Bianca on a Pogo Stick: March Madness

Since I've found an odd but strangely likable website to work on my writing skills (Shut up, you! and I mean that in the nicest way...), I've been neglecting not only this blog, but the entire Haddock family estate, and all the richness that dwells within.

The Castafiore came bouncing (on a pogo stick) into our bedroom, bypassing the elite security system we'd installed for just such occasions -- but it is tricked, apparently, by the pogo stick -- leapt off the leaping pole and dove into the middle of a bed that was perfectly arranged for perfect sleep, cats strategically placed for warmth, soft hood on my head, music softly playing in my ears -- I forgot to set the sleep mode -- and Fred  tremulously sn-sn-snoring.  My legs were even covered, feet the exception.

But a Bonne et Belle Bianca flying through the air, slingshotted by a pogo stick, landing -- and the only adverb possible is fortuitously -- fortuitously in between a now frightened Fred and moi, missing the feline's major organs?  That's a game-changer, a mood-breaker, a sleep-assassin.

"B'blasketballs!" she yells. "Drugs," I think.

"What the fuck are you on?" screams Fred, saying what I think.  That can get old, Fred saying what I think.

"Merde, alors!  I do not need no stinkifying drogues," she says, hurt to her very substantial core.

So we gave in and up, and made plans for a Sunday of March Madness.  UNC will be demolished by Kansas, Dukiedum will, if it pleases the Lord, destroy Creighton.  That's all I care about, though I'll scope out the other 28 whenever she releases us from this pinned and smushed position.

I wish I knew something about betting.  It's gotta be a surer, purer thing than the market.  Remember how I bailed on Google at 700?  Have you looked at it lately?  And people want to know why I weep!

"Bianca, love, if you're going to be here long, pinning and smushing us like iridescent dragon flies pinned inside a second-grader's shoe box, at least take off your shoes, hmm?"

And hot pink wedgies go flying across the room, one landing, spinning as would a horseshoe clinging to its lucky spike, on my goddamned jewelry tree.  It's a real tree, now minus one branch, with tiny silver earrings scatter about, the perfect size for a cat to swallow.

[I once performed the Heimlich maneuver on tiny Dobby but I haven't renewed my Advanced Cat Life Saving credentials since then.]

Guess who has a raging ear infection?  Not me!  Shock!  Poor Fred has been waltzing around all week, yelling that he can't hear out of one ear.  And then, as the genetically indentured Haddock Domestic Staff, Bianca, Sven, Cabana Boy, and I all fainted, he announced he was going to the doctor.  I fainted from low hemoglobin, don't know what those others were passed out about...

He had no pain, no fever, no dizziness.  He was crabby, but within normal limits.  Ah, but he did decline to go dancing with the whore, Ms. Kitty, and that must mean something.  He also marched himself quite smartly out of E-Cong last Sunday, pissed off at the continued desecration of the Christian religion, which he holds near and dear, so long as it is being maligned by Militant Existential Lesbian Feminists.  Otherwise, he could give a royal shit, though he, like I, harbored the secret hope of being announced pope.

Anyway -- the very best segue! -- he finally was deaf enough to seek help.  And was found to have a raging infection and not just in the one ear of note, but in both!

Since he discovered that he has An Illness, he has become weak and haggard, requiring subtle infantilization, and the kind of TLC that only someone who has loved him for 23 years can provide.  So I cooked him some chicken, and made sure he took his amoxicillen, and assured him that his ear ache was the worst ever discovered west of the Lone Alp -- the news was all over the wires, AP, Reuters, Vie-en-Tête-de-Hergé and being broadcast every 20 minutes by the inimitable Tante Louise.

No... he's been very brave, and hasn't complained one whit.

Oomph.  Knee to the groin by Bianca, who has joined in with the tremulous snoring pattern, sn-sn-snore with the addition of a soft, excited "f'blasket, f'blasket, f'blasketball...."

I should blow a whistle in her ear and yell "foul."

I should get a one and one free throw.  I might miss the golden opportunity for two, should the first one land upside her head...

Congratulations, Coach K!

From a Dukie Girl who did the K-Hole at the Shepherd Center, eh?  Okay, from The NYT?

Mike Krzyzewski and Bobby Knight

Duke’s Krzyzewski Breaks Record for Victories in Men’s Division I Basketball


Duke Coach Mike Krzyzewski set the record for victories in men’s Division I college basketball Tuesday night as Duke beat Michigan State, 74-69, for Krzyzewski’s 903rd victory.


Krzyzewski’s career record moved to 903-284, spanning five decades that include four national championships at Duke.


With the victory, Krzyzewski surpassed his friend and mentor Bob Knight, who set the record for wins in 2008.

Coach K and Bobby Knight met courtside last night, and this is how Coach K reported their conversation to the Duke Chronicle:  “I just told him… ‘Coach, I’m not sure people tell you this, but I love you, and I love what you’ve done for me, and thank you.’  And he says, ‘Boy, you’ve done pretty good for a kid who couldn’t shoot.’ I think that meant he loves me too.”

It's sad, but after I posted this last night, into my mind popped the rapes and sexual abuse at Penn State that have dominated sport's news this past week.  Jerry Sandusky is probably the most well known college coach of the moment, and the charity he founded, The Second Mile, is probably the most notorious. 

Mike Krzyzewski, on the other hand, has always been notable for his standards, most especially because he finds nothing notable about having stringent guidelines -- as moral as practical -- that stand the tests of time and scrutiny.


Even in "normal" times, not in the midst of such a huge scandal, college athletics invite suspicion -- just think of recruiting practices and violations, the role of big football and big basketball in the financial life of academic institutions.

Of most import to me?  Take a look at student-athlete graduation statistics, including the graduation rate "gap" between student athletes and the regular student body -- a whopping -38% at UCLA.

In 2009, the most recent year for which these stats are available, Duke graduated 96% of its football players and 92% of the hoopsters.  The rate of graduation for the entire student body (only available for 1995-2003) ranges from 92-97 percent.

The ACC also has some shocking numbers at each end of the spectrum.  Maryland is in the basement with its basketball-playing students graduating at a rate of 8 (eight) percent. Wake Forest managed a perfect record -- graduating all its basketball players for 2009.

I take my numbers from The Bootleg, Stanford's sport authority, which publishes graduation stats yearly.

Anyway, back to Coach K, His Squeaky-Cleanness!  In this ESPN-International video from February 2011, Coach Knight points out how his former player, colleague, and friend is one of the few scandal-free coaches in the business.  (And this from a guy who is notoriously disdainful of sucking up to anyone and rarely hesitates to speak his mind...)

Uploaded to YouTube by ESPNInternational on Feb 27, 2011




Coach K's most notable charity work flows through the Emily Krzyzewski Center in Durham:

The late Emily Krzyzewski emigrated with her parents from Poland to the United States and grew up in western Pennsylvania. She established a home on Chicago's North Side, a poor, racially diverse neighborhood where she and her husband, William, raised two sons, Mike and Bill. 

