yesh... i is.

Kirsten Bentley: Please Check In!

This is probably akin to pissing into the wind... {I will give you a moment...}

I am concerned about a sister blogger who lives in Christchurch, New Zealand -- Kirsten Bentley, also known as MedicalBooBoos, and author of two sites -- New Zealand Healthcare and Neo-Conduit, both currently inactive.

If you are Kirsten, or know her, please pass on my best wishes and concern.  When the big quake hit New Zealand, she had literally just returned home following a major surgery.  She was posting mostly about the quake and its innumerable aftershocks when her blogs went silent.

I am reasonably sure she is okay, as she has a host of people who care about her and would lend hands, shoulders, and hearts -- whatever was needed.

I just wanna know for sure!

What are they *thinking*?

Someone needs to say it: 

The school officials in Coweta County, Georgia (of these United States) have lost their minds.  I fully expect to read that Ms. Allwine, "a very good teacher," has been nominated for Georgia Teacher of the Year. 

Given the apparent political acumen of Georgia citizens, and with the help of pharmaceutical corporate sponsorship, she might have made a successful gubernatorial bid.

It's one of those stories that grow on you, if only because there are some enticing details that are left -- at least in this brief news article -- to the imagination.  I won't even allow myself to wonder about her husband and the state of her marriage, as I am fearful of discovering that this has been some sort of a romantic drama, and the lovebirds are planning to renew their vows.

What? Oh... She was arrested after pouring a bottle of Ambien into her Darling's drink in the aftermath of domestic spat.  As the article below puts it, so well:  He survived.

So, apparently, did she, and with remarkable impunity, even retaining her job as an elementary school teacher.

If trying to murder your husband is not evidence of moral turpitude, what, pray tell, is sufficiently turpid to warrant the loss of a job wherein you deal with frequent frustration in the form of tiny, young people?  Just imagine the anger of a turpid-prone educator should the rugrats not make it to the cafeteria in a hushed single line... or upon learning that dogs are eating homework papers again. 

You know, coming as it does on the heels of my first vaunted use of the word toothsome, turpid almost seems gratuitously facile.  It registers at different levels of the NastyAss Continuum, which includes everything from base to ewwww:ick!

My tendency to migrate toward the burgeoning field of Fancy Forensic Linguistics led me to an astute blog entry over at The Toe Blog -- "Turbid, Turgid, Turpid," an intricate study of Lolita.  Well, okay, it is less a study of Nabokov than a list of what the author appreciates in a few examples of language -- but she does juxtapose some meanings in the hope of Etymological Serendipity, and you know, Dear Reader, how much I love Etymological Serendipity!  Ms. McKeel begins her moment of verbal jouissance by noting that Humbert describes himself as "dispicable and brutal and turpid," and then she gets down-and-dirty, playing with words, rolling them between the tips of her fingers.

Turbid: (of especially liquids) clouded as with sediment
Turgid: ostentatiously lofty in style; abnormally distended especially by fluids or gas
Turpid: foul, base, wicked


And of course on a related note:


Tumid: of sexual organs; stiff and rigid; ostentatiously lofty in style; abnormally distended especially by fluids or gas

Honestly, I might have been happier, as a reader and writer, were I incarnated with mild-to-moderate dyslexia.  Those of you out there who actually suffer from dyslexia may have a moment to gift me with a wicked BitchSlap, for insolence and callous disregard... but you'll never make a charge of moral turpitude stick, copper!  [Of course, you have to give me time to travel from Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs) to Georgia -- a rarely traveled route, with no regularly scheduled flights.  Intrepid as I am, I wouldn't dare undertake the journey without a pre-arranged means of immediate escape.]

Okay, so Ms. Allwine has successfully been enabled as a criminal by a backward system.  Technically, and it is behind such things as technicalities that the various organs of oversight in Georgia hide from the glare of their own stupidity -- Technically, Ms. Allwine is innocent of all things turbid, turgid, and turpid, too.

Now... taken as meaning turgid-to-the-point-of-being-bombastic-pompous-and-overgrown, I think prosecutors could go after her enablers, her handlers, at least, with one charge of Aggravated Felonious Tumidity. It's been years since I've heard of a fellow educator or educational oversight entity so charged, but if the times and circumstances are sober enough to warrant it, well, so be it.

In the mean time, the thought of Allwine offering infuriating little Johnny a special glass of juice is a tad chilling.

Easy enough in Georgia to escape attempted murder charges and keep your job as an elementary school teacher -- probably with the requisite raise due all "good teachers" -- until they bus in a few Fancy Forensic Linguists.  You might wiggle out of a turpitude conviction... but tumidity will get you, every time.

COWETA COUNTY, Ga. -- An elementary school teacher gets to keep her job after she was charged with attempting to poison her husband, Coweta County School officials said.


Willis Road Elementary’s Rebecca Allwine’s legal troubles stemmed from a January argument with her husband, Coweta County deputies said. They said Allwine slipped a bottle full of Ambien into her husband's drink after the fight.


He survived, and she was charged with aggravated assault with intent to poison, deputies said.


In September, a grand jury indicted Allwine on a felony charge. Prosecutors dropped that felony after she pleaded guilty to two misdemeanors on Tuesday.


Parents and family members said they were upset that the county allowed her to remain in the classroom.


"She was accused of doing something wrong. Until she was found guilty or not guilty, she should have been pulled out of there," Willis Road parent Frankie Davis told Channel 2’s Richard Elliot.


