Read the Post Before this First. This One is About Prostate Cancer

A cautionary note. What follows is something that I wrote several years ago. I have tried to tone it down a bit to be less offensive. It may not have worked as well as I would have liked. If you are easily offended skip this one.

Is It Really True that in Some Cases It Gets Shorter?

On April 20, 2006 I turned fifty years of age. This birthday is frequently referred to as the half century mark by those who revel in celebration. On a more ominous note this celebration marks the onset of a period of life known as being "over the hill". All sorts of paraphernalia bear this imprint. The over the hill thing must be on a sliding scale, for they trot that banner out at 30, 40 and 50 years of age. "Over the Hill" is very simply a matter of perspective, having made it 11/12ths of the way through my fiftieth year I can say clearly I am not over the hill, but if I rest for a moment I will see it from here. Most of the humor tied to this specific mark of the sun's passages is tied to medical and sexual issues. Had I only known the truth that lay within such comments I would have partied a little bit more at my birthday bash. I think that I once read a piece that implied the harsh punch lines contained in the most humorous of jokes usually house more than just a little truth.

Now having experienced the celebration of the big five-oh and having endured the reality of the year subsequent I am of the considered opinion that turning 50 sucks. At least for me it did. Being old sucks in the most maximum of ways; I think the Latin term is suckimus extremus maximus. This annum (and I am being generous time wise for birthday 51 is still six weeks away) while it has had its moments, has apparently been the boundary between life's ascent and descent (decent?) for me. WHY CAN'T I GO BACK AND BE 49 FOR EVER? PLEASE? I PROMISE I WILL NEVER ….er, uh well at least one of those things may have been taken care of against my will. Read on intrepid soul. You too, if you have luck with you, will survive and cross these hurdles that age sets in place.

Oh don't worry I am not despondent, at least not yet. Most of what has occurred this year is rather funny in the cosmic sense. If I were a believer in reincarnation the assumption for me would be that I was a miserable bastard in the last life cycle. Let's see…where do I begin this narrative?

First there was the big party. That was a real plus. It was held at a bar with a sophisticated attitude and I got rocked. Using some basic logical syllogisms I note old guys drink scotch. I am an old guy and thus I drink single malt scotch. 50 year old guys drink too much scotch. Oh yeah, it was tie around my head and shouting "We're burning down the house…" time that night.

The thing about my birthday party was that it was a good time. It wasn't huge but it was meaningful. I saw people I hadn't seen in years. People from all the ages of my life (except the 18 years I lived before coming to Michigan) were there. I had my current good friends around me along and my old good time buddies. Sometimes that mix presents problems. But sometimes drinking scotch presents even greater problems.

Celebratory table toppers were on the high top bar stands. Prepared by my wife one caption on the tri-folds was "Time will make me grow old, but you can't make me grow up!" Beneath this maxim was a blue tinted photograph of me taken in the atrium of my law school. Rail thin those 25 years ago, I was wearing a white t-shirt that had been pulled down to expose my left nipple. Long hair dangling I was leaning backwards away from the camera for the greatest impact. Ugh, hairy nipple. It might have seemed that this shot could only have occurred because I was intoxicated. Still, I can say that on that date there was no alcohol involved, I was just crazy. Still, the photo sitting astride a number of tables at the bar looked kind of cool.

Anyway I digress. The mixture of friends and the occasion led to the buying of drinks. The buying of drinks led to the telling of tales. The telling of tales found me talking in conversation with some of the old, old friends about my winning the dorm championship backgammon match. My win was based on my ability to consume prodigious amounts of pot. In essence as match play progressed it became clear that last person conscious would be the winner, and I was the winner. So it went, it was the seventies you know.

The above tale's being told was primarily instigated by my old roommate urging me on and by a shot of Lagavulin. My old roommate Rooke and I go way back. There was the near tornado in Detroit. There was the Kiss pantomime at the talent show that ruded everyone out, too much crotch rubbing was involved as we lip synced and played our mops and buckets in our faux Kiss regalia. Rookie was the guy we snuck up on in the shower and unleashed a bicycle inner tube packed with ice and water on. Doing this surreptitiously, the shower stalls ran five in a row and we did this from an adjoining stall, we didn't realize what the muffled and choked whimper meant when the hose let loose. It meant well, uh that the hose was let loose. Apparently the Rook at that moment was deep into autoeroticism and was nearing the point of no return when the ice floes of Niagara came gushing. From the conversation these 30 years later, it appears that incident stopped his further use of the showers as a refuge for his Willie wanker jive.

Another party guest who was a former client I had worked with for many years. It was clear from the tilt of his head and the look in his eye he was listening to these tales. He worked in real estate generally aggressive and boundary pushing in business practices but conservative in other matters. For him I had constructed a more sanitized history of my life and he had never heard either of these particular tales before. I don't believe that previously he had heard one iota of my personal history in such realms. He was absolutely stunned at what at party monster I had been when I was young. Uh, I guess the fiftieth birthday party kind of ruled out any return to private practice for me... Open, drink, spew, I think such a tagline would look good on a t-shirt, don't you? At least I didn’t start asking for deviant sexual favors from people I didn’t know, in the past I might have. Oh wait in the past I did.

When I woke up from the party I had to face the required self evaluation. Nayh, it wasn't motivated by the people who had heard that I was a wild child. Nor was it motivated by any great remorse at the life I had lived so far. It was motivated by the fact that I just knew I couldn't live an unexamined life anymore. I looked in the mirror and I decided I had to make some changes.

The next day at our local mega bookstore I picked up a book by a guy named Jorge who claimed 8 minutes a day of exercise could pare the pounds off you and up your overall health. It wasn't 8 minutes a day, it was 22 minutes. I think the cover of that book should have explained old Jorge wasn't adding in the entire warm up, cool down and shifting periods between exercise times. This was a minor quibble for me because I found the weight loss and body tone claims were true. I lost 18 pounds in about two months and I was feeling good. It was a little hard to get up at 5:59 a.m. to do those exercises but I did it. Sometimes the exercises seemed too easy; but they weren't really because I was soooooo out of shape. In fact I don't think I had ever been in shape. But the stretching and the repetition that caused some pain ultimately felt real good.

