand, Corrected

Your Faithful Correspondent

I haven't given up the scooter entirely. The cane works well, but I'm really slow trying to walk with it. Therefore when I need to get anywhere outside the house the scooter is still the weapon of choice.

For the first time in a month I'm beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

In the mean time it's Opening Day when every team is in first place, every player a potential MVP, and every executive measures space in the office for the World Series trophy. It's the best day of the year.

In so many ways.

Walk Like A Man

I took a step today.

That's not a metaphor; I took a step. As in one step. As in right leg out, left leg out. It damn near killed me.

We take walking for granted. Well, I take walking for granted, I've been doing it nearly all my life. Be honest, when was the last time you really THOUGHT about walking? I don't mean going out for a walk through the wonders of nature, I mean when was the last time you thought about the way you walk? I doubt, unless you have been in my situation or a similar one, you ever have. It's only natural. We just get up and start walking.

Now I'm forced to think about walking. How does one walk? One thing I've discovered is that without being aware of it, I naturally want to start walking by pushing off with my left leg, which currently resides inside a fiberglass cast. I wonder if that has anything to do with all the hours I have spent driving, getting in and out of the left hand side of a car? Man I'd be in serious trouble driving in England. Come to think of it, when I've gone to Great Britain I'm in trouble just trying to cross the street.

But I digress.

On top of having to think about the act of walking, I'm having to get used to newly modified equipment down there. No more ankle dragging on the ground, no more listing to one side, no more limp. Muscles that haven't been used in years are being asked to wake from their dormancy and they rebel against that idea. There is my own native determination to get things done quickly, so yes I'm admitting to having the thought in my head of why can't I just get this over with. Some would call it patience, a quality I lack a quantity of.

We just take it as natural that you swing one leg forward then the other and that's how we get from point A to point B. But in reality there is a millisecond when we balance on one leg before the other one hits the ground. That's where I'm having some difficulty. I can throw my left leg out, but my mind will not allow me to balance on it for even that millisecond in order to swing forward my right leg. Is it a matter of not feeling secure because of the cast, or is it the voice in the back of my head saying what if putting all your weight on that foot will do damage so don't do it because I don't want to have to go through this all over again? Jesus that voice in the back of my head is a nag.

 There is nothing more basic for self determination than being able to transport one's self. Nearly all of man's inventions ultimately come back to being a system allowing us to get somewhere. We talk about civilization beginning with the wheel. Our natural progression is to go from crawling to walking to demanding the keys to the family station wagon. The ancients sang heroic ballads to those men who could run the fastest and most revered the gods who were blessed with speed of foot. Just look at poor Achilles, felled by being vulnerable in the body location currently under repair on myself. I feel your pain big guy.

So it all comes down to being able to put one foot in front of the other. I was able to quell the apprehension long enough to do it once, if putting my left leg out and kinda sorta dragging, slightly lifting my right leg to come up parallel counts as taking a step. I'm counting it as such.

As the poet said, it's all a process. Meanwhile we'll let Frankie and the boys sing us out.