A spokesman with the state's Professional Standards Commission said that Allwine informed them of the incident within the time frame required by policy. He said because the felony charge did not include the commission or conviction of a felony involving moral turpitude, they left her fate up to the school district.


Coweta County Schools spokesman Dean Jackson told Elliot that they followed all their proper procedures and policies with their decision. He said Allwine was kept in the classroom because she "was a very good teacher." [cont. HERE] 

FOR ALLWINE UPDATES, CLICK HERE.

Kate

Kate McRae's scan has been moved up from Friday to this afternoon, and her parents are requesting prayer.  This is a family of inspirational, fierce faith, so when they ask, we strive to deliver!

You can read about their journey at CaringBridge, here.

UPDATE from Kate's Mom:

Words could not possibly express our joy and gratitude for today's scan. Stable! Never have those words sounded so sweet. We are still trying to let the news soak in.


Kate's oncologist said the scan looked good.... there appeared no new growth from the one 2 months ago. And the enhancement and flair on the scan was actually somewhat less. We could not have been more excited!


We are grateful for the outpouring of prayers. We were in a very precarious situation knowing we could hear one of two drastically different reports today. We are rejoicing that the news was great, and we get more time with our precious daughter. Thank you Jesus.

Helen Philpot: Oh Happy Day

Grrrr. About the only political "pundit" worth the read today is Helen Philpot, of Margaret and Helen fame. You can start here, and finish over on the Front Porch at her place.

I hear that the Back Porch is pretty racy; They serve a mean hard lemonade.  And, for a limited time, apparently, there is pie.

What are you waiting for? Get busy. Read!

Margaret, happy days are here again. The skies above are blue again. It really is just too good to be true. The Republican gains delivered by the Tea Party are almost more than I could hope for. I only wish that lovely Witch in Delaware could have come along for the party as well.


Now let’s see. Where do I begin? Our taxes will soon be about zero percent so let’s start spending today to get this economy back on track. The government will shrink to a size somewhat equal to the size of our military which means Social Security has to go. Those of us who were smart enough to save for a rainy day will be high and dry… for at least a few months. And I got a good check-up from my doctor recently so I don’t need my Medicare… for at least a few months.


Now about that black man in the Oval Office. It will take a few days to get impeachment hearings underway, but until then I hear they are moving him out of the White House and into that little room at the top of the Washington Monument so he can’t cause any more trouble. Oh and Ms. Pelosi is out too. How dare she take on the Health Insurance Industry. Didn’t she realize people own stock in those companies?


Gays are no more. They all left, presumably to join the French Army. And teen pregnancies are a thing of the past. Teens will no longer have sex. Except the Palins. The Palins will abandon teen pregnancies as easily as a camel will pass through the eye of an early pregnancy test stick. No. The Palins will continue to give birth to abstinence only babies. That we know for sure.


Abortion? Well everyone knows that was just a luxury American women really couldn’t afford anyway. And government will now be small enough to actually fit inside a woman’s uterus, so all women with unwanted pregnancies have left, presumably to join the French Army....
[continued at site of origin, HERE.]

From The Phrase Finder:

SOUR GRAPES

Meaning -- Acting meanly after a disappointment.

Origin -- In the fable The Fox and the Grapes, which is attributed to the ancient Greek writer Aesop, the fox isn't able to reach the grapes and declares them to be sour:

Harrison Weir's 1884 English translation, which claims to be "from original sources ", presents the text like this:

A famished Fox saw some clusters of ripe black grapes hanging from a trellised vine. She resorted to all her tricks to get at them, but wearied herself in vain, for she could not reach them. At last she turned away, beguiling herself of her disappointment, and saying: "The Grapes are sour, and not ripe as I thought."

Some of the fables associated with Aesop were written as late as 1900 and many of the earlier ones were considerably amended in Victorian translation into English. Also, some scholars also prefer 'unripe' to 'sour' as a literal translation of the earlier Greek texts.

The phrase also occurs in the Bible, Ezekiel - in Miles Coverdale's Bible, 1535:

18:1 The worde of the LORDE came vnto me, on this maner:


18:2 What meane ye by this comon prouerbe, that ye vse in the londe of Israel, sayenge: The fathers haue eaten soure grapes, and the childres teth are set on edge?


18:3 As truly as I lyue, saieth ye LORDE God, ye shal vse this byworde nomore in Israel.

The difficulty in dating Aesop's work makes it uncertain whether it first entered the English language via the Fables or via the Bible.

CRPS... We've arrived!

"This one was made by Holly Schank for hers and our friend Michelle De Leonard."

There's been a pleasant dearth of fresh CRPS/RSD research to report lately, and so it seems the right moment to announce that, as a disease entity, CRPS is now on the map.

Things that mark this arriviste take on things? A ribbon. A plastic bracelet. A few correspondingly sick celebrities. An annual black tie Silent Auction... and at least one Walkathon.

Check, check, check, check, and... check!

But most of all? Most of all, there has to be a quilt. 

I have an Attitude about Awareness and the various ways of Raising Awareness.  I experience roughly the same sensations that I associate with a plummeting blood sugar -- it's très hypoglycemic.  It's kind of a reaction against the prevalent Political Correctness. 

Let's just say that my favorite cause button depicts a crisp red AIDS awareness ribbon against a white background, with "Fuck the red ribbon / Find a cure" in bolded italics.