I also began to think and read. In fact I picked up a book called Think by Blackburn. It was a philosophy text and it really gave my mind some new areas to stretch out in. Thinking about life, death and the universe felt really good. Things were going great, I was mentally aware and physically feeling as good as I had in many years. What was happening was really positive. Otto Neurath described what I felt I was doing, "We are like sailors who on the open sea must reconstruct their ship, but are never able to start afresh from the bottom" Tough task but the building project seemed to be progressing.

But then …..Memorial Day came. My cousin , one of my favorites in that he is an Ivy League graduate, a playwright and a landlord who does his own maintenance work on row homes in Princeton, opted to use this holiday weekend to get married. Given the high cost of flying last summer (gas @$3.00 + a gallon) a whirlwind trip to NJ via my Prius Air was made. While I got to see friends and family, and I got to go to church where I attended as I grew up, I felt poorly the entire time. Stomach cramps, miserable lower GI stuff rocked my body one way and then another. I kind of blamed it on the long road trip. My wife blamed it on the chemicals in the air out there.

Well it was neither. Turned out I had appendicitis. I had an appendectomy about 3 a.m., the following Saturday morning. So it goes. Turn 50, and your body go to hell. While I was in the hospital I was on morphine for a full day. As I departed the hospital I got Darvocet for the pain. And it did hurt, the pain was a motherfucker.

While this was occurring, my wife was in the belle province of Quebec. Based on our conversation as I awaited the surgery she stayed there. It just didn't make sense for her to fly back early. I would only be in the hospital two days and we would lose lots and lots of money. What could she have done had she been here? Amazing I turned 50 and got all economically responsible. Yeah, old that is what I am. Oh and to finish up on what Francie might have done, her parting comments next time might be a bit more tempered. Next occasion when she flies away and I am writhing in pain her parting words probably won't be the same as this time, those being more particularly, "Buck up bunky, you'll feel better tomorrow." I will never let her forget that one. Just because I matured a little economically doesn't mean I can't hold a grudge.

We come into this life alone, we go out of it alone. We even have semi minor/semi major surgery alone. Actually not, Terry my good friend stayed with me. He has known me for about 25 years. Much like my behavior in the bar at the time of my party, when I get loaded on painkillers I cannot keep my mouth shut. Per Terry, related to me with much snickering I was quite talkative in the pre-op area. Waiting for the operation room they gave me some pre-anesthesia drug. My response once it hit me was to holler to Terry, "This feels a lot like when you smoke opium." Apparently the anesthesia nurse starting cracking up just then. Rack that one up as an "oops" moment that my 50 years of maturity did not avoid.

In the dimly lit night of my post appendectomy stay, with those weird hospital LED lights providing a washed out blue tint to the dark hours, there arrived Nurse Todd. I would not be far off the mark to say that Todd, affable gent that he was, came right out of the casting of Doctor Strangelove. Todd ultimately is a good nurse with the bedside manner that is cross between Igor the mad scientist's assistant and that of a Zen master. Here is our initial conversation:

Todd: I am Todd your nurse for tonight.
Me: Usssdgh.
Todd: Are you in pain?
Me: Uh-huh.
Todd: Well, I know something about pain, and how they will treat your pain, but I can't tell you about that, but think carefully about how bad the pain is and maybe I can do something to help you.
Me: Owwwwwwwhhhh, owwwwww.
Todd: Can you rate your pain, and in doing this think about where your pain might be in two hours.
Me: Ahhhhhh, owwh
Todd: Okay, I will put some pain meds here on you table. Gosh I don't have my watch. So, I will just have to trust you when I come back as to when you took these. Remember you are allowed only two every four hours.

Todd was a saint. He was compassionate and played the system. It is good to know there are still people like him out there. He gave me meds to control my pain and told me that if I lied he would give me extras. With his help I made through that tough night.

And in the morning there was Nurse Joan. Nurse Joan was married to a Wookie. No I am wrong she is actually wed to Darth Vader. Well, in a way she is. Nurse Joan it turns out met her husband at a Star Wars convention and apparently he always goes as Darth Vader standing six foot five or so. Nurse Joan was the anti-Todd. She too had consummate skill and was compassionate also, but she very straightforward and by the book Nurse Joan managed my last few hours at the hospital and gave me some great tips on pain management for when I got home.

Who would have guessed that I would get to know a Star Wars nerd and the son of Dr. Strangelove in the course of one tormented weekend? Not me. My thought is that I would have been sent home with penicillin and a get well wish with no hospital stay. I was thinking it was just a generalized gut issue. Life at 50 has its turns and twists.

Following the appendix removal came a slow return to exercise; the net weight loss of this second go round was about 6-8 pounds from my initial start. Lying around for the time after the appendix came out gave me lots of time to eat. As I began this round of revisited exercise routines, nothing horrible, just those 23 or so minutes a day with 2 pound weights, my body just did not seem to snap back and into shape as it did the first time. Each exercise seemed harder, the soreness lasted longer and the result seemed diminished. Boy did that suck. I was going great guns and then this.

As the summer wore on I never got back to par. Aches and pains came and went, but I just wasn't on the mark. One evening I was feeling particularly bad. My suspicion for a long while had been that my esophagus was acting up. The problems with this organ were the result of too many years of tense deadlines and confrontation, the life of a lawyer. While my exercise didn't seem to make a difference in the pain it was clear something other than a muscle issue had arisen. During the course of that particular evening strong pain had developed on the right hand side of my body that grew more intense as the evening wore on. The call was made to the primary care doc's coverage to see what I should do. What happened next was that a trip to the ER was ordered. It was a very long night. Did I mention that about this time I was growing really, really suspicious that life after fifty wasn't going to be as good as life before fifty?