Emily Krzyzewski persevered when the family struggled to adjust to a new nation, a new people and a new language, while still providing a nurturing environment for her sons. Bill was an elevator operator who was known by the name of "Kross" to avoid the sting of anti-Polish discrimination, and to improve his chances of getting a job. Emily worked nights as a cleaning lady. Her hopes and dreams inspired her youngest son, Mike, to rise from such a humble beginning to become one of the best coaches in all of basketball. 

Duke University men’s basketball players are all familiar with Emily Krzyzewski because Coach K often cites her as an example of the toughness, perseverance and caring that are trademarks of Duke's perennially powerful team. And now her indomitable spirit inspires students and families across the Durham-area community as well through the work of the center that bears her name. 

On top of his mother’s love, tenacity and work ethic, an important ally in Mike Krzyzewski’s trajectory to the top of the coaching profession was a community center that became a second home to him, a place that provided invaluable support to him and to his family, and changed his life. He founded the Emily Krzyzewski Center to bring to Durham the opportunities he and his mother experienced years before in Chicago’s North Side for focused student programming that can inspire hopes and dreams and forever transform lives. Today, Coach K and his entire family are as committed to making the Emily Krzyzewski Center a driving force within the Durham-area community as his parents and the North Side community center were committed to him. 

Emily Krzyzewski passed away in 1996, but her strong legacy lives on through the work of the Emily Krzyzewski Center.

My last offering comes from the Official Coach K Website:  a video of him addressing a group of former players who surprised him after the momentous 903rd win last night.  Again, how nice to witness a "coach" being just what we all know and hope a "coach" ought to be...

Thanks, Coach K!


With love,
A Certified Cameron Crazy

Wind over Mountain: The Oracular

Well, Arizona completely screwed up a couple of blog drafts that I had laying around the joint -- I was confidant that they'd be waiting, all PERTINENT-like 'n all, when I felt up to finishing them.

Take this one, for instance.  It begins:  "I'd like to see Duke and UConn face off..."

Granted, no matter the nefarious impact of Arizona in the world, I can always conditionally hope to see a match between Duke and UConn.  Just not in the 2011 NCAA Division 1 Men's Basketball Tournament, West Regionals, in Anaheim.

Arizona.  Jeez.  Let's look at their earlier blow-outs.  Yeah, like their 2-point massacre of the #12 seed (19th in the AP Poll for the season) Tigers of Memphis.  After trouncing Memphis, those wild Wildcats beat the living daylights out of the Longhorns of Texas, to the tune of a deceptively scored single point game, 70-69. 

And then, of course, naturally, as expected, and obviously -- last evening, Arizona beat the Blue Devils 93-77, in a real nail-biter.  Cliff-hanger.  Narrow escape.  Close shave.  Heart stopper.  Photo finish.  Tight squeeze.

Seventeenth in the AP seasonal poll, Arizona had only once this past season posted so high a score, and that was in a triple-overtime game against... Cal. [Yes, Grader Boob, we are witnessing the dismantling of the Prof-de-Rien Lucky Alumnus Basketball Charm.]


I didn't see the game, though I'd planned to.  Much as I'd planned on polishing off the NCAA b-ball draft begun earlier in the week.  Similar to the way I had planned to cook an exciting vegetarian menu as pre-game nourishment -- delivering a mighty blow to Fred's growing affinity for microwaved prefab foods.

But no, I fell asleep.  And woke five hours later to find pus coming from the red, sore corner of the incision for the portacath. 

My theory?  Dr. EyeGuy finally got in touch yesterday morning (via his nurse Ms. I'll-Talk-Over-You) and called in a prescription for another eye drop in the battle against my out-of-control eye pressures.  You remember -- the last drop he added had the beta-blocker Timolol in it, which caused me to feel mighty crappy and to have severe hypertension.  I reviewed that with Ms. I'll-Talk-Over-You and she said, "Uh-huh, uh-huh... well, he called in something else for you... Uh-huh, uh-huh."  So Fred hustled over to the Lone Alp Super-Duper WallMart to pick up the new drops, a nice, cheap generic that is made up of Dorzolomide HCl and Timolol Maleate.

We decided to trust in Dr. EyeGuy, in hopes that this was some differently formulated medication, perhaps a different strength, a refined mechanism of action or some such shit...  I took the first dose around 7 pm, felt rotten at 7:30, put my head down at 7:35, and woke to discover Arizona's perfidy, pus from the surgical wound, and Fred's offering of nuked frozen burritos, all at half past midnight. If I'd had my wits about me, I'd have giggled and called out "Eureka!" [I can't explain the urge or the unhappy pairing of myself with Archimedes, nor the suspicion that I've more in common with the sneaky goldsmith than with the philosopher or snookered king.]

Yes, so.  Don't yell at me, but I've decided to try a topical antibiotic ointment on the incision (I'm already taking an oral antibiotic, remember) but if it doesn't improve by Monday, I'll give the surgeon a call.  I feel like I might tip the delicate balance we've achieved around here if Fred had to dedicate his Friday to more medical junk.  [He has made the difficult decision to resign from the Militant Lesbian Feminist Existentialist Congregation, and has gone off to a lunch date to explain his treasonous ways to The Girls.]

Actually, you, my Faithful Readership, are the lucky party in this instance.  Had I finished this draft, you would have drowned in the weird minutiae that is the I Ching, and I'd have obsessed over the role of its 64 diagrams in Taoism -- wanting the Book of Change to be less a means of prediction and more a group of dynamic reflections, meanings, and, okay, oracular clues.

I did, however, have plans to incorporate one of the funniest moments of my life into that unwieldy narrative
-- the night my Anthropology professor asked me to serve as his "goddess" and allow him to pour beer and honey over my feet in some ceremony or other.  All on the up-and-up, of course.

I kind of figured that this post would need some filler, some entertaining this or that, in order to move from draft status to publishable material... because no way in hell was the Duke-Arizona game to amount to more than boredom.

Big wave to Derrick Williams! (Without him in the first half, Arizona wouldn't have had the chance to dazzle in the second half.  Or so I am told.)

But I also concur with Chris Chase that there was a powerful Jinx at work -- activated when Coach K gave an interview at halftime.

Unwise, very unwise. Outside of the Winning Tradition, and clearly against Oracular Advice...

****************************************************************************



I'd like to see Duke and UConn face off... Wisconsin and Florida -- except for choosing UConn over SDSU, I'm just advancing the seeds.  That's what it *looks* like.  My picks are actually the result of finely tuned prognostication techniques that I cannot reveal here.

I will say this about that, though:  The I Ching is much maligned.

To the all-important question of the tourney's outcome, I cast hexagram 53 (Chien):

The trigram above – SUN – the Gentle, Wind, Wood;  The trigram below – KEN – Keeping Still, Mountain

The waterwheel makes sure that the field will not dry out. The slow and constant supply of water makes the plants grow harmoniously, without stagnations, abundant.

The wild goose can only reach its far-away destination, and come back every year, by beating its wings second after second, never losing its strength or direction.

Every relation needs a constant supply of water, of feelings, regular love, day after day.

Starting something is usually not the most difficult part; it is harder to keep it going. Every day caring for it, feeding, repairing: every creation has to be kept alive day after day, year after year.

Basketball Matters Plus The CheeseHead's Video du Jour

Rose candidly discussed his view of the Blue Devils and sparked a debate not only on his derogatory choice of words but on the culture and the recruiting style of Coach Mike Krzyzewski.


