"Spring is sprung. The grass is riz. I wonder where the flowers is." Not that spring is dawdling, but our daffodils have just finished, our tulips may have opened for the first time while I'm writing this, and there ain't much else happening. I've mowed the lawn, as much to see if the lawn mower would start as because there was much to mow.
A good deal of our lawn from last fall, especially in the front, has come back well. You may recall that we started from scratch in front and in a good deal of the back last September, after our new basement work was more or less done. We spent this past weekend reseeding some of those places that didn't do so well, as well as a few pet spots.
The flowers that are blooming are some grape hyacinths, notably in some neighbors' yards, the dandelions, not so many in our yard (thanks, Weed-B-Gon) but most everywhere else, and Creeping Charlie, regrettably in our yard and garden areas as well as everywhere else. There are only two approaches to Creeping Charlie: total war, or learning to like the smell of it as you mow. So far, I've opted for total war: Weed-B-Gon can help if applied repeatedly, pulling can fill up a happy morning, etc. I've heard of solutions of 20-Mule Team Borax, etc., but constant vigilance is a component of all of these. The smell, by the way, is kind of minty.
The leaves are just now coming on many of the trees; the big silver maple by our driveway has thrown down many of its leaf sheaths, the first of its series of messy detritus items for the year. Next come whirlybirds (the seeds), then sap dripping, then leaves in fall. This was a free tree from our friends about 25 years ago, that Wendy brought home in a bike trailer; it's now about 18" in diameter and interferes with every possible angle for jump shots at our backboard.
Our flowering crab is showing buds. Last year at this time it was already done with its spectacular pink blossoms; this year, just warming up. The little crabapples hang on the tree all winter and are eaten by robins and squirrels in March when there's not much else. Sometimes there's a day we call "Robin Day," when a dozen or more hungry birds feed out there.
After the disruption of our garden last year, and the replanting in August and September, it's a treat to see how many things are popping out of the ground this spring. Poppies, peonies, lilies, the lilac bush that sat out of the ground in the neighbor's yard all summer, hen-and-chicks, mint (can't kill it), daisies, Tibetan irises, and some things we don't remember what the hell they are, all showing up. Hey, maybe some are weeds.
About six or seven years ago, the city and Xcel Energy teamed up to chop down all the boulevard trees on our side of the street, because of overhead wires, and to replant with dwarf trees that were supposed to top out below the wires. Carelessly, we watered ours the first two years. They're now the tallest and thickest on the block, and one must be a mutant because this year it's reached the wires. This does mean that some shade is available for the poor lawn on the boulevard.
Now that I mention it, what do you call that piece of land between the sidewalk and the street? We're told that it's part of the right-of-way for the street, and thus under city control, and in theory it doesn't count as our property as far as taxes or title go. But I'd better mow it and maintain it, or I'll get the ticket for too-tall grass, weeds, etc. I've learned to call it the "boulevard." But what if you live on a street called "Something Boulevard?" What about the streets, divided by a raised central strip of lawn, concrete, or, happily, city-managed gardens, which are often named or referred to as "boulevards?" This appears to require research. Or a glass or two of cheap but tasty wine (16 bottles of wine and two six-packs of approved beer at Trader Joe's, plus tax, under $100!)
The news: Wendy has successfully defended her dissertation, and will receive an Ed.D (doctorate) from the University of Minnesota. Laura and Ross roll on towards their September wedding, and they have bought a house in Minneapolis. Wendy and I, and our friend Ed, are off to Istanbul in June for the wedding of our good friends' daughter.
Dear U of Mn Registrar: My daughter graduated from the U in 2007. My wife will earn her Ed.D in 2009. My mother graduated in 1936. My grandmother graduated in 1912. And I believe my great-grandmother attended - may have graduated - in the late 1880's. Is there a prize?
Life is pretty good. See ya next time.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Return of Driving Me Crazy
It's a simple concept: Stop.
Don't be doing any more what you were doing. Cease moving. Wheels no longer in motion. Whatever.