The ER at the Ingham Medical Center was a scene out of Dante'; it was wounds and blood; agony and screaming. After I was triaged I was set into a holding area of about nine beds. Next to me was an older gentleman who was in dementia. He apparently had blood loss so severe that his doctor had ordered him into the hospital ER to get stabilized. It was horrible to observe; he was ranting incoherently and he didn't know why he was there. His children who were present, both adult males, didn't want to be there and were trying out a game of how much better is my excuse to leave than yours on each other. The kid's are home alone. There have been break ins in the neighborhood. There is a nasty front coming through and I should help Mom up at the house. Their father with his dementia just kept screaming all night long.

Apparently the old man's conditions had rendered most of his veins and arteries useless. The first hour and a half I was there the nurses kept trying to sink the IV into this guy and could not find a usable vein. Eventually because of his high amount of blood loss they brought in an IV team. While the old man never became lucid the nurses with the family's aid were able to up the old man's blood level. But it took an hour and one half for them to put in the IV. The two sons never got to leave before I was discharged six hours later.

Eventually the best guess given by the doctors as to the genesis of my own writhing was a touchy gall bladder. Thus I was kicked to the curb and sent on my way. The old codger next to me however was in for the duration. I was so happy that I didn't have to spend another minute with this guy. It was everything I dreaded about getting old. Well, that and these repeated visits to hospitals.

As I have grown older I have accumulated some wisdom. One thing I comprehended is that it is often better to address a problem earlier as opposed to later. It is a hoary old maxim but it is true oft times in matters of physical health, that the sooner you fix a problem the smaller and the more fixable the problem is. A stitch in time saves nine, right? Figuring there must have been a reason for the trip to the ER (and the visit with the wailing demented) I decided it was time to get a physical

Per orders given in advance I had my blood work two weeks prior to the appointment with my physician. Then at the time and place appointed I showed up at my doctor's office. I had a mole on my neck that bothered me and I was worried about it. The short version on that is my doctor blew off the mole altogether.

It is something intangible, elusive, but I think most people get a sense when their doctor is acting strange, Tony, my doc, was acting strange. It turns out that Tony had gotten squirrelly results on my PSA and my lung x-ray but had decided we would get through the rest of the examination before we broached those topics. It wasn't until the very end he brought up the x-ray. My guess is that with the PSA elevated he figured I had prostate cancer in a couple of places inclusive of my lung.

The lung thing turned out to be the same spot we had first detected 10 years ago. I probably got it from working at the vegetable packing house in my home town. It comes from being exposed to pigeon guano and farm chemicals. It is non malignant and is basically calcified. Thus the possible issue and a very scary one at that of lung cancer was a false alarm.

The same cannot be said for the PSA (Prostate Specific Antigen). I am not out of the woods there and may never be. Luckily my doctor acted conservatively which means he took an active approach on the PSA. My PSA was low enough to be called normal, as was the annual increase in the PSA, but for my age and my health Tony was suspicious. Tony ordered a biopsy. I am glad my doctor likes me because many physicians would not have sought a biopsy at this stage. Probably helped that I aided him with some traffic problems a few years back (I was still in private practice and exactly how do you get so distracted that you run into a city bus?). This early focus on my prostate may make a difference over time in my chances for long term survival.

With the dark spectral images of the "C" word floating in my head, I agreed to undergo the first biopsy. PSA is a specific marker for prostate cancer. Cancer, it's a Jersey thing isn't it. I am cursed by where I grew up.

Up until about a week before the visit to the urologist I thought it was going to be a consult prior to the actual biopsy, but when I got the request for a medical history that focused on antibiotic use I knew it was something more. Prostate biopsy is a polite way of saying savage sodomization completed by a dildo with teeth. Sure after they get that rocket up the old chocolate channel the first knitting needle fired out fills the organ with lidocane or another local anesthetic. However even after this first pain reducing, but not eliminating, injection it still feels like someone is shooting a staple gun up my arse hole.

It is not pleasant. But what in medicine is? This particular procedure leaves blood in the seminal fluid. Pinto cum, if you would. If you think trying to solicit a blow job before the biopsy was difficult, think about the chances of getting a pass with the potential for mottled goo. Despite causing the overall reduction in the number of hummers available to me the test was Inconclusive but with a recommendation for a retest. More specifically the first biopsy had ambiguous results even though the slides were sent to Johns Hopkins for review. What Hopkins said was that I had non normal cells but not what they classified as technically cancerous cells. Thus the second biopsy was awaiting.

Time for the second biopsy came and I was again sodomized. This time it was by a tool that shot 12 needles into my prostate. The cells collected were be sent to a lab and analyzed for cancer. While Dr. M. had indicated it is one in four odds that they would find cancer cells this time they did in fact find cancer. Malignant is such an ominous word at 8:05 on a Monday morning in the dead of winter. I have prostate cancer at 50.

I note just a as a curiosity that as I was prepping for the second biopsy I got a phone call the day before the event that reminded me to take my enema and to cease using blood thinners a week prior to the mechanical violation. Wouldn't it have made sense to get that call a week before the procedure? I know it is an odd thought, but one worth considering.
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I will digress on purpose for a paragraph. Everyday I get an e-mail that contains an image and random thought attached. One day I got this particular message. It seems to sum up most of my thoughts on signs. Believe me I feel that I have had enough signs for a long time to come. I offer that random thought here for you.

I used to wait for a sign, she said, before I did anything. Then one night I had a dream & an angel in black tights came to me & said, you can start any time now, & then I asked is this a sign? & the angel started laughing & I woke up. Now, I think the whole world is filled with signs, but if there's no laughter, I know they're not for me.

~~Storypeople.

It was a month between discovery/confirmation of cancer and surgery. There were trips to the primary care doc, to the oncologist and to the urologist. And there was the reading up on all the techniques to address the issue. Radiation beam, cryogenic freezing or removal oh my! In all of my reading there was one fact that was most disturbing. Did I mention that in one article I read it implied that the person undergoing a removal of the prostate's penis might be shorter after the operation? When matched against the perils of impotence, incontinence and death (and trust me this is the ranking men assign to the risks of a complete prostate removal), the fact that my dick might be shorter kind of signaled the end of the first half of the journey.