Okay, so in addition to a constitutional dislike of What's Expected, my wariness about all the Awareness flying around might -- might -- have something to do with laziness, and I ought to be ashamed.

The most excellent Doctor Roberta, who Suture[s] For A Living, is the obvious medical blogger to make the announcement, as her handiwork outside surgery is as beautiful as it is within. She is one of few doctor bloggers to address Complex Regional Pain Syndrome/Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy: Here and here.

In her blog recently, she passed on details about the CRPS/RSD Awareness Quilt Project from its organization page over on Facebook:

Contribute a 12" x 12" patch to be added to the RSD/CRPS Awareness quilt. Make sure you keep what you want to show 1" away from the borders... This is for pain awareness. Help spread the word and make a square...if you need help participating please let us know....Mail all quilt panels to: RSD/CRPS Awareness Quilt P.O. Box 500915 Malabar, Fl. 32950-500915. Check out our links for information that can help you put your square together...everything from sewing tips to iron-on tranfers using your printer. If you have any questions please feel free to drop Troy Walker a message and I'll help you out if I can. Thank you very much for helping to spread awareness of Chronic Pain.

At last count, there were 137 panels documented by pictures on the Facebook page.

Keith Jarrett: The Köln Concert

cold bay sunshine, this pearlized sky,

a panel, the door to the apartment on a red brick.

concentration on the midrange,

the keys clanged: "oh!"

pink stucco on the baptist church

red neon cross on the corner of the avenue

annotate his gasps

(and jagged mesmer!)

annotate his gasps

(and jagged mesmer!) --

"oh!"

It hasn't happened in a while, though it easily could and be but rarely a bothering thing. 

Who hasn't rocked and writhed to Keith Jarrett's pestered, stepping, bobbing piano -- that bad, bad piano which forced him to the middle ranges, thank God and praise the Lord?

Who hasn't grunted, and grunted gloriously -- the grunt::gasp pulled straight out from what we now call The Core, what the commercials say needs strengthening, where we reside -- there where we rock from side to side?

I have made a place for dangerous music again, memories be damned, because I need to be somewhere other than here, now, and I am deep down glad for the world's talent, and amazed.  In the street in my nightgown, running for the bus on Telegraph Avenue, this last little bit of Oakland, then home again, home again, after the Night Bus, fumes in white cotton, oh!  Jagged "oh"s.

Preliminaries to the concert were not auspicious. The concert was organized by Vera Brandes, Germany’s youngest concert promoter. Brandes had selected a Bösendorfer 290 Imperial concert grand piano for the performance, but the stagehands did not realize that the piano was stored in the cellar of the building. Instead, they found a Bösendorfer baby grand backstage and assumed that it was to be used. This piano was intended for rehearsals only, and was in poor condition.

Jarrett had not slept in two nights. He arrived at the opera house late and tired after an exhausting hours-long drive in a Renault R4. He rushed to finish a hasty meal just minutes before the concert was to begin. After learning about the substandard piano, Jarrett nearly refused to play. Brandes, who just turned 18 years old, had to convince the 29-year-old Jarrett to perform nonetheless. Almost as an afterthought, the sound technicians decided to place microphones and record the concert, even if only for the house archive.

The instrument was tinny and thin in the upper registers, so Jarrett concentrated on ostinatos and rhythmic figures.


Despite the obstacles, Jarrett's performance was enthusiastically received, and the subsequent recording was acclaimed by the critics and an enormous commercial success. With sales of more than 3.5 million, it became the best-selling solo album in jazz history. [wikipedia]

Halloween 2010

Here is the weekend tally:

Friday night was a write-off;
Saturday, I excelled in Pitiful;
Sunday, today, there came The Demand that I Show Up For Life -- I did --  and we all had a nice time.

We indulged ourselves with an afternoon showing of Rosemary's Baby, cinematic wholesomeness that stands up well to the tests of time.  Mia Farrow was divorcing Frank Sinatra, The Dakota became The Bramford, and Sharon Tate was just another girl at the party, though Polanski did not credit her. 

Okay, so Fred fell asleep -- his belly full of raisin cream scones that I whipped up at the ungodly hour of 4 am -- very buttery things to which he added additional dabs and smears -- and therefore needed his total blood supply redirected to his gastrointestinal innards -- which action decimated his cerebral forces.

Oh, Reader Dears!  This is a *moment*.  I am about to use a word for the first time.  It's a word I like but that has always seemed a bit much, a bit dated, sort of a hey-look-at-me kind of word.

Ahem:  My raisin cream scones -- if they were anything at all (verily!) -- were toothsome examples of crunchy luciousness, and yet, pure restraint, as well.

I think it works.  It's the kind of thing I might say.  If I drank vermouth, sported cocktail rings, and wore wide belts of crushed velvet -- one belt per jewel tone.

I remember Friday, September 26, 2003, the day that toothsome figured as Word of the Day over at Dictionary.com.  I remember as if it were yesterday.

Do you recall where you were when toothsome passed from palate-pleaser to larger-than-life, far beyond tired old va-va-va-voom?

1. Pleasing to the taste; delicious; as, "a toothsome pie."

2. Agreeable; attractive; as, "a toothsome offer."

3. Sexually attractive.

Sentences were presented that suitably displayed the meaning and the gravitas, yet retained the essential flirtiness of... toothsome:

Fleming was impressed not only by its taste but by its astonishing durability: Caudle's apple, after ten months in storage, was still toothsome and fragrant.