“For me, Duke was a person,” Rose said in the film. “I hated Duke, and I hated everything Duke stood for. Schools like Duke don’t recruit players like me. I felt like they only recruited black players that were Uncle Toms.” 

--[Steve]Fisher Discusses Fab Five Film

As opposed to my usual composed, tight posts, this will be a hodge-podge, a potpourri.

Today's matchup between Duke and Michigan cannot help but provide free advertising for the ESPN documentary Fab Five.  Hopefully, people will also consider some reasoned responses to Jalen Rose's charge that Duke's black players (of the era, one assumes) were Uncle Toms.  Grant Hill -- definitely of the era -- made his response in a guest appearance in the NYTimes sports blog The Quad, on March 16:

In his garbled but sweeping comment that Duke recruits only “black players that were ‘Uncle Toms,’ ” Jalen seems to change the usual meaning of those very vitriolic words into his own meaning, i.e., blacks from two-parent, middle-class families. He leaves us all guessing exactly what he believes today.


I am beyond fortunate to have two parents who are still working well into their 60s. They received great educations and use them every day. My parents taught me a personal ethic I try to live by and pass on to my children.


I come from a strong legacy of black Americans. My namesake, Henry Hill, my father’s father, was a day laborer in Baltimore. He could not read or write until he was taught to do so by my grandmother. His first present to my dad was a set of encyclopedias, which I now have. He wanted his only child, my father, to have a good education, so he made numerous sacrifices to see that he got an education, including attending Yale.


This is part of our great tradition as black Americans. We aspire for the best or better for our children and work hard to make that happen for them. Jalen’s mother is part of our great black tradition and made the same sacrifices for him.


My teammates at Duke — all of them, black and white — were a band of brothers who came together to play at the highest level for the best coach in basketball. I know most of the black players who preceded and followed me at Duke. They all contribute to our tradition of excellence on the court.


It is insulting and ignorant to suggest that men like Johnny Dawkins (coach at Stanford), Tommy Amaker (coach at Harvard), Billy King (general manager of the Nets), Tony Lang (coach of the Mitsubishi Diamond Dolphins in Japan), Thomas Hill (small-business owner in Texas), Jeff Capel (former coach at Oklahoma and Virginia Commonwealth), Kenny Blakeney (assistant coach at Harvard), Jay Williams (ESPN analyst), Shane Battier (Memphis Grizzlies) and Chris Duhon (Orlando Magic) ever sold out their race.


To hint that those who grew up in a household with a mother and father are somehow less black than those who did not is beyond ridiculous....

You cannot attend a schizoid institution like Duke without learning how to void a term, sit in its emptiness -- kind of an existential mindfulness meditation exercise -- and then slap a redefinition on it, filling out those edges, what that cheater-of-an-ex-lover writer of mine loved to name limns.  He only used that word, though, when within striking distance of an attractive waitress/poetess.  His was a West Coast pretention -- he who plaintively wondered whether the grunion run.

The edges of reconstituted Duke terms are artfully rusty, aiming for rustic, achieving distress.

No, they didn't reschedule my ketamine treatment for this morning.  The above is actually the result of years of cogitation.  I done thunk it.

The superior commentary comes from Rochelle Riley, columnist for the Detroit Free Press.  Why?  Because she alone of all the commentators I've read on this brouhaha-ha-ha, respects the term.  Voiding a term, redefining a term, is an operation that first demands that one understand the term.  Hence, Uncle Tom Merits Better From Jalen:

The greatest shame isn't that Jalen Rose, when he was a kid, called a rival player a name.


The greatest shame isn't that, at the time, Jalen Rose -- as he reminded people in his ESPN documentary "The Fab Five" -- felt that black students who attended white schools were sellouts.


The greatest shame isn't that Kid Rose must have felt some sense of disloyalty or self-hatred because how else could he attend and become fabulous at the predominantly white University of Michigan and not consider himself a so-called Uncle Tom?


No, the greatest shame is that had Kid Rose read Harriet Beecher Stowe's 1852 novel "Uncle Tom's Cabin; or, Life Among the Lowly," he would have learned that Tom, the main character, was a beloved hero, a Christian martyr -- and someone who deserves better in history.


Stowe analyzed the daily pain of slavery by telling the stories of people revolving around Uncle Tom. History has masked how the book was intended. Even beloved Tom's story has been lost: He was beaten to death because he would not betray other slaves. All that remains is the fact that he was subservient to white criminals who kept him and other kidnapped Africans captive.


As if he had a choice.


A foolish endeavor

Sadly, that is where black America still exists 159 years later, debating our worth, our successes and failures, our hopes and dreams, based on how they relate to white America.


Instead of one America that measures itself against the world, we measure the gap between black and white, educationally, economically and socially. It is a foolish endeavor since America spent nearly a hundred years of its constituted life ensuring that there was an underclass. (You can't have a superior class without an underclass.) Black people, in the national aggregate, will never catch up, so to speak. Black people individually have surpassed in ways too numerous to count -- although we try to do so every February.


Kid Rose perpetuated a stereotype he didn't understand. Grown-up Rose, a 38-year-old sports analyst, reminded people of what he did. He could have taken out that "Uncle Tom" quote. He didn't because, then as now, he didn't understand the damage it could do.


Achievements and accusations

The bottom line is this: For centuries, white America and black America have spent billions to retain some separateness. So strong is that need for separateness that some black Americans have taken it as insult that other black Americans would seek to excel, would excel.


As the only member of my family to attend a predominantly white university (everyone else went to North Carolina Central University, N.C. A&T State University, Winston-Salem State University, Elizabeth City State University and Fayetteville State University), I heard what Grant Hill heard then and what kids still hear today.


With every achievement, my family beamed, while some peers accused me of trying to be white -- as if that were the only province for exceptional.


Yes, there's plenty to be sad about in this latest little brouhaha about who is and isn't black enough based on how smart they are. I'm sad that the argument still persists.


But I'm sadder that a beloved character in a book that President Abraham Lincoln claimed help start the Civil War, has been turned into a stereotype, his name into a racial epithet.


Uncle Tom deserves better.

After browsing through some other recent posts to The Quad blog, I'd like to make mention of Katie Thomas' feature focussing on the shame of college programs that fail to graduate at least 50% of their athletes:

With the men’s basketball tournament as a backdrop, U.S. Education Secretary Arne Duncan renewed his call for the N.C.A.A. to impose stricter penalties on universities that do not graduate enough of their athletes.


“The vast majority of schools take their responsibility on the academic part of this very seriously,” Duncan said in a telephone interview Tuesday. “However, you have a small set of programs — five to 10 percent of programs, ballpark — who aren’t serious on the academic side. And I just fail to understand why we continue to reward that behavior rather than not tolerate it.”


Duncan, who was a co-captain of his Harvard basketball team, has been a critic of the N.C.A.A.’s academic standards and has joined others in asking the association to ban from postseason play teams that are not on track to graduate at least 50 percent of their players. This year, he endorsed a recommendation by the Knight Commission, a college athletics watchdog group, to change the N.C.A.A.’s revenue distribution system so that it rewards teams for academic success.