But anyway, laparoscopic removal was the choice. All three doctors I talked to said that with prostate cancer appearing at 50, it couldn't be predicted how aggressive the malignancy was. Removal in such a case was stated by all three to be the best option. Did I mention that my appendix removal was laparoscopic? Did I mention that it really, really hurt?

With images of the pain filled days of my appendectomy floating in my head, and fears of a permanently limp member, I on March 1, 2007 appeared at the Hospital. I had been on a liquid diet for two days prior and had taken various laxatives to cleanse my system. On the day of the surgery I had antibiotic enemas to reduce the chance of infection. With the number of anal violations I have suffered in the past five months I ought to just turn bisexual.

I was under general anesthesia for four hours. If you want to you can watch a similar procedure here, http://www.brynmawrurology.com/Mcginisonline.html. I personally can't, not yet at least.

I came out of surgery at 8 p.m. into semi private room. My and my friend who had been with me through the appendectomy were waiting there as I was rolled into the room. So was some maniac fucker screaming about those doctors had better do something, that he hadn't taken a shit in four days since his appendectomy and that this had to be remedied! My roomie was cursing out the nurses, the techs and just about everyone on the floor. This tirade was only cut short because shortly after I was moved into our room he soiled himself. Soiled is an understatement he exploded. This was apparently due to the upped dosage of laxatives he had been give because of all his bitching.

My guests did not stay long. With a kiss and a wave they vanished into the mists. I was left with the cursing curmudgeon. Mr. Grumpyfuck who despite the fact I was just out of surgery decided he had to watch TV with his monitor turned up. The only saving grace of the moment was that the drugs, in particular self administered morphine, were very nice. La, la, las all around. And there was Vicoden, too. Uh maybe it was the combo of the residual general anesthesia and the morphine (or maybe the Vicoden) but there came a point when I was falling into a rose colored sky only to discover it was an ethereal Zen garden that I just flew through and landed in the soft warm darkness beyond. And of course there were miniature little spiders running all over the back of my eyelids leaving traces of there dark paths in complex Arabian patterns.

And then at 4 a.m. came my judgment for a profligate life came to call. And this is where it all starts to come together.

Grumpy Motherfucker in the Next Bed: "Hey, hey buddy…aren't you my judge."
Me. "mumble, mrph, gurgle….huh…why yes, that is me"
Him (Mr. I have problems with my bowels) "So why didn't you give me my driver’s license back last summer when I saw you?"

Hanging between the conscious world and the blue soup of opiate oblivion in omnipresent pain, I was being questioned by a disgruntled litigant who I had denied a license six months earlier. What the fuck did I do in my last life to deserve this?

And he kept at it.

Him, "you know those rules you use are kind of tough."
Me. "We look at a lot of things….."
Him, "Must have been that useless lawyer I hired, Mr. Post."
Me. "I spoke to Mr. Post last week."
Him "So could you even guess how long it would take for me to get my license back.
Me. "I am taking my morphine now I will talk to you in the morning.

More eyelid movies. After I hit the pump I wasn't sure that this guy wasn't going to sneak over and snuff me with a pillow while I was out. As the morphine coursed through my veins my discomfort faded. No more discussion with grumpy Gus about why he is walking and not driving.

When I awoke the next day my doctor was at the foot of my bed. Dr. M. said I had my choice; I could go home either today or tomorrow. My first though given my roommate situation was to move on and go home. But then Mr. Grumpy over his lack of a license left. With him gone I could rest. Additionally I wouldn't have to face the stairs at home. When time came at five p.m. as to whether to stay or go, I stayed.

Funny thing though I did remember grumpypuss. My unhappy roommate had a job that was unique in this area and it was one a buddy of mine had had when I was in college. So he stuck in my memory. I denied him relief because of an undisclosed drug problem. So what follows is thus funny.

We I woke up and was somewhat more cogent my roomie and I talked about his appendectomy. I mentioned that my appendectomy was painful and took more out of me that I had anticipated. I was trying to calm him down because he seemed so overwhelmed by the whole situation. As we talked I told him he would probably be slow and not up to snuff for at least a month. And this is where I was just amazed. When he was checking out Mr. Grumpy was asking for the nurse to give him another two weeks of Vicoden based on my saying it would take six weeks to heal…. Hmmh? The guy has a drug problem, and I offer him advice to take it slow and he turns it into a ploy to hit the nurse up for more drugs. Do you think he should be on the road? Do you think he has addressed his problems?

And then it was silence for a couple of hours and I read a book of 15 minute gourmet dinner recipes.

And then the dementia guy from the other hospital appears in my room. As God is my witness it was the same guy from Ingham Medical with the pissed off kids. And again it takes them an hour to put in his IV, same complaint as last time, blood loss due to internal bleeding and it might be impacted by his cirrhosis. And the same adult children who were pissed off to be at the hospital are still pissed off. And then the adult children left and Nurse Todd, "I know something about pain", from my appendix surgery came in. I was never so happy to see anyone. Mr. IV pulls out three lines each taking an hour of moaning to reinsert and thus ends up being restrained with alarms. And at 2 am after numerous screams and alarms I ask for sleep meds and Todd complies, willingly, almost eagerly.

And then Nurse Joan appears and we talk about all of our connections, her son and mine go to school together and she lives about four blocks from the park. Nurse Joan says her husband still dresses up like Darth Vader.

Finally I get to come home with a tube hanging out the old snake with a promise that it will be removed "soon" The kicker is that the surgical inspection showed no cancer outside the prostate, and this is good. As to the length, the rigidity, the continence and well impending death, only time will tell.

It has been an interesting year this 50th. The year contained some wonderful ups and some very obvious downs. It seems surreal at this point as I sit at home healing. All and all I think I should have made that 50th birthday party last a little longer. But hey as far as I am concerned I don't want a birthday party this year.