-- David Guterson, "The Kingdom of Apples", Harper's Magazine , October 1999

Their topic, naturally: business niches that offer toothsome opportunities and comparatively limited competition.

-- Dick Youngblood, "Business niches can be opportunities", Minneapolis Star Tribune , March 2, 2003

The myth, which Kournikova herself often takes great measures to perpetuate, is that she is an imposter on the WTA Tour, a toothsome starlet who simply uses the tennis court as a catwalk.

-- Jon Wertheim, "Any day now for Anna", Sports Illustrated, April 14, 2000

Speaking of toothsome...

The Manor is Halloween Haven in this neck of the Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs).  That means gourds, cupcakes drowned in orange icing offset with licorice dots:  that means hot chocolate, and cider, and smile-like-you-mean-it-dammit!  Mostly, that means joyfully suspending disbelief so as to celebrate the little ghouls and their trailing, traipsing goblins.

I have a soft spot, though, for little girls, intransigent, in flannel pajamas, slightly tear-stained, not at all sure of this Trick or Treat business. 

Propped on parental hips, their somber eyes warn you that this-is-not-what-they-signed-up-for.

Intransigent and toothsome, certain Little Girls use Halloween to put the world on notice.

Songs of Experience::The Weight of the World

"The Tyger" by William Blake

as sung by Allen Ginsberg
w/ Steven Taylor & Jim Jones
Recorded by
The Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics,
July 1988

courtesy of superheronamedtony's YT channel

A beautiful thing, the free download and streaming from the internet archive project at Naropa University:
 A reading by Allen Ginsberg performing William Blake's Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. Songs of Innocence includes: "The Shepherd," "The Echoing Green," "The Lamb," "The Little Black Boy," "The Blossom," "The Chimney Sweeper," "The Little Boy Lost," "The Little Boy Found," "Laughing Song," and "Holy Thursday." Songs of Experience includes: "Nurse's Song," "The Sick Rose," "Ah Sunflower," "The Garden of Love," "London," "The Human Abstract," "To Tirzah" and "The Grey Monk."

And then, there is the always lovely PennSound, center for programs in contemporary writing at the University of Pennsylvania, and their New York, December 15, 1969 recording of Ginsberg singing William Blake -- plus PoemTalk podcasts.

THE TYGER
By William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

1794







"My father died while I was out here. So I flew black... back, and on the way [home I w]rote a blues: Father Death Blues."

Hey Father Death, I'm flying home

Hey old man, you're all alone

Hey old daddy, I know where I'm going

Father Death, don't cry any more

Mama's there underneath the floor

Brother Death, please mind the store

Old Aunty Death, don't hide your bones

Old Uncle Death, I hear your groans

O Sister Death, how sweet your moans

O Children Deaths, go breathe your breaths

Sobbing breasts'll ease your deaths

Pain is gone, tears take the rest

Genius Death, your art is done

Lover Death, your body's gone

Father Death, I'm coming home

Guru Death, your words are true

Teacher Death, I do thank you

For inspiring me to sing this blues

Buddha Death, I wake with you

Dharma Death, your mind is true

Sangha Death, we'll work it through

Suffering is what was born

Ignorance made me forlorn

Tearful truths I cannot scorn

Father Breath, once more farewell

Birth you gave was no thing ill

My heart is still, as time will tell.

July 8, 1976 (Over Lake Michigan)

suicide by doctors

okay, so in the few hours since i published this scintillating example of self-pity, guilt at having bad-mouthed the good people who are trying hard to help me, and who are as talented as they come, has gnawed a hole in my inflated psyche.  and i thought the pain of rotting bones and insane nerve fibers was hard to deal with -- well, that pain is nothing compared with guilt.

so... i'm sorry, okay?  it's just that every now and then i decompensate.

[which would be a reason but not an excuse.  jeez, but you people are rough on a girl.]

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

i'm taking another mini-break from blogging, although experience tells me that merely making that announcement is a surefire way to recapture my own flagging interest.

the visit to the surgeon yesterday was good, in that i like him and he tends to get the various balls rolling. the visit was bad, in that so much remains... hors la portée. 

we cannot rule out infection of the left prosthesis but we now have another very evident reason for some of the pain and dysfunction, at least.  there is supposed to be a subacromial space in the shoulder, a gap in the joint, that is generally of around 9 or 10 cm. 

below 6 cm of space, it's considered a problem.

i am in the negative -- i have no space.  i have negative space.  were the prosthesis not there -- and there with such élan! for it is there, and jauntily! -- were that hunk o'metal absent, it'd be just another one of my collapsed joints.  i am too familiar with the concept of collapsed joints and rotting bones -- with all their translations into krapola and ouch -- thanks to years of avascular necrosis.  there is also the odd klunk of bones trying to settle into some acceptable version of order and boniness (that'd be the weird audio component of AVN:  the sound of joints settling.  disconcerting, this sound.)

the quote i love so much is burrowing through my very depressed mind.  next, then, the traditional moment with spinoza:

each thing, in so far as it is in itself, endeavors to persist in its own being.

i would rather hear and know this than all the promises of heaven and salvation.  sometimes, don't you just want the truth?  unvarnished, prickly?  capable of collapse, were it bones?

oh, hell, the important distinctions, the big ass caveat:  the endeavor is NOT what has been called the [evolutionary] struggle for existence, no way, jose!  it is simpler -- and harder -- than that:

it is the result of a thing being what it is

[from translator r.h.m. elwes' 1883 "introduction," to the ethics].