A Knight Commission analysis found that 10 of the teams in this year’s men’s tournament — including No. 2 seed San Diego State and No. 3 seeds Purdue and Syracuse — are not on track to graduate half of their players.

Last but not least, my Brother-Unit Grader Boob has finally weighed in on this year's tourney from the selfish point of view of his annual prognostication competition with three longtime friends -- Ric, TC, and TC's wife Karen.

The subject line of his email reads: Step Away From the Bad Essay -- an immediate clue that he is mired in grading... detritus, let us say.

Howdy--

In a brief desperate moment, I'm going to stop grading some very bad Rogerian arguments and say howdy.
Hope all is as well as possible--on the health and the feline fronts.
Got a plagiarism conference call to be involved with later this week, so that should be interesting.
On the NCAA front, I picked several upsets on Thursday and then saw my teams losing by double digits yesterday.
I fear TC or Ric will take the coveted bragging rights. Damn, 4th place again.
Love to all.
Grader (Bored) Boob

The plagiarism reference results from a student who chose to copy -- not an essay or a research paper, not an exam, no... -- she chose to copy a class-specific discussion question answer. Not that I would ever plagiarize, but if I did? I would pick a better battle...

It amazes me that students try to defend themselves when they plagiarize.  It amazes me more that, dependant upon who they are, they are successful in their appeals over Grader Boob's head, trampling over his long, curly tresses as they seek solace from some dean or other.

In other teaching oddities, the aforementioned friend Karen is a prof for a pharmacy program (That'd be an *advanced* program...) and she reports that a student questioned (And continues to question) her far out, wild assertion that the notation .05 is equivalent to "five percent." I have an urgent request to be notified of the institution to which this pharmacist will report for duty.

Well, that's what I've been reading, trying to at least keep college b-ball in mind at all times.

Tomorrow is my second ketamine treatment and I am desperate for relief. If I have the chance, I want to beg for a faster route to the higher dosage that is most associated with success. I think, from reading the commentary of other patients attending the same program, that I will need to go well beyond 100 mg. Many of them are receiving over 200 mg, and all suggest extending the infusion over at least 3 hours to cut back on side effects.  Most of them have "only" limited CRPS, by which I mean involvement of "only" one limb.  From the beginning, I had two extremities affected;  Somewhere around the midpoint of this siege, that number climbed to four, as in *all* -- plus my face. 

I am having one of those desperate days.  The burn is a too heavy burden today.

I also watched a couple of videos ketamine patients have made during their treatments, particularly several out of Hahnemann University Hospital, and lordy, lordy, I hope that's not what I am like after my treatment! Royal goofballs, they are.  No one much mentions the extent of their pain relief, though they manage to mention every other topic under the sun.  They even film themselves having inane phone conversations.  The cult of sickness?

One woman really shocked me.  She had had a port put in, then decided to go out for dinner and drinks (right away, I know we don't share the same pain).  Instead of wearing a top that covers the port insertion point, which is still bruised and sore, being so new, she chooses a low cut, port-revealing and port-enhancing skin-tight leotard.  I'm like, "WTF?" Yes, there is a cachet to her sickness. 

I wish I knew whether it is the ketamine experience that is making me dream such weirdness as I have of late.  Lots of death and, sorry, decomposition.  Smells.  Unhinging smells.  Liquefaction.  Why would I dream such things?

On the feline front, the fuzz ball remains nameless. He has an appointment with the vet on Tuesday and must have a name by then (so I have decreed). Marmy Fluffy Butt continues to attack him at every opportunity, bringing to mind her first weeks with us, when we actually had to carry Sammy from his bedroom hideout to the litter boxes because he was too frightened to run past her imperious self.  He was at least 50% larger than she was, even pregnant, but totally psyched out by her mess-with-me-and-die come-hither look.

Dobby has been a steady ambassador to the the little puff-o'nothing-much, even ignoring the little guy's oversized hisses and growls to go nose-to-nose in friendship. Here he is trying to join in some Turbo Ball play that *somehow* morphs into a game of got-your-tail.  It is neat to witness -- live and in person! -- the will-o'wisp's discoveries.  You can actually see an idea pop into his head (it goes *boing*boing*) and he rarely puts off its execution.

I missed a real photo opportunity, something that was a cross between a "Where's Waldo?" and those old "What's wrong with this picture?"  He climbed a tall bookcase that hosted a bunch of framed photos of some of my neer-do-well relatives, then carefully sat himself in their midst, and... froze.  He held that pose for minutes.  It just made me laugh...

Who told Carolina that they could play?

from IdiomsByKids

A quick summary of schtuff:

My BP decided to become an issue, after a lifelong stint of being too low, by catapulting itself into the rafters.  200/110 last week, 160/110 yesterday at the MDVIP go-to-guy's office.  This making no sense, we deduced that it is the fault of those nasty eye drops... Combigan. 

Clearly, it wouldn't be exactly wise to trip out on i.v. ketamine on Monday with hypertension, particularly as ketamine causes an initial increase in blood pressure -- as part of its hallucinatory charms. 

So I stopped the drops and will put my head together with the EyeGuy next week... and go-to-guy put me on Bystolic.  He also strong-armed me into purchasing a BP kit.  What was sweet, though, was that he had researched prices and such.  That just adds a certain je-ne-sais-quoi to his character!  WhisperWhisperMurmurMurmur... I think they have that at Walmart for $40... WhisperWhisperMurmurMurmur...

Last night it was still high at 188/93 and I cursed the blood pressure gods.  Today, though, ha!  Ha!  I laugh in the pimply red face of hypertension.  Just now:  126/71.  Ta da!

We flew across hill and dale, took a sharp left at the Lone Alp, and arrived early for my appointment with the General Surgeon yesterday morning.  All well and good, except for the note on the door, dated September 2010, announcing that they'd moved their offices -- moved back to the hill, right behind the dale.

We flew, again, this time mumbling and grumbling under our various breaths.  Hot Stuff that we are, we *still* arrived with five minutes to spare. 

But not a half-hour early, as instructed!  [This is a new pet peeve.  Don't schedule an appointment with me and then, when you call to remind moi, say, "Please arrive a half-hour early..."  No!  Make the appointment for the actual time you actually want me to actually be there.]

He has a great staff, and he, himself, was very personable and able to sell me on getting a portacath put in (installed?)!  I loved his claim that "no one has ever regretted it." So, I am to show up at the hospital next Thursday morning, at an ungodly hour, and he will toss that sucker in me, hitch it up to the subclavian, and voilà!  Instant intravenous access.  For some reason, I have to go through pre-registration at the hospital the day before.  Kind of ridiculous for an itty-bitty procedure of this sort.

Okay, so I am touchy.  It's the same hospital where I was gifted with enough trauma and malpractice, mispractice and other-negative-insinuations, including the very CRPS for which I am now constantly seeking relief.  I was told, back in 2005, that "no one will treat you here, not a doctor, not a nurse, not a pharmacist..." That came out of the mouth of an orthopedic surgeon I had consulted, liked, and with whom I had scheduled a shoulder replacement.   (The right side;  The Sentinel Event was subsequent to the replacement on the left.)  Two days before surgery and someone decided to tell him "who I was."

That's right!  I'm THAT GIRL!