Coda

Two years have passed now and I am still cancer free. I have sex and it is enjoyable. I worry about things like is that ache a sign of cancer or not but it is not always at the forefront of my mind. I try to live right, but I am not that good at it. People who helped me through the process were other survivors. I talked to them frankly and frequently. Some are doing okay, in fact most of them are. The one thing that seems to be key is early detection. Guys if you are peeing too frequently see a doctor. Pay attention to your PSA. If it is rising anywhere close to the limits that are out in the literature get your doctor to be your advocate and go get it checked out.

Written In Grand Rapids on 02-08-09

A Space True and North has its origins in my daily journal. What finds it way onto this electronic blackboard starts out as barely readable scrawls jotted down in a spiral bound notebook. Today I have taken out my journal for the first time in a long, long time. My last entry is January 4, 2009. After I capture some thoughts I will post.

When I drafted my last entry it was just seven days after my gallbladder surgery. While I was bitching at that time about the pain and the side effects of the Vicodin I actually felt worse as time went on. The acute gut pain went away but a general weakness; both physical and spiritual overcame me. For whatever reason, I just could not put my pen to paper. My fingers refused to tap on the keyboard also. (Sometimes I type up a journal entry and print it and cut and paste it into the little spiral bound book I carry about.). I don’t know why I have to do it in writing first, but it seems to clarify and focus my thoughts.

For whatever reason, I feel better today. Right now I am in a hotel in Grand Rapids, Michigan. This lobby has certain similarities to your basic fern bar. Various touches carry over from the fake flowers in the vases to the furniture that tries to look “authentic.” Maybe I am motivated to write by the change of locale. On the other hand my buoyant spirits might be the result of the unseasonably warm weather. To me at least it seems the temperature has not broken the freezing mark in a month, maybe more. Today it is about 50 degrees. Given what the last month has felt like what is occurring outside could be tropical breezes blowing. Primus and Secundus are refusing to wear their jackets.

Moving beyond this ramble on my weather induced giddiness I note that I have received several e-mails over the past couple weeks looking on my spin as to the new administration. While some of the notes have expressed surprise that I haven’t been fawning on or following President Obama’s every move, I note this is not Politico or Real Clear Politics. My blog is a pastiche of many things.

My writing idol was Jean Shepherd who looked at America’s (and American’s personal) absurdities and made us laugh about them in a way that was done with love and not mean spirited cynicism. I still chuckle to myself when I remember the story about the old man at the county fair on the salt and pepper shaker. There comes a moment when the loose change and the content of stomachs previously filled with beer are hanging suspended in mid air as the ride stops to change direction and everyone is hanging upside down. At times I do wax on a bit darker and a bit more political but the heart of this is mostly memoir and observation.

Now having communicated that I am not a political writer I have a couple of comments on our political world. We’re Fucked!

To begin with Obama will not be able to stop this economic train wreck. While the stimulus is a good idea the sense I get from the reporting is that it is not the forward thinking group of programs and actions it should have been. Harry Reid is a piece of shit and doesn’t deserve to be leader of the Senate. He is old politics at its worst. Obama should work to engineer regime change in the upper body of our house. I think Reid has allowed the same old same old pork barrel nonsense to infect this bill in a way that guts its ultimate purpose. We are saddling ourselves with debt while we have not addressed core issues not in any meaningful sense. Hello the earth is quickly becoming a toaster over. It is stop on a dime and change how we live time. Local food movements are good. Wind farms are good. Local, regional, state governments should be working toward a smaller sphere of life. I will miss trips to the East to see my friends in New Jersey, North Carolina and Florida but I would miss my children’s chance at a green world even more.

On the micro side of the economic picture while I have a cushion it is a whole lot smaller than it used to be. Recently I heard from one of my friends that they had lost a long term job. Layoffs had now come to people I actually know. Permanent layoffs for older workers are the new reality. Additionally both the State that I work for and the university my wife works for are looking at major cuts to health care. Hmmh, I have had cancer I have bad lungs and heart issues oh and I am getting old. Excuse me if I have some trepidation on what happens next.

Next the people Obama has brought into his inner circle make this administration look surprisingly like what it would have looked like had Hillary Clinton become President. It is the Clinton White House II. Excuse me I thought I voted for change. I am hoping for better but right now I am reminded of the Who song, “Won’t Get Fooled Again”.

For a campaign that was so efficiently and effectively run I am worried about some of the major missteps and gaffes I am seeing. Is this a portent of the next four years? Hello, isn’t have you paid all and I mean all of your taxes the second question to be asked in every pre-selection interview? Thanks to the folks who brought the Contract with on America the first question is “Have you been diddling the help.” The Daschle imbroglio stands out but he is not alone and we all know it. Is it that Washington is just so freaking’ corrupt that it is time to use that text in our founding documents that says when it gets too messed up we can revolt and start again?

Okay I will stop on this rant.

Recently a friend of mine approached me and began in a very soft voice, “Jay, can I talk to you…” As soon as I heard his tone I knew what was going on. He had been diagnosed with prostate cancer. In my office I have been very open about my condition, perhaps too open. I have talked about the pain, the issues with incontinence, the sexual issues and I really haven’t held back. I offer my recommendation on the ED drugs without hesitation. But as calm as he seemed the fear when your are diagnosed is very overwhelming.

My friend was going with the DaVinci robotic procedure. Same thing I had done. We compared our biopsies, sodomization by a dildo with teeth if you ask me. He liked that description. Once you have been through a procedure you have a couple of choices, one is that as guide and mentor to those who come after you. Everyone’s experience is different but you have done the research, you have sweated the small stuff you have something that may allay somebody else’s dark moment. It felt good to be able to offer some basic and practical advice. It is here I want to thank those people who helped me when it was my time of uncertainty, you know who you are.

The surgery was set but has now been postponed because of an issue in the physician’s family. If you have faith, do what you do to communicate with who or what you touch base with spiritually for my friend. Say prayers burn incense chant whatever but seem out those vibes for both my friend and his doctor.

In my next post I will set forth my prostate cancer story. Most of you have seen it. Some have not. What I would ask is that if you have a friend or someone who is dealing with cancer tell them its there, share the URL if that want to see it.