And it's unambiguous. Even a yellow light, which means "safely clear the intersection," is but a prelude to the definitive red light, STOP. The red eight-sided sign has the word clearly printed, and it doesn't say, "slow down pretty good."
Except perhaps in Boston, where the stop sign and other such law delineators are more or less helpful hints for drivers. In Boston, drivers run up on the sidewalk to get around cars which are triple-parked. It's like Istanbul, where two two painted lanes might hold three cars, a bus, a pickup truck, two motorcycles and a bicycle in the first row at the red light, and they only stopped out of normal healthy fearof what's flying by on the cross street.
The complete stop is just another among the lost arts in the decline of civilization that we are dealing with, but it's the one that most irritates me lately. More and more drivers approach the stop sign, or the red light, and slow down to take a look at the situation, but keep rolling at 5 mph or better rather than reach a full halt.
This has to be intentional, and a purposeful disregard of law. We know when we are moving and when we are not. If we are stopped, and let off the brake, we even feel when we begin to roll forward or backward, and reapply the brakes to avoid rolling into another vehicle - well, most of the time. So when we approach a stopping point, we must know that we have or have not come to a full stop.
Lord knows I am among the guilty here: my wife says she'll be glad to throw an elbow into my ribs when I roll through a stop. But I don't do it on purpose. The decision to knowingly keep moving has to be a conscious choice, a disregard for the law, a nod to relativism.
What gives us the notion that, although we love to see the laws enforced when others violate them, we get to choose when to obey and when to kind of wave them off? As Captain Lewis once said, "close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and tactical nuclear weapons." When a law is clear, you are either obeying it or not. When the intent of the law is the general safety, you had best be clear on why you disagree with the law, and have supporting evidence, before you present your violation as a protest. And if you injure someone, or their property, when you violate, you had better put up and shut up.
Better yet, just stop. Come to a complete stop. Then proceed - but watch out for that other SOB who hasn't read this yet.
Don't be doing any more what you were doing. Cease moving. Wheels no longer in motion. Whatever.
And it's unambiguous. Even a yellow light, which means "safely clear the intersection," is but a prelude to the definitive red light, STOP. The red eight-sided sign has the word clearly printed, and it doesn't say, "slow down pretty good."
Except perhaps in Boston, where the stop sign and other such law delineators are more or less helpful hints for drivers. In Boston, drivers run up on the sidewalk to get around cars which are triple-parked. It's like Istanbul, where two two painted lanes might hold three cars, a bus, a pickup truck, two motorcycles and a bicycle in the first row at the red light, and they only stopped out of normal healthy fearof what's flying by on the cross street.
The complete stop is just another among the lost arts in the decline of civilization that we are dealing with, but it's the one that most irritates me lately. More and more drivers approach the stop sign, or the red light, and slow down to take a look at the situation, but keep rolling at 5 mph or better rather than reach a full halt.
This has to be intentional, and a purposeful disregard of law. We know when we are moving and when we are not. If we are stopped, and let off the brake, we even feel when we begin to roll forward or backward, and reapply the brakes to avoid rolling into another vehicle - well, most of the time. So when we approach a stopping point, we must know that we have or have not come to a full stop.
Lord knows I am among the guilty here: my wife says she'll be glad to throw an elbow into my ribs when I roll through a stop. But I don't do it on purpose. The decision to knowingly keep moving has to be a conscious choice, a disregard for the law, a nod to relativism.
What gives us the notion that, although we love to see the laws enforced when others violate them, we get to choose when to obey and when to kind of wave them off? As Captain Lewis once said, "close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and tactical nuclear weapons." When a law is clear, you are either obeying it or not. When the intent of the law is the general safety, you had best be clear on why you disagree with the law, and have supporting evidence, before you present your violation as a protest. And if you injure someone, or their property, when you violate, you had better put up and shut up.
Better yet, just stop. Come to a complete stop. Then proceed - but watch out for that other SOB who hasn't read this yet.