How ludicrous that he would threaten me with the big black ball when it was his colleague's malpractice at the heart of everything.  Talk about misplaced emotion and severely impaired thinking.

So anyway... yeah, I may peer half-blind from my gurney next week and see the same anesthesiologist who screamed at me that he and his department had been discomfited by my complaints about being nearly killed and successfully debilitated by his hospitals' various minions.

I'm thinking I might spit in his general direction.  Or something classy.

So, if you are keeping score:  Monday is Ketamine Day!  Tuesday is Recover from Ketamine Day!  Wednesday is go hang at the hospital and bleed into little tubes day!  Thursday is Put-In-The-Port Day!  And... I think I have a couple of appointments elsewhere... that I prob'ly ought to cancel.  Fred and Ruby, at least, would appreciate that.

Ach.  Oh, and today I am supposed to start another month-long love affair with antibiotics.  But that rx is sitting over at the pharmacy waiting for Fred to pick it up.  And Fred is pooped.  So... I say:  Tomorrow is soon enough. 

I am making Executive Decisions to beat the band.

I am full of hope.

I figure, until proven otherwise, I am a person who is at one with possibility and potential, all coming together at a certain point that can be graphed as Monday Afternoon, when their various forces and energies shall gift me with an orgasmic... CURE. 

Or something.

Maybe the hallucination of a cure?
Maybe a significant reduction in pain?
Maybe not?

Hell, it's a luxurious option just to be able to rest and cavort within Possibility and Potential all weekend.

"On Monday evening, darling, when I am cured, let's try that new Thai restaurant we noticed five years ago!"
"Sweet cheeks?  Tuesday morning, while I enjoy a significant reduction in pain, as established by the Visual Analog Score, I would love to give you an intensely rejuvenating back massage, the way I used to when my hands actually followed instructions from my brain.  Where did I stash that gallon of Patchouli?"
"Yo!  Fredster!  Reserve a court for Wednesday and I'll show you my best cross court volleys... And would you PUH-LEEZE put that damn wheelchair in the freaking attic?"

It is heresy to say, I know, but my excitement rivals -- oh, hell, it outshines by far -- this weekend's ACC tournament.  Who told Carolina that they could play?

[Talk about confusion -- Somehow, my computer keeps sending me to the 2009 ACC Tourney website.  Had me feeling positively daft...] [Also... I am so old school... my brain rejects VATech, BC, and Miami as even being part of the ACC.  I still barely allow for GATech and Florida State...] [Oh, let's be honest!  The only teams that really matter are from the superior northern Carolina, as Clemson, Maryland, South Carolina and Virginia are just meaningless examples of linguistic linguini, mere placeholders.  It's all about Duke, Carolina, N.C.State, and, well... Wake Forest.  Or maybe just Duke, Carolina, and N.C. State.  Errrr, actually, between you and me?  It's all Duke and Carolina.  I mean think about it.  That match up has it all -- public versus private, and a rich history of four corners and three-pointers.]  [Waving to Jim Valvano -- ah, those were the days!  The Cardiac Pack...] [Okay, I'm done now...]

It's Duke and Maryland at 7 tonight, with Florida State and Va Tech to follow.  Virginia, Wake, State, Ga Tech, and Miami are all already out...

f'blasticball! f'blasticball! allez, dooook-uh!

Several things:  Does covering the CRPS-induced craters on my face with flesh-colored bandaids really hide the problem?  Why is Fred opening canned vegetables for chop suey rather than using the beautiful fresh vegetables in the fridge?  About what kind of things am I likely to hallucinate when under the influence of subanesthetic ketamine?  Should I turn myself in to the authorities for having caused the Blue Devils (60) to fall to the Hokies (64) -- though I want it to be clear I had *nothing* to do with Pittsburgh or Texas screwing up? 

Yes, I felt the skittling * weight of NCAA basketball descend upon The Manor over the weekend.  In case I proved unresponsive to its skittling weight, out of the corners of my increasingly blind eyes there were repeated hints that La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, The Milanese Nightingale, herself, had embarked upon the annual costuming for the collegiate tournaments.  Dragging her trunks of operatic stage finery into the light cast by the wide stone hearth in the Medieval Kitchen (the gathering spot for our wing within Marlinspike Hall), Bianca descended into a frenzied madness as she developed the governing rules for the Fashionable Viewer.

Unfortunately, she put most of her stylistic tenets in aggravated slavic Syldavian, a language that neither Fred nor I speak, and even less understand.  A Slovak lifer who married into the Manor Domestic Dynasty Staff, Klára Králová, claims fluency -- but even so, she and The Castafiore have nearly come to blows over the translation of the Syldavian motto, Eih bennek, eih blavek.  Such a disagreement among speakers wouldn't normally be a big deal (Remember:  Native speakers disagree!), except that it was added, in 1234 AD, to the Haddock Family crest.   As one of those annoying word ribbons draped over ancient crossed swords, believed to be the first illustrated pair of Damascus blades, Captain Haddock asserts its meaning to be: "If you gather thistles, expect prickles."    (Never forget:  Those who lack fluency assert!)

Some linguistic experts, and you know how they are, insist that the best approach to Syldavian is via the intricately fine grammar of the Marollien dialect, according to which Eih bennek, eih blavek means nothing less than:  "Here I am, here I stay."

Marols or Marollien (also known as Brusselse Sproek, brusseler, brusseleir, brusselair or brusseleer [1]) was a dialect spoken in Brussels. Essentially it is a Dutch dialect incorporating many words of French origin as well as a sprinkling of Spanish dating back to the rule of the Low Countries by the Habsburgs (1519-1713). Its name refers to a district of Brussels called Marollen (Marolles), a neighborhood in the central municipality of Brussels, not far from the Palace of Justice. The district takes its name from the former abbey of the nuns Maria Colentes (Marikollen). It was a working-class neighborhood, though now it has become a fashionable part of the city. Marols is described as "totally indecipherable to the foreigner (which covers everyone not born in the Marolles) which is probably a good thing as it is richly abusive."[1]


The Théâtre Royal de Toone in Brussels puts on puppet plays in Marols.[1]

Yeah, so... anyway... collegiate basketball is entering the richness of tournament season, and we're feeling it here at The Manor.  Duke will fall, no doubt, from its number one ranking today, but not to worry:  That's exactly what we want;  That's exactly what we planned on.  We are peaking, in our own inimitable way, precisely when a reintroduction to humility does the greatest good.

Everyone knows Duke would have won easily if I had not ignored My Jinx Impact.  I don't feel like explaining -- yet again -- my deleterious effect on various sporting empires.  You can get the essence of the situation in this former post:    Mala Fortuna -- Stanford Stops the Streak.

By the leavings of her search, it looks like La Bonne et Belle Bianca will be wearing a cross-section of jewel-toned satins.  Oh... my.

Like the drums of Khazad Dum, rolling upward from the depths of our saline moat, we hear the beginnings of that diverse call to action, that urge to tap the toe:

f'blasticball! f'blasticball! allez, dooook-uh! allez, dooook-uh! [shuffle shuffle]

f'blasticball! f'blasticball! allez, dooook-uh! allez, dooook-uh! [shuffle shuffle]

* A made-up word; A "skittling weight" is what I imagine as the tactile impact of a frenetic crab climbing a human thigh -- under water. Under ocean water. [NOT a reference to cough syrup abuse.