Okay I am done for now. Hey it is not my best post but it is better than nothing.

Talk About the Weather

We talk about the weather because we must. By saying that it is cold outside, we identify that we are not comfortable in the environment today. Our comments on the cold may just be about the weather or they may be about something larger. Agreement on the issue of the cold as being uncomfortable may be an opening for a much larger, much more important conversation. This is one of the reasons why we talk about the weather. But sometimes we talk about the weather just because it is cold.

The color of the sky as far as I can see is coal grey.
Lift my head from the pillow and then fall again.
With a shiver in my bones just thinking about the weather.
A quiver in my lips as if I might cry.
Well by the force of will my lungs are filled and so I breathe.
Lately it seems this big bed is where I never leave.
Shiver in my bones just thinking about the weather.
Quiver in my voice as I cry, "
What a cold and rainy day.
Where on earth is the sun hid away."
I hear the sound of a noon bell chime.
Now I'm far behind.
You've put in 'bout half a day while here
Ilie with a shiver in my bones just thinking about the weather.
A quiver in my lip as if I might cry,
"What a cold and rainy day.
Where on earth is the sun hid away?"
Do I need someone here to scold me
or do I need someonewho'll grab and pull me
out of this four poster dull torpor pulling downward.
For it is such a long time since my better days.
I say my prayers nightly this will pass away.
The color of the sky is grey
as I can see through the blinds.
Lift my head from the pillow and then fall again
with a shiver in my bones just thinking about the weather.
A quiver in my voice as I cry,
"What a cold and rainy day.
Where on earth isthe sun hid away?"
I shiver, quiver, and try to wake.

Hey how many songs use the word torpor?

Watch it, DVR it, Whatever

I apologize for not writing. I will get back to it soon. However Life on Mars returns to ABC tonight. This is good TV. Gretchen Mol, the original bad lieutenant and the guy who plays Sam all give solid performances. Give it a try.

And Now More from the Experts at Duh (A Think Tank for the Obvious)

The Wall Street Journal noticed today that there might be something flawed in using 401 K plans to fund employee retirements. http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123137714796462913.html Duh! 401K plans were never a real benefit for employees except as an adjunct to retirement savings. When in an effort to cheap out employers made these plans "the retirement" for their employees it was once again the case of greed getting Washington's ear. Once again the wealthy and powerful acted to gut the middle class and got away with it. So nice of the WSJ to notice now.

Random Thoughts

Waking was late in coming to me this morning. Reasons existed, as they always do, for my missing most of the pre-noon hours of this Sunday. Primus and my wife arrived home late having been to a college hockey game. Boo, hiss the opponents vanquished our local heroes. Still I was not sleepy when they got home so I looked for some entertainment on the television. Primus headed off to be and my wife and I watched a cooking/travel program set in Spain. One hour of food pornography is the best way to describe this program.

Watching beautiful people eat food is a very guilty pleasure of mine. Part of me is repulsed by the money that had to be expended on the creation of this series. Clearly the monies spent would have been far more wisely used in delivering social welfare to the needy. Two movies stars, two TV/print personalities, a pop star, a Bentley and several Mercedes Benz vehicles all traveling for several months throughout the whole of Spain eating at top restaurants and staying in sumptuous lodgings could not have been anything other than expensive. On the other hand there was the food and the scenery. Did I mention the tapas? OMG!

Small plates have in the past decade or so be a favorite of mine. In Toronto there are several good spots for this kind of food. The nearest tapas place to where I live is an hour away in Grand Rapids. It is fine but not worth the expense of the trip for us. I may get there once this year if we have a hockey game at the right time and if there is no snow storm.

Last night one of the couples went to a tapas place in Barcelona that apparently is one of the best restaurants in Spain. The food, even the anchovies looked wonderful. While this clearly kept my attention the part of the program that really had me was the seafood portion. There came a point where the food critic writer and the young nubile actress were ferried out to a restaurant on stilts in the middle of a bay. Once disembarked in this veritable floating world the food critic chowed down on oysters. Me, I was drooling. When the critic responded to a question as to how many oysters he had ever eaten in a sitting with the number 48 I thought to myself, you wimp. I know I have probably tossed back more but on the raw oyster count/steamed oyster count I never kept track. I know I have eaten that many fried oysters at one time as my maximum of that variant of the delicacy. Lacking a gallbladder the consumption of 48 fried oysters is probably never going to be on my horizon again.

Here in the Midwest because of the obvious distance to the nearest ocean, 48-50 oysters would cost easily $150-200 dollars for good ones. Clearly I opted to move here and thus made my choice on locale vs. lunch options. Still, it doesn’t mean I cannot mourn my lack of access to oysters. Food porn, it is the stuff that memories and dreams are made of.

Well after the Spanish food interlude I headed off for bed. Between bad dreams and Francie’s restlessness quality sleep did not arrive until late. When I last looked at the clock it was about 4 a.m. Having only fallen into the dark dreamless world just before the sunrise I stayed in bed until about 11 a.m.

Due to the late hour of my rising I missed listening to the radio news programs. This was probably a good thing. When I dialed up some music I heard the announcer indicating that the fighting in Gaza was continuing. Could the news be anything else? I am fifty two years old and the earliest snippets of news I remember concerned the 67 Arab-Israeli conflict. Has anything really changed? Has anything in this battle really changed in the last half millennium?

Until there is a fundamental shift in both party’s perceptions as to their rights and entitlements in the sand that compromises the Middle East nothing will ever be resolved. It is not a question of who goes first. Both the Arabs and the Jews must realize they are people first and live in this world and do not have claims as God’s anointed to anything including land and power other than their humanity or the bodies will continue to pile up. With the weapons at play in the Middle East the body count could increase exponentially. As I said it is not a question of who must act first in good faith, they both must.

Sorry for that rant, I am tired.

Today I made the bass go first. The French horn followed. Later, much later, will come the piano practice. How do you communicate to children the value in both learning an instrument and learning the discipline to practice and instrument? My parents did not push me and I gave the clarinet up pretty early. To this day I regret I did not master any musical instrument.