a translator who likes to nail things down, elwes also adds:

When it is spoken of in reference to the human mind only, it is equivalent to the will; in reference to the whole man, it may be called appetite.

there.  now spinoza and his scrappy translator grace the page.  i can relax. 

or i can persevere and persist in my (own) being.  how about it? wanna join me?

okay, so we have the squirrelly case of the disappearing rotator cuff muscles, which, being trapped between pitiful bones were nonetheless dispatched, disappeared, and definitively poofed away, away!

he gave me a cortisone injection, which helped for about an hour, thanks not to the steroids but to the hefty dose of anesthetic involved.  knowing how i feel about such injections, he gave rapid lip service to the benefit/risk ratio.  bless the man.  he may be the only one on the ball... and since he's the one with all the scalpels, that's a good thing.

no word had been passed to him by either my go-to-guy or the new infectious disease dood.  the three of them all chatted today, however, and i have been sending emails back and forth to go-to-guy.  new ID dood opines, as did the consult we got last august, that if there is a bacterial bad boy, he votes for propionibacterium acnes, based on the deep reasoning that -- now, follow along: 

since nothing has grown,

the culprit must be

difficult to grow,

and the most difficult bacterium to hatch,

 in terms of joint contaminants,

is p. acnes,

so it must be p. acnes

that is not growing.

sigh.

i feel like i am surrounded by idiots.

that is a dangerous thing to say, the kind of thing that can get a person condemned to hell, or that can at least give you a terrible reputation and keep you out of the country club.

so go-to-guy has come up with what feels novel to him [because he has completely forgotten about the lame ass consult of last summer, the one where fred and i traversed the wilds of tête de hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs) aboard a convivial ruby, the honda crv, only to spend a total of 7 minutes with the illustrious doctor man.  illustrious doctor man hemmed and hawed (but not much -- i mean, it took all of 7 minutes... that's including the disrobing, the exam, the review of records, the documentation -- in fact, he had it all written up already, he had already concluded, the book was déjà closed.  "i took the liberty of speaking with your surgeon, who is known to me...."  sigh. dickwad.  and that was the genesis of the propionibacterium acnes element of our folklore.] --

whoa, nellie!  if i were you, gentle reader?  i would bale out of that paragraph!  [whether you are to BAIL or BALE out is but another conundrum] what a mess! 

anyway, back to go-to-guy, who is doing an admirable job of ignoring every reference i make to impending suicide.  he wants to do a course of doxycycline.  a course, that is, of ORAL doxycycline.  i think the poor boy is confusing a bad case of zits (a shout out to my former friends at PTZ!) with the lingering, well-hid pestilence known as osteomyelitis.  but whatever floats his boat and more power to him for deigning to do anything!  something, anything!  i came * this close to quizzing him about the types of barriers that would have to be traversed, etcetera but, thankfully, i managed to be a teeny bit decorous.

my crp is so high no one will tell me what it is.  that bugs the good bejesus out of me.  i can pass along all the other lab values... but the crp is gonna... what?  make me faint?

i am being referred to one of shoulder man's colleagues, the hipster, because my right hip is refractured.

the easiest solution of all, in terms of diagnostic testing, would be one fucker of an mri.  and that won't happen because of the incredible number of implants, screws, and such that cause the images to torque to high heaven.

shoulder man introduced the idea of a reverse shoulder replacement, a funky little design that is exactly what it sounds like:

it would be a last resort, this slicing off of the humeral head!  but his little blue shoulder man eyes, they were

a-gleamin'!  with the disappearing rotator cuff, the collapse of the joint, this is what remains as a surgical option.

of course, we must be reasonable.   especially since the foremost contraindication is the same as the foremost complication.   

why, yes!  that would be infection.  {as god falls into the groaning maw of his own smart-assedness.}

so this all has me beyond blue.  they want me to renew my relationship with the medical school rheumatology department, try the antibiotic (orally, orally!), and open my mind to a reverse replacement.

maybe i won't take a hiatus from blogging. 

i fear the implosion of everything, and sometimes it is only the writing that successfully squares off with the sucking abyss...

and tames my natural tendency toward dramatic excess -- rare though it may be.

jeez, louise, but i am tired.

i sang a song for ireland

Song for Ireland

(Phil and June Colclough)

Walking all the day

Near tall towers where falcons build their nests

In silver wings they fly,

For they know the call for freedom in their breasts,

We saw Black Head against the sky

With twisted rocks that run down to the sea

Living on your Western shore,

Saw summer sunsets, I asked for more,

I stood by your Atlantic Sea,

And sang a song for Ireland

Drinking all the day,

In old pubs where fiddlers love to play,

Saw one take the bow,

To play a reel that was so grand and gay,

I stood on Dingle Beach and cast,

In the wild foam for the Atlantic bass,

When living on your Western shore,

Saw the summer sunset, I asked form more,

I stood by your Atlantic Sea,

And sang a song for Ireland

Laughing all the day,

With true friends who try to make you stay,

Telling jokes and news,

And singing songs to pass the night away,

We watched the Galway salmon run,

Like silver dancing, darting in the sun,

When living on your Western shore,

Saw the summer sunset, I asked for more,

I stood by your Atlantic Sea,

And sang a song for Ireland

Dreaming in the night,

I saw a land where no man had to fight,

And waking in your dawn,

I saw you crying in the morning light,

Lying where the falcons fly,

They twist and turn all in your air-blue sky,

Living on your western shore,

Saw the summer sunset, I asked no more,

I stood by your Atlantic sea,

And sang a song for Ireland

Jack Schitt

Hullo, you.