Mala Fortuna: Stanford Stops the Streak

The jinx lives on.

Shortly after having this thought, I decided to search my blog for previous uses of the word jinx.  Having written about both college basketball and professional tennis, there was no doubt that my deleterious impact upon the success rates of my favored teams and players would be documented here.  I have been more true to my jinx attribute than to any other character trait.

In an aptly titled entry, Blather, I explained the genesis of the curse, as engineered, and then painstakingly nurtured, by Brother-Unit Grader Boob.*  Begun as a common-sensical remedy to my native curse, the jinx method expanded to encompass our mutual academic pursuits, something that would otherwise be inexplicable:

Good morning. It is lovely here: warm, sunny, clear -- you know, when the whites of the sky are opalescent, surrounded by true blue. I am tempted to say "Carolina blue," out of fondness for an alma mater... but as we approach March Madness, I cannot lend support to UNC, or even to little Davidson, despite last year's excitement and the incredible Stephen Curry-- no, I am obliged, academically, to prefer the much deeper blue hue of the Devil. I can't wait for the ACC Tournament, then that inconsequential old NCAA tourney thang... It's my favorite time of year, despite the fact that my brother-unit, the Grader Boob (who owes no allegiance to the Gothic Wonderland), long ago convinced me that I am a bona fide jinx, making a rule that when Duke, or whoever, is in a tight spot -- the fault being me and the bad luck I bring by my proximity to the television set -- I must retreat out of the viewing room and not cross the plane of the doorway. So he would end up munching on Malted Milk Balls, stretched out on his bed, blocking the screen, while I jumped up and down trying to see over him from my position in the hallway. Brother-Units are such fun.


Of course, he is jealous that I planned my academic career by the sporting accomplishments of the various universities I attended. It is a little known fact that admission to graduate programs is contingent upon one's knowledge of the money sports -- basketball and football. I went to every interview in full regalia -- the appropriate jersey, face paint, the giant finger. This and only this can explain my success.

As we promptly noted and celebrated in this space, on Tuesday, December 21, 2010, the UConn Women Huskies broke John Wooden's 88-game streak record for Division I college hoops.  They extended the record to 90 games, an awesome feat, but then ran smack dab into the Stanford Cardinals last night.

I had nothing to do with it.

I swear.

Stanford 71, UConn 59
Stanford Beats UConn to Halt Streak at 90


By JERÉ LONGMAN
Published: December 30, 2010


PALO ALTO, Calif. — The Connecticut Huskies had been undefeated during the Obama administration, untouched by the great recession, undeterred by the fiercest obstruction from any opponent in women’s college basketball.


No more.


Just as top-ranked UConn had feared, ninth-ranked Stanford was too big, too deep and too thorough inside and out on Thursday, defeating the Huskies by 71-59 at sold-out Maples Pavilion and ending Division I college basketball’s longest winning streak at 90 games.


UConn, which won by an average of 33 points during its streak and won all but two games by double figures, did not lead for a single second, falling to its first defeat since it lost to Stanford by 82-73 in the N.C.A.A. semifinals on April 6, 2008.


Just as Notre Dame bookended the U.C.L.A. men’s 88-game winning streak set from 1971 to 1974, so has Stanford bracketed the Huskies’ streak.

* I am pleased to announce that, on January 15, Grader Boob will be flying into the regional Tête-de-Hergéen supersonic transport hub -- a challenging landing on the southwestern slope of The Alp.  The Brother-Unit and I envision a leisurely manoral weekend with Fred, La Bonne et Belle Bianca, and the three extant Marlinspike felines.  G.B. has a longstanding and unrequited love for The Castafiore (and, truth be told, for the cats) -- I don't delude myself into thinking that filial love is behind this sudden need for a mini-vacation.  Anyway, great plans for great fun are in the works, thus far mostly involving food, flannel pyjamas, and U.S. American college basketball (with jinx provisions).

Oh God, Bianca is getting riled-up in anticipation of both Grader Boob's arrival and her chance to cheer on her favorite teams, an activity that includes dressing to the nines (elevensies and fourths) and operatic productions to beat the band.  As Spectator Athletes of the highest non-professional calibre, we take our Viewing Fashions seriously and can only wish that the athletes we visually support would likewise expend some money on appropriate couture.  Like words, it matters.  Do you recall the incalculably noxious impact of Caroline Wozniacki's tennis dress back in September of '09?  I barely survived that Fashion Sentinel Event...

[...] I became somewhat upset earlier in the evening, after watching the Clijsters/Williams match. [Aside: Please note that my customary role as jinx and source of mala fortuna did not come into play; That is, my favored athlete did manage to win, albeit not in a way she, or anyone, liked overly much.]


Actually, I was babbling even before Serena was subjected to that IDIOTIC foot-fault call by The Timid and Conniving LinesWoman. No, the smashing of her racket at the end of the first set didn't set me off -- surprising, I know, given my reaction to Gonzalez yesterday.


No... it was Wozniacki's tennis dress. She is the second woman in the tournament to be a fashion disaster in what can only be described as a Failed Dropped-Waist Contraption. And it was beige. Ecru, if you like. Sand. Café con leche. Whatever.


All that beige really brought out Caroline's pale visage and blond hair.


Yes, I know that the dress is from the new fall/winter Adidas line by Stella McCartney. It certainly does not look bad on Wozniacki, a beautiful girl. But imagine it on your average woman. Imagine it on La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, for instance.


I'm sorry. No, I'm not! It reminds me so much of a schoolgirl's jumper, deliberately ugly, with a band that bisects the wearer at precisely her widest point. Oh, and then let's amplify that impression with... RUFFLES. Quite the philosophical construction -- all business up top, very hip, spare, monosyllabic, c'est-à-dire masculine -- and all fluff down below, very flouncy, excessive, babbling, c'est-à-dire feminine. Oh, the dichotomy. Oh, my. My.


Again, put The Castafiore in it and suddenly even the umpire would be howling "Foul! Foul! Fashion fault!" Alternatively, the tennis audience would cry out, in alarming syncopation, "My eyes! My eyes!"

Oh jeez-louise.  She is really gearing up;  She's deep into her favorite basketball chant-and-step routine, which has a rhythm that Bianca also employs to lend a pleasing cadence to her housework (an equally seasonal event):

f'blasticball! f'blasticball! allez, dooook-uh! allez, dooook-uh! [shuffle shuffle]

f'blasticball! f'blasticball! allez, dooook-uh! allez, dooook-uh! [shuffle shuffle]

Wooden's UCLA Streak Record Broken by the UConn Women Huskies

congratulations, uconn women!

One of the biggest streaks in sports now belongs to the UConn women's basketball team.
The No. 1-ranked Huskies topped the 88-game winning streak by John Wooden's
UCLA men's team from 1971-74, beating No. 22 Florida State 93-62 on Tuesday night.

unfortunate update HERE

Math Class Shadow and Other News of Higher Education

I just fielded the latest email from Grader Boob, one of my Brother-Units, in which he recommends the antics of Matthew Weathers, featured in the video below.