Late Night Writing Tutorial

So last night as I was heading to bed I sat down to check my e-mail. The version of browser I use is Firefox 3.x something. In recent days I have added Stumbleon as a component. Thinking “what the hay” I hit the button to stumble. What I came to was a site called 1, 2, 5ver. Here is the link http://www.onetwofiver.com/ This is a creative writing site that uses a very simple strategy to get your creative juices flowing. This is what I created in about an hour, both the original typing and some editing this morning.

I would challenge you all to go out to this site and give it a try. Post some of what you create. Me I enjoyed the test of trying to do something within the strictures of the site. I have decided upon names for the characters now. He is Max Garst. She is Alana (Ali) Lindon. I will replace the *s soon.



Radiance, filled with light from within. Cold and crisp indigo blue was the color of the smooth soft fluted vase that stood upon this mantle, in an otherwise sterile still gray room.

Entry to this dour parlor was implied. After gaining his way in by being buzzed in at the immense but well worn old wooden entrance no door but the one to the left of the entryway was open. Locks were either jammed or set on all the others.

Coming alone this late at night was at best an odd idea, the kind of irrational action sometimes induced by a fever. Walking in the cool damp dark of this forgotten section of the old town set his nerves on edge but charged his senses with energy he had not felt in years. Common sense would have dictated he stay at his flat and wait until morning. When the morning came the question would remain, do what?

Darkness, anxious, unnerving was a key part of what this place was, of what this evening was. Darkness as he made his way through the worn and ill kempt streets left him with his neck hairs raised. The half light of this room while less unnerving was not in any way comforting.

Looking into the empty storefronts he remembered the clerks’ faces. Most of these working class people were aged and worn from years of repetitive motions; muscle and tone were gained and then lost from placing boxes and cans into sacks. After the years had passed, shoulders and faces sagged. Complexions were colorless and dispositions were for the large part humorless. Of course there were exceptions but on the whole he had no warm memories of this place and it denizens.

Fifteen or maybe twenty years the economy turned sour here. First the stores on tight margins closed. Then the stores that had survived past downturns on savings and the owners' personalities became victims of money's rapid flight. Finally only a few convenience stores with marginal staff and questionable practices remained. In hard times like these such places thrived.

He had left before things got dark. He had not been here on these streets at the start of the bad times through a combination of luck and drive. She had remained for the whole gut wrenching downward spiral. He had not really left her so much as she had let him drift on without her presence in his life. One morning he woke up and realized she was no longer an active part in his life. While a picture of her with long tresses and a smile remained in his bedroom, it was on that day he knew she would never again take up the hours and days and weeks that had been their shared world. On that day as he drank morning’s first coffee he felt he had an inarticulate sense of the why of her absence. Still through the years he had never been able to speak it aloud.

Richard Thompson sings a song that described her partially, “She was a rare thing, fine as a bee’s wing". Indeed a rare thing, but not fragile in the classic storybook sense she lived directly and connected to the world she inhabited. Of all the women he had ever known she had a moral center that was the most sound. Politics did not matter to her, but justice did. Love was valued but ethical behavior was more important in her heart.

In the days before this place saw money fold up its tent and move away she had been the rare young clerk at a green grocer. The owners a couple in their sixties could sense right from their first meeting her honesty and passion. She knew the store’s clientele well having lived on these streets all of her life. She could read the spark in the eye of a good child with impish tendencies, in such a case there would be offered a bit of penny candy as a bribe for calm inside the store while the youth's mum shopped. Just as easily she could read the darkness that is in some children from the day they are born. These were the ones she steered to the front of the store, to the east side near the plate glass window where she could keep her eye on their hands and pockets. Filled with bulk produce it was a place in which little of value could go missing. It was always an agony for her to know children like this existed as a seeming matter of course in nature.

Calls are proper up until the late news begins. A phone ringing once the announcer has begun to drone about today’s crisis in a country that even he is struggling to name without mispronunciation means one of three things. If the hand set is flipped open there will invariably be a drunken dialer (known or unknown), or a quiet voice with unwanted news or what had become the usual for him in recent years a period of silence that after his. No voice being heard despite a quick query of ‘who is this’ third kind of call turned into a dial tone. Tonight’s caller was not drunk and a voice was heard and acknowledged.

Some many questions swirled about in his head as he entered the still room. Sparely furnished and cold it was a space that seemed decorated by a dowager or a committee of a Luddite sect. Why did he feel the need to be here now? His presence would not change a thing. How had she come to be among these people? Such dour settings were not her preference.

He knew of the people that ran this place. Following a credo of simplicity and care they worked several tiers down in the charity/social welfare hierarchy. It seemed to him that they must shun publicity and that they must also be sincere. Scanning the papers you never saw the group’s name tied to sex scandals or to hot button issues of the day. Only if you had lived in this part of the city, or in similar parts of other old industrial cities would you ever heard of their common sense acts of compassion.

Looking toward the mantel he wondered where had he seen the vase before? It had a familiarity about it that called him to come in closer for a careful inspection, but he dared not. The vase might be a clue (or not) but its softly curved shapes held his eye in a way that suggested this art piece had connection with the two of them and the circumstances now in play. Crisp and elegant the vase had no right to be in this room, God's truth be told.

A tall man in a well worn dark suit entered the room from what had been a closed door to the right of the mantel and some distance down the wall. "I thank you for coming at this late hour. Honestly, morning would have been fine, but perhaps something will come of your prompt response."

What are the rules to be followed at this hour of night when you answer a call that simply cries out this is an urgent situation that must be addressed by its mere existence? There are no Emily Post or Ms. Manners' drafted conventions on how you respond. What exists that will direct all your movements and actions is the stuff that you are made of. All the small and large incidents in your life that have taught you the obligations, perils and ultimate consequences of acting honorably create the framework of your response. The books that you have read, the sermons that you have listened to week after week, the proverbs and homilies that you heard while at your parents’ side create the framework of morality but it is your accumulated experience that makes your decision as whether to act or not.