Yesterday was a study in stuffy, feverish suckiness, during which time I accomplished precisely nothing.  I spent a few hours crying, which is not necessarily a sign of unhappiness, but is always a sign of fever winning out over ibuprofen and Tylenol.

I finally crashed at 2 am.
Today began at 3:30 am and I've already achieved -- in comparison to yesterday -- a lot.

Three loads of laundry, pristine microwaves and shiny stove tops in all the remodeled medieval manor kitchens. 

Deep-cleaned coffee pots, groomed cats, black beans soaking in anticipation of a corn salsa and the bills are [mostly] paid.

It is 7:30 am now, and I am ready for bed.

I see the orthopedic surgeon tomorrow, Doctor ShoulderGuy.  In an effort to squeeze me in -- as he is booked solid through February at his practices' central location -- we are driving to PoDunk to see him.
Part of yesterday's crapola-ish-ness came from learning that the new Infectious Disease Dood responded to queries about a letter/report reflecting his findings by saying that his office is switching to electronic records and that they are, therefore, behind in their transcriptions of letters/reports/office notes, and so on.

ShoulderGuy made two requests of me, back in March -- that I somehow get the aspiration of the joints (under fluoroscope) so that we could try growing a few microbes and that I get a new ID consult.  As soon as my insurance kicked in at the beginning of September, I hit the ground running. Errr, rolling.  I met my annual deductible in under 30 days. 

So let's review, shall we?

They weren't able to aspirate jack *.

The Infectious Disease Dood gave me two hours of face time, expressed beaucoup interest in the weirdness of my case, stated that he felt I needed to see Ortho pronto, sooner rather than later (Seriously?  I think I am being punk'd.  "Sooner rather than later" is a phrase thrown my way by every health practitioner, along with a furrowed brow of folksy concern.).  I defended ShoulderGuy and his schedule, donated a few pints of blood to the testing cause, and went home with the assurance that New ID Dood was gonna be in touch with everyone by phone (he'd already rung up a few people while I was there) and by written letter/report.

Boy, oh boy, was ShoulderGuy gonna be pleased with my efforts at procuring a consultation to make our October decision-making summit an easier proposition!  With fresh ID guidance, we were gonna kick this osteomyelitis to the freaking curb!

Sigh.  Foiled again.

The ultimate weirdness is that New Infectious Disease Dood, despite investing a chunk o'time in me and my medical records, despite extremely expensive bloodwork, has submitted no bill.  Fred thinks that secures his status as a saint;  I think it is a sign of unprofessionalism that puts me in the awkward position of having no leverage over the quality of his treatment.  (If you get my drift, and you probably don't.)



* The schitt portion of jack schitt is commonly misunderstood. For helpful reference, Primitiva left the following explanation over at Urban Dictionary, back in May of 2004:

Jack is the only son of Awe Schitt and O. Schitt. Awe Schitt, the fertilizer magnate, married O. Schitt, the owner of Knee-deep Schitt, Inc. Jack Schitt married Noe Schitt and they had 6 children: Holie Schitt, The twins; Deep Schitt and Dip Schitt, Fulla Schitt, Giva Schitt and Bull Schitt. Jack and Noe divorced. Noe later married Mr. Sherlock and because her kids were living with them, she wanted to keep her previous name. She was known as Noe Schitt-Sherlock. Dip Schitt married Loda Schitt and they had Chicken Schitt. Fulla Schitt and Giva Schitt married the Happens brothers in a dual ceremony. The Schitt-Happens children are Dawg, Byrd and Horse. Bull Schitt left home to tour the world. He recently returned with his new bride, Pisa Schitt. Now, when someone say's you don't know Jack Schitt, you can correct them.

- U don't know Jack Schitt
- Yes i do, he's Awe and O. Schitt's son

missing sammy

the dobster and sam-i-am, champion sleepers, best buds, dedicated pranksters

4:12

Whatever the OPPOSITE might be of a Brock Lesnar fan, I'm it!

New UFC Heavyweight Champion Cain Velasquez beat Lesnar in the first round.  I did not see it, of course, being poor as a churchmouse and therefore not partaking of that wonder known as pay-per-view, but every written account thus far has The Cartoon a whimpering, bloody mess in a matter of minutes.

In the first round.

Oh, I said "first round" already. 

More specifically, at 4 minutes, 12 seconds of the first round.

That rings some bell.  Ding!  Oh, I remember the allusion:  Shane Carwin.  The man who never reached a second round by virtue of murdering his opponents in the first one.  Except, of course, when he fought The Cartoon.

That bout brought contention to Marlinspike Hall, in the form of denial.  Fred could not accept the Carwin's loss and dedicated himself to the endless repetition of Excuses.  Namely, that Carwin lost because the ref said, early on in the ground-and-pound, when Lesnar had his head covered and was not intelligently defending himself, "I'm gonna stop this fight." Of course, this (according to Fred) made Carwin ignore the onset of adrenal fatigue, as he continued to rain down fierce blows onto the glass-jawed Lesnar.   

My darling will also explain to you, with furrowed-brow intensity, that Carwin "had something happen to his body." Fred will not allow anyone to mention fatigue or poor cardio, oh no!  What "happened" to Carwin was an incredibly complicated physiological phenomenon... that may bear a striking similarity to burning oneself out due to imperfect preparation in training, but is really Something Else, something that I, for example, could not be expected to understand.