Known as user MDWeathers on YouTube, he describes himself this way:

I teach part time in the Math Department of Biola University, a private Christian university in a Los Angeles suburb. I also work in the Distance Learning Department there. I live four block from work. My most recent degree: Masters in Computer Science from USC.

Grader Boob, himself an English professor, had this to say for himself:

Howdy--

Just finished my conferences... I spent part of the day sniping at belligerent attitudes and senses of entitlement. The day started off fine, for I had all of the overachievers scheduled early on. It was later, with the tardies and the malcontents that the air turned electric.

That's right electric... not eclectic!

My conference policy is that since they're given a week off and see me only for a scheduled 10-minute meeting, I expect them to be on time. No lateness allowed. If they come late, they're absent. Well, several wanted to argue that point with me, so things got heated. But that's an argument I never lose--until they do their student evals and they all comment on the unfairness of the policy.

The entitlement came next, for a smugly grinning student couldn't figure out why I thought the tone of his business letter--ending in "Sneeringly yours"--was counterproductive. Our conversation then ranged over topics as diverse as the rubric by which the paper was graded to the poor research in the letter ("What do you mean that The **** [the university student newspaper] isn't an academic/scholarly source?"). Though I never raised my voice, I was as dismissive as I've ever been verbally to a student. So, of course, the young woman who was the next victim/conferee was petrified when she inched through the office door.

So that's been my day..and there's only 3 more days of conferences left! (Boy, what a griper!)

But this will all fade away should the Blue Devils play their game and silence the Bulldoggy crowd! I'm relying on YOUR team to help me out, and if they don't, you will certainly hear from me!

Hope all are well in [Marlinspike Hall, deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs)].

Mucho amore.

Conferencer Boob the Erstwhile Grader


I am so glad to have been reminded -- so that I might, in turn, gently remind you -- that the Blue Devils are playing for the championship tonight.

GO DUKE!

UNC-CH v. Michigan State

Go Carolina!

THE TAR HEEL STATE
The origin of this nickname is mysterious, though most historians agree that the name derives from North Carolina's long history as a producer of naval stores--tar, pitch, rosin and turpentine--all of which were culled from the State's extensive pine forests. The historians Hugh Lefler and Albert Newsome, in their book North Carolina: the History of a Southern State (3rd edition, 1973, p. 97) state categorically that "[i]n fact, North Carolina led the world in the production of naval stores from about 1720 to 1870, and it was this industry which gave to North Carolina its nickname, 'Tar Heel State'."

Various stories and legends have sprung up to explain where the name came from. Perhaps the most popular is found in Histories of the Several Regiments and Battalions from North Carolina in the Great War 1861-1865 (edited by Walter Clark):

Thus after one of the fiercest battles, in which their supporting column was driven from the field and they successfully fought it out alone, in the exchange of compliments of the occasion the North Carolinians were greeted with the question from the passing derelict regiment: "Any more tar down in the Old North State, boys?" Quick as thought came the answer: "No, not a bit; old Jeff's bought it all up." "Is that so; what is he going to do with it?" was asked. "he is going to put it on you'ns heels to make you stick better in the next fight." (Vol. 3, p. 376)

The following paragraph appears in R.B. Creecy's Grandfather Tales of North Carolina History (1901):

During the late unhappy war between the States it [North Carolina] was sometimes called the "Tar-heel State," because tar was made in the State, and because in battle the soldiers of North Carolina stuck to their bloody work as if they had tar on their heels, and when General Lee said, "God bless the Tar-heel boys," they took the name. (p. 6)

While there may be no direct proof that Robert E. Lee ever spoke in such a fashion, there is at least some indirect evidence. In a letter dating from 1864 (currently housed in the State Archives and part of their "Tar Heel Collection") from Colonel Joseph Engelhard describing the Battle of Ream's Station in Virginia, he writes: "It was a ' Tar Heel ' fight, and ... we got Gen'l Lee to thanking God, which you know means something brilliant."

v.i.l.l.a.n.o.v.a.

I'll get the lights.

I am not sure what exactly Duke intended tonight. After the first five breezy points, I thought they'd settle down, and their defense appeared to be stepping up... They just forgot their offense.

And not to knock Coach K, but I'd have called a few more timeouts early on. And if the three-pointers aren't flowing organically, and they weren't, don't force 'em! Get physical, get inside.

Sigh. This is the sixth year in a row that they've gone down to a lower-seeded team.

Villanova looked great, moved well, very nice. Wonderfully mobile. One of Duke's stranger abilities of late is that of disrupting the rhythm of the game. They got caught in their own trap tonight, while Villanova was absolutely syncopated...

My bracket being torn to shreds, then, I commit to a final four with Louisville, UConn, Villanova, and UNC-CH. My professorial Brother-Unit informs me that my support for Villanova is mandated from this point on...

My Brother-Unit the Bookie? Haven't heard a peep from him. This is a busy time in gambling circles.

G'night, Cameron Crazies, wherever you may be.

WARNING: Irrational, But Necessary, Vent

There is no way around it.

Yesterday, Wednesday, I sat, absolutely transfixed, and watched an encore presentation of the Duke/Texas game from last Saturday.

Only I did not recognize it as something I had already (and pretty intently, too) watched -- until that flagrant foul at about the 5 minute mark in the second half repeated itself.

"Odd," thought I. "Strange. This same foul happened at about this same time... Oh!"

Yes, this is The Retired Educator's version of light bulb moments. Other people have sudden revelations about God, Science, Right, Wrong, Fashion, Politics, Morality, and, above all, Good Eats. Me? It's more along the lines of Pitiable Déjà Vu.

Correctional light bulb moments. Orthopedic light bulb moments.

About four days after we had to stop the Daptomycin due to increased pain and sky high CPK, my fevers settled back into their daily routine. Afternoon misery, evening exhaustion, limited 2-hour spurts of sleep, sweats.

Pain. The right shoulder is doing well, I think. There is a little squish and kerplunking these past few days, that's all. The left, which still has the spacer, hurts a lot. As in "a lot." Also, both knees, the left hip. Funny that of all my operated joints, the first one done remains intact and painless -- the right hip replacement.

I saw The Boutiqueur last Thursday, had the bloodwork done that Infectious Disease Man wanted. The results scream infection. Again.

I haven't breathed one word about the knees and left hip, and only just realized why a few hours ago -- on the ride home from Dr. PainDude's office.

This is embarrassing.

I have become very trusting of the orthopedic surgeon who has pulled me through the last four surgeries -- I honestly believe the man (and his team) has saved my life several times now. He specializes in shoulders.

As in: He does not do knees. He does not do hips. He does shoulders. Only. Sure, I bet he could successfully operate on any bone/joint but this is how the orthopedic game of super-specialization is played.

And I've become such an emotional and mental weakling that I cannot see starting this difficult process over again with one of his partners.

It seems to me that this would be a good time to repeat the scans that we did last summer -- the bone scan and the gallium scan. Because maybe I am wrong about the knees and hip. Of course, I haven't been wrong yet -- there where the pain is very bad, there has been, well, beaucoup pus. (Sorry) And *something* is infected (in a form that cannot be reached by i.v. antibiotics!).