Hearing the quiet but deep concern in the speaker's voice and knowing only the most rudimentary details he set off at once. With a quick glance around the room he quickly grabbed the essentials, his wallet, credit cards, thank God he had a decent bit of cash about and his smart phone with names, addresses and the power of the internet should his human connections fail him. On his way out he looked the door with his key, he might not be back for awhile and it would not be good to allow too many people easy access to his place not with issues this might raise on the horizon
He never wrote the address down, but he knew would not forget it. The building number was 36 and the street was Old Queen's Way. Not having travelled in that part of town in decades he was sure to a certainty he could still find his way about the place to the address even if his phone’s GPS were to fail him. Twenty five years ago he was as well known in the streets there as anyone was. Twenty five years ago? How had the time slipped away so quickly?

Thinking back he was not completely sure when he had last seen her. It could have been in that little trendy restaurant when he was just sitting down to dinner. He had been surrounded that night by a different set of people than those they knew in common. Was he serious with someone then? Was there a serious someone with him that night? He didn't remember.

What he remembered was that it clearly had been a chance meeting for the now long gone restaurant was not her kind of place. It had too many pretentions for her to even have deigned to enter it. She was clearly there to humor another. Seeing him sitting there surrounded by his new friends, her eyes flashed. For the life of him he could not remember if that flash meant anger or simply warm surprise. She was different then; the years of living unfettered had left a mark but it was not damage he saw in her. Looking at him with clarity of vision he rarely saw used by another human being he sensed she had a world weary awareness of all the pretense and artifice that he had allowed to seep in and strangle his life.

Why had he not stopped her then to talk? Why hadn't he gone over and bought her a drink? Why?

Calm, and it was both forced and necessary arising under pressure but with purpose. His thought, rational and matched with value driven actions were going to be a clear necessity tonight. Twenty five years without meaningful contact, maybe two or three chance meetings and now he was here, he was doing this.

Brought into the room where her prone form was stretched out on what for all the world looked like a psychiatrist’s coach, only quite old, it was clear she was not dead. Few signs of physical trauma were apparent; a purple bruise somewhat matching the pattern of a hand gripped tightly was on her left arm half way between her wrist and elbow. Looking at her clothes it was clear she had not been wearing particular garments long. Clean and pressed but well worn they hung loosely about her frame.
Looking for guidance he searched the face of the man in the suit for any sign of emotion or concern. Nothing stood out. After several minutes in the room, a time marked and measured by her shallow but steady breathing, the inscrutable man began to speak without looking up. His eyes seemed focused on a point well below the wooden floorboards of this room.

"In most likelihood you are wondering why we called you. Such a thing would be of utmost concern to most people given the harsh nature of this particular situation. In reality the reason we called you has very little to do with whom or what you are now. What prompted us to act was our memory of who you were then when you knew her of course.

Coughing to clear his throat but still not looking up the man continued. "You do not remember me, but I remember you. Every day when you would swing by the green grocers to pick up * it was clear that she loved you in a deeper way that most men will ever get to experience from anyone. About fifteen minutes before her shift would end sprightliness would come over *. Oh understand she was always upbeat and usually happier that circumstances would warrant. But as her shift came to a point where it was almost ended and when she saw the clocks hands at 5:45 her soul would just seem to be set aglow. When she went outside to roll up the awning her head would swing to and fro as she scanned the street for your approach."

"Every day I watched this transformation occur and it was wonderful. Now mind you she was always kind to me. Her apron always had an extra bit of candy for me, candy that my parents would have disapproved of. What matter should it have been to them, it was one piece of candy? It was not as if the store would live or die on the cost of that one piece of hard butterscotch."

He knew now who this man was, but he did not know him, *'s memory was blank for a youthful image of this now drab figure. It was clear that the man was the son of the shopkeepers who had run the store where * had worked. He was seven or eight years younger than * and their paths never crossed in school. Having no younger brothers (or sisters for that matter) the age difference would have insured no contact between the two of them socially. * may have seen the man as a child any number of times when he stopped in for the short moment or two to pick * up, but their contact was nothing that would have mattered to him and would quickly have been discarded from memory. Perspective is what determines the strength of memory isn't it?

The man continued his speaking in the low unchanging voice he had been using from the start. "As I was saying she changed in a wonderful way when you can about the store. I envied you because she was a magical person and it was clear that she was deeply in love with you."

"She worked at my parents store for as long as they could pay her. * was such a part of the place that she was the last to go before the place closed. The place was gone an empty façade with broken glass and debris a mere six months after she was let go. The economy did the store in as it finished off every other real place of business in these parts. The fair work/fair wage and food riots finished the neighborhood off, but can you blame them. What else were people without hope to do with their pent up rage?"

"In those years right before the store folded it was clear to me that you had left her life. She remained kind and compassionate and she never gave my parents other than a full day of solid effort. However the electricity that she would seem to have in that last part of the day in the earlier years was gone. Those of us around * still received the same wonderful treatment from her but it was clear that she was not feeling the same way she had in the past toward herself."

The man stopped for a moment. When he began to speak again his voice was softer or maybe just lower. "Nobody blamed you for anything. We all knew that this life is simply a river of endless change. Clearly those are not the terms we used but we had the innate knowledge of that sentiment. In the quiet times of my day just before I extinguish the light I read. I try to read things that are not tied to my work. Over the years I have read much about the life of the Buddha and most likely my phrasing has come from that. We were sad for her but there was very little we could do, now was there I mean I ask you?"

"As the years past I kept track of you both. *, well I watched out for her on the streets and in local haunts because she was the wonderful person I have tried to describe to you. As for you, it was part of my job you see to know what you were up to. Shortly after my parents store folded I came to work here. In my role as sort of a business affairs liaison it was incumbent upon me to know who we could trust outside of these streets and also to keep abreast of those whom upon their departure from these blocks of empty buildings had been met with the smiling face of good fortune. In modern charities and the like I would be known as an informal development officer. You were a clear success story."