Yawn.

Fred cannot help himself;  He worships at The Cartoon Altar.  Lesnar has mad skills, unbelievable speed, and superb wrestling.  I mean, he was NCAA champion in 2000, runner up the year before. 

He may not know what to do when he is on his back, but hopefully he will find himself there often enough in his new MMA career that he will pick up a better guard, and some more better submissions from below. 

As for The Caricature's stand up, well, he may want to work on his chin.

The hope I had in Velasquez was couched in my faith in Jiu-Jitsu and that fashionable purple belt of his, not in his striking.  He was also a National Wrestling Champion, but at the Junior College level (albeit in a difficult conference).

I've not really been a fan, sports-wise, of anyone since the long ago days of Bjorn Borg, and even then, it was more about Bjorn's legs than about those long back court rallies.  Hmmmmm.

What?

Oh.  Right!  MMA.  Being a fan.

While I am no longer inclined to tape a poster to my bedroom walls -- though if I did, it would likely be one of Randy Couture -- I have a growing list of MMA fighters that I really admire.  A couple of these guys made the list against the ranting of my better judgment -- most notably Chris "The Crippler" Leben whose recent performances won me over.  How many guys take a fight on short notice, then step up again two weeks later?  I thought he and Akiyama might kill each other (there were shades of the great TUF Season 1 finale between Forrest Griffin and Stephan Bonnar; SHADES, I said!).  Somehow all the animus I had accumulated against Leben, also a graduate of TUF 1, where he spent most of his time drunk, troubled, and obnoxious -- all the ill-feelings about how he represented the sport... drained away.

He had one of the most active and devastating guards in that match up that I have ever seen.  I mean, he worked it, even doing this funky, syncopated, double-fisted hammerfist thingy.

It was a great showing, and I wish Leben, now a mature and dedicated fighter, the best.  The Manor Denizens will be watching.

While I admired Cain Velasquez, and backed him inasmuch as I will back anyone fighting The Cartoon, he wasn't even a remote member of the Fan List.  No particular reason, though I suspect his laid-back demeanor just kept him out of the spotlight that is apparently necessary to success in this arena. 

These guys need to be very careful when they open their mouths, especially when they address anything beyond the purview of the octagon.  You know, like when Brock "The Cartoon" Lesnar opines that the Canadian health care system, which saved his life, is the product of a third world, socialist regime.  (I won't touch the reference to that superior form of political and social interaction, not now.  Suffice it to say that I don't consider "socialist" an adjectival slur.)

I like Frank Mir -- that, too, is something difficult to do in these environs, as The Manor Men all consider him to be a SissyBoy, by virtue of the fact that "he talks too much."  I think it has more to do with that one persistent little curl that dips down onto the gorgeous plane of his forehead -- but I haven't given it much thought.

Anyway, when Mir fought Lesnar a second time, the first having ended in that glorious submission, Lesnar showed his true, ugly colors afterward:

Frank Mir had a horsehoe up his ass. I told him that a year ago. I pulled that son of a bitch out, and I beat him over the head with it. I’m gonna go home tonight and i’m gonna drink a Coors Light … that’s a Coors light because Bud Light won’t pay me nothing. I’m gonna sit down with my friends and family, and hell I might even get up on top of my wife tonight!

True, with Dana White's encouragement, he then issued a great little apology, complete with a Bud Light in his paw.  But I think what he uttered in excitement is probably a more accurate reflection of his character.

He was, by all accounts, humble in defeat last night.  But you know what? Being a good sport ought to be the assumptive behavior, instead of something to remark upon with visible nods of approbation -- and relief.

Welcome to the Fan List, Cain Velasquez!  Congratulations on your title and thanks for representing the sport so well.

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

*My favorite quote thus far comes from Court McGee, who fought (and won) in the prelims against Ryan Jensen, whom he certainly respected, saying: 

He kept hitting me and hitting me and I was able to get his timing.

As for the best headline? 

Tito Ortiz's UFC Career in Jeopardy Following UFC 121 Loss Against Matt Hamill

Virginia's Gaffe

Well, she certainly got one thing right:  She doesn't "look good in this."

That's one, and I would wager, the primary, reason given by Lillian McEwen for maintaining her silence about the sexist proclivities of Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas.

Because her relationship at the time of the 1991 confirmation hearings was deemed private and not professional, her testimony was not sought -- not even to sop up the aftermath of soupy defensive declamations such as:

If I used that kind of grotesque language with one person, it would seem to me that there would be traces of it throughout the employees who worked closely with me, or the other individuals who heard bits and pieces of it or various levels of it.

Well, Clarence, when you are right, you're right.

I don't know, but I definitely do care, how you and yours silenced the Marauding Evil Females so common to the early nineties, but a few of them seem to be willing to speak up these days. There is something about having your wife ask Anita Hill for an apology that makes these women fairly spit out the sour remnants of their persistent bitterness.

Can you hear them now?




Clearly, McEwen could and should have offered her testimony, even if it had to be done in an extrajudicial setting.  [If you like, I will add a conciliatory paragraph detailing the dangers and consequences she'd have encountered for doing the right thing, but given the enormous implications of her choices, I don't respect her reasons, nor do I care for her excuses.]