The kicker in this complicated situtation? Infectious Disease Guy and OrthoMan both have ordered, between them, four different joint aspirations into what we later found were very infected joints. WHATEVER PATHOGEN IS INVOLVED HAS NOT GROWN IN THE LAB. In each of the four most recent surgeries, extensive sampling was done. Admittedly, in the first surgery, at the tail end of August, SumDood kind of bungled the microbiology -- the samples were left overnight in the Operating Theatre. But since then, there have been biopsies and cultures galore... and WHATEVER PATHOGEN IS INVOLVED HAS NOT GROWN IN THE LAB. I have had to be in isolation with each hospitalization due to testing positive for MRSA in My Sweet Nares and one Beloved Armpit, and have taken to bathing in caustic hot pink Hibiclens and snorting antibiotic ointment. I know! Very sexy!

I have had 3 six-week courses of i.v. vancomycin, plus 2 six-week i.v. courses with sumpthin' I cannot remember, and this latest effort with i.v. daptomycin -- which only lasted about 10 days.

When I confessed to Extreme Fatigue chez Le Boutiqueur, he said the infection is just sapping me, and the daily fevers are keeping me dehydrated and defunkified (he thinks that is behind the sudden hypotension when I stand up... and pass out). Some of my electrolytes came back skewed -- who knows? I only know that if I have to be such a limp noodle, I ought to be gifted with some good sleep to go with.

So, class, let's summarize.

Two hours sleep per night. (Not entirely true. I am having some good nights, interspersed.)
Temp of 100.9.
WBC around 14,000 with funky shifts involving the neutrophils and stuff... (absolute neutrophils are at 11425)
C-RP 3.9 -- which apparently sucks rocks.
Alkaline Phosphatase 145 (My understanding is that this is indicative of nothing in particular...)
GREAT NEWS -- CPK is now normal. Par-Tay!
Fatigue and pain out the WhaZoo (alt. spelling)
Blood glucose out of control -- well, over 200, and that was fasting. Boutiqueur says it may well be the infection causing that.

We have yanked out both shoulder prostheses -- the left had been replaced in 2002, the right in 2005. The left never had much of a chance for success. The right was a great job from the get-go. That old get-go! When OrthoMan opened up the right side (he had done the replacement in 2005), there were four huge abscesses, and I didn't do particularly well -- so he stopped at mid-point and put me in ICU on a vent for 4 days, then went back in and finished. A Twofer. Then last month, he removed the spacer and put in a total shoulder prosthesis.

When he operated on the left side, initially he thought it looked great. Before closing, he decided to bore a little into the humerus underneath the prosthesis post, and, in his words, "it exploded." So, at that point, I graduated from yer olde ordinary prosthetic joints infections to "osteomyelitis."

I go back to OrthoMan next week, April 1, and we are to discuss what to do next.

I don't think I can bear bringing up these new problems. Him, I trust. And his colleague who reconstructed my elbow in 2007, I trust him, too. The quality of their work as surgeons is wonderful, and the quality of their "doctoring" is also. They have to keep a look out for problems with adrenal failure, lupus flares, CRPS/RSD -- and I have to say, they have been great about *trying* to prevent CRPS spread. It has spread but I do believe their efforts have kept it from being much worse.

Oh, hell. If I vent and kvetch and bitch and moan and get it all out before I see him, maybe my brain function and ability to trust will have returned.

Fred just told me to depend on him, that he will make sure that I am ensconced in the big bed with him and My Buddy, La Bonne et Belle Bianca -- with popcorn and various Belgian patisseries, and some bonbons on Manager's Special -- at precisely 3:12 AM -- that's when T.V. Tête de Hergé will carry Duke's trouncing of Villanova.

Live, at Marlinspike Hall!

So good luck to Duke and to Carolina, too. Villanova and Gonzaga will make sure these are closely contested matches. A lot of good it'll do them, Harumph!

Sweet 16

Texas is going down...

Funny how the cameras always seem to catch Coach K in prayer just prior to tip-off. Harumph.

Prayer? We don't need no stinkin' prayers!

** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ ** ^^ **
okay, so the score is tied with about a minute and a half on the clock. obviously, coach k didn't pray his best prayer.

oh, b-ball god in heaven, let them sink a three pointer and draw a foul. 'kay? je vous remercie de tout mon coeur...

47 seconds and duke hits 2 freethrows, up by 2 now. down the court... and texas misses (by the grace of the b'ball god in heaven) nice rebound by the devils. another foul series for dddduuukkkkeeee and we're up by 3 (henderson misses his last foul shot, but that's okay...). 11.5 seconds. people are fouling out -- like flies (like flies? whatever.)

7.2 now and the blue devils are up by 4 -- now... it *could* be done... yeah, right, if you were a member of the cardiac pack! those were the days, eh?

whew. lesson? join the coach in prayer; do not mock the basketball deities. watch out villanova!

Round Two

It's noon, Saturday, March 21, 2009. "So what, Retired Educator?" you are probably asking, all mumbly.


Well, messieurs et mesdames... Oops! Women (and children) first: lifeboats, turns, in queues, down the slide of a wrecked plane. (Not to be confused with a woman's prerogative to change her mind.)

Well, mesdames et messieurs -- The Second Round of the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament is on, today and tomorrow.

I did my best to make some outrageous picks, but ended up following the seeding, with four exceptions, those being:

UCLA (6) over Villanova (3)
Arizona State (6) over Syracuse (3)
Cleveland State (13) over Arizona (12)
and
Maryland (10) over Memphis (2)

Yes, it does appear contrived, doesn't it? Funny how it works out to be one quasi-upset per region -- though I really do mean it when I pick Maryland, my most daring choice.

The Sweet 16 in the Midwest: Gotta be Louisville and Cleveland State (okay, okay, there's a decent chance that they'll face Arizona) -- either way, Louisville is in the Elite 8.

I see Kansas and Michigan State, with a small upset in the offing, as Kansas squeeks by to face off with Louisville.

As for the West, I have a soft spot for UConn and they'll win easily over Purdue or Washington. Frankly, the only team that interests me in the bottom of that bracket is Maryland. I just would like for them to pull off some upsets. Because they represent the ACC and because they TOPPLED that POWERHOUSE (and my alma mater) Cal. (Note that there is no sarcasm available to drip on Cal's 3-pointer capabilities.) Anyway, I am betting Maryland and Missouri in the Sweet 16.

In the East, UCLA and Villanova? It hardly matters, as the winner faces Duke, who will kick major booty, either way. I picked UCLA but was really very, very impressed watching Villanova over American in the first round. I am talking about how they finally turned it on to come out of a 14-point hole to blow American away. It's important to note those teams that fight off threats and correct course. And, hell, it makes it so much more interesting...

All of which will set up Pittsburgh and Duke, apologies to Wisconsin/Xavier -- which will give me a coronary.

I gotta throw my Cameron Crazies tee shirt in the wash. Tip-off time for Texas v. Dukedom is 8:15.

In the South? It'll be UNC and Gonzaga in the Sweet 16 -- and that ought to be one hell of a game. I am pulling for UNC, but won't be surprised if Gonzaga pulls off an upset.

I picked Arizona State (v. Syracuse) who will face Oklahoma, unless Michigan shocks the world.