McEwen's personal relationship with Thomas was cited by his supporters as irrefutable "proof" that the accusations of sexual impropriety made by Anita Hill were lies necessary to the "high-tech lynching" he suffered, because, you know -- oh, what was it? I get confused.

Oh yes, I remember now!

The Left needed Hill to secure the noose because nothing was more inflammatory than “the age-old blunt instrument of accusing a black man of sexual misconduct.” That's how the non-ideologue Thomas explained it in his 2007 autobiography, My Grandfather's Son, originally $26.95 but now $17.79 at Amazon, enticingly eligible for FREE Super Saver Shipping on orders over $25.

For the record, I disagree.  It might be equally inflammatory to call Clarence Thomas an Uncle Tom.  Just a few years after his ascension, Jack White published Uncle Tom Justice:

In his written opinions, he begins with premises that no self-respecting black would disagree with, then veers off into a neverland of color-blind philosophizing in which all race-based policies, from Jim Crow laws designed to oppress minorities to affirmative-action measures seeking to assist them, are conflated into one morally and legally pernicious whole. He delights in gratuitously tongue-lashing the majority of blacks who disagree with him on almost every civil rights issue. He heaps scorn on federal judges who have used the bench to enforce and expand civil rights, accusing them of a paternalistic belief in black inferiority. His harshest critics, like Wade Henderson, Washington director of the N.A.A.C.P., even speculate that "if Thomas had been on the court at the time, he would have opposed the decision in Brown v. Board of Education," the landmark 1954 decision that struck down segregated schools. [Read more here.]

Speaking of books -- and I especially want to congratulate Justice Thomas on his autobiography, as those suckers are hard to write! -- McEwen just happens to have just published one of her own, in an amazing feat of timeliness.  Were it not an idea more twisted than Lombard Street, I'd suggest that this whole I-Want-An-Apology Fiasco is something she and Virginia Thomas cooked up as a promotional effort.

Okay, I'll publish my "tell most, if not all" book... then you call and leave a weird-ass message for Anita, strange enough that Brandeis will call in the FBI and you make the front page of The Times, and bam! An instant media frenzy, and we are media darlings!  Ka-ching!

Okay, okay.  Just remember:  Whose blog is it, anyway, hmmm?

Anyway, it looks as if the perverted and intricate public/private dance that has heretofore benefitted this Supreme Court Justice may have a heck of a fluorish at the finish.  I am thinking castanets and tauromaquia; I am thinking Flamenco. [Plus, I love the mouthfeel of saying Andalucia... almost as much as the very round and rich multicolore and salsa.]

Fabian Perez:  Gitana

In Thursday's Washington Post article by Michael Fletcher, McEwen asserts that:

...Hill's allegations that Thomas had pressed her for dates and made lurid sexual references rang familiar.


"He was always actively watching the women he worked with to see if they could be potential partners," McEwen said matter-of-factly. "It was a hobby of his..."


...[S]he said Hill's long-ago description of Thomas's behavior resonated with her.


"He was obsessed with porn," she said of Thomas, who is now 63. "He would talk about what he had seen in magazines and films, if there was something worth noting."


McEwen added that she had no problem with Thomas's interests, although she found pornography to be "boring."


According to McEwen, Thomas would also tell her about women he encountered at work. He was partial to women with large breasts, she said. In an instance at work, Thomas was so impressed that he asked one woman her bra size, McEwen recalled him telling her.

Some of you may remember Angela Wright, who, contrary to McEwen, had been ready and willing to testify at the confirmation hearings, and was purportedly able to corroborate Hill's testimony about Thomas.  Wright, ironically, worked for the EEOC, which handled allegations of sexual harassment.  She was considered too much of a liability by leading Democrats on the Judicial Committee, most notably then Senator Biden, who feared her perception as a disgruntled former employee.

In a statement corroborated by a disinterested party, According to Ms. Wright, as she and Thomas entered a room dedicated to an EEOC seminar, he asked her breast size -- apparently a leitmotif in this jurist's interests.

For an examination of Wright's potential role and what exactly happened, politically, to derail her testimony in '91, see this roadmap over at Huffington Post:  Angela Wright, "The Other Woman" of the Anita Hill-Clarence Thomas Hearings (Flashback). *

*  When Virginia Thomas left a message on Anita Hill's voice mail on Columbus Day weekend October 9, 2010, she reopened what many remember as a "he said/she said" debate about sexual harassment. But it could have been "he said/they said." On Columbus Day weekend in October 1991 -- 19 years ago -- another witness was waiting to testify. She could help corroborate Hill's testimony in Clarence Thomas's Senate Judiciary Committee's Supreme Court nomination confirmation hearings. But Angela Wright was never called to testify.


What would she have said -- and why wasn't she called to testify?


In 1994, Florence Graves cleared up those mysteries in The Washington Post, revealing the intricate -- and bipartisan -- behind-the-scenes maneuvering by several Senate Judiciary Committee members to discourage the testimony of Angela Wright, a woman whose information could have helped corroborate Anita Hill's allegations against Clarence Thomas. The article uncovered a surprising unwritten agreement among top Republicans and Democrats not to call Wright, apparently because they feared either that her testimony would create even greater political chaos or that it would doom Thomas' nomination. It also uncovered evidence suggesting that Thomas lied to the Committee. Several senators -- including then-Republican Senator Arlen Specter (Pa.), then-Senator Joe Biden (D-Del.), and other key players -- told Graves they believed that if Wright had testified, Thomas would not have been confirmed.