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Past Few Days
I was going to subtitle this "Or, What Happens When Old Geezers Try to Party Like College Students" but that's not fair to some of my companions, who have more sense than I do, or to a couple of college students at our event, who partied like old geezers.
I guess it's fair to say that I like to drink. Beer. Wine. Booze, once in awhile. Not often more than one of those per evening. Wine has come more into the mix the past few years, and to a certain extent booze, because there's less sheer volume, and somewhat less waking in the middle of the night to pee. Those of you who waded through some of the blogs about my health concerns will understand how any reduction in peeing without giving up any buzz might be appreciated.
But I do like beer. For one, I have it timed out better for the arrival of the buzz. For two, I can handle a few. For three, I generally hit way full or other measures of having had enough - queasy, sleepy, etc. - before I hit full puking or, worse, full asshole ( disagreement has to be based on the level of asshole you think I'm at when I'm sober). And, perhaps both the good thing and the weak spot, some of it just plain tastes great. For instance, I'm having a new Rush River (River Falls, WI) product, Lost Arrow Porter Ale. One of the empty bottles joins my collection of Porter bottles - hey, it's the family name, and I'm up to about 40 - and all those beers made their way past my taste buds. This is a bit richer and creamier than many porters, and while there's a hint of smokiness, it's smoothed out very well.
Last Saturday, I met my old college roommate Don at the Tyranena Brewery in Lake Mills, WI. We each had a Sheep Shagger Scotch Ale. That beer had a little sharper edge than the Rush River, but it was good enough that I had a second, and bought a growler to take to Jefferson. Don followed me to the home of Bob and Lynn, where it occurred to me that Don married his bride Helen and Bob wed Lynn on the same day in September 1979 (I stood up at Don's ceremony in Beloit but bailed out early and made it to Appleton for some of Bob and Lynn's reception). Bob and Don had met several times through the years but not in many a year, and it was kind of fun to have them meet again. We all went to dinner at The Edgewater, along the Rock River just south of Jefferson, which must have the lowest ceiling of any dining establishment (not quite six feet in some places) and which offers a nice supper club menu with excellent steaks and a few upscale touches. By this hour I wasn't driving, a damn fine idea as a couple of beers accompanied dinner. After dinner Don headed for home, in the Milwaukee suburb Shorewood.
I went with Bob and Lynn to the Jefferson Optimists' annual Trivia Contest. This was my fifth visit, out of maybe fifteen or so contests, and we had won on my first two but hadn't placed since.
This is done in an interesting format, and seems to be part of a little circuit in southern Wisconsin; some of the participating teams travel to a number of contests. The most challenging part is that no sources are permitted: if someone on your team doesn't know, you must guess, and our team has over the years talked ourselves out of right answers more than once. There's an entry fee, multiple raffles are offered, a couple of side games are available for individual play - at a price - and food and beverage (Leinenkugel's, and a couple of light beers) are offered. This is, at its heart, a big fun fundraiser for the Optimists, who picked it up when the Jaycees disbanded, and a willing participant can cough up $40 to $50 by buying into the concept. The whole thing was over in three and a half hours, including the awards which saw us earn third place medals (yes, actual bronze-colored 3rd place medallions on ribbons).
Bob and Lynn's home is a historic 19th-century place, and they have filled it with various collectibles including a lot of Christmas stuff. They moved some of it aside to get me into a bedroom, but I stayed up very late talking to Lynn and putting an end to the growler. I have finished growlers before, but I haven't been up until 2:30 for a great long time. Although the net result was a necessary caution on Sunday morning, I was still the first one moving and had coffee made when Bob came down.
Their old garage was a later addition to the property and was not satisfactory; they had been looking at ways to make the upgrade for a few years. This year the old unit was gone and a new beauty, three car bays with a second story, is up and beginning to be finished off. Bob and I took coffee to the upper level, which Bob intends to develop into a mancave, and sat in the unheated room to talk, and to size up its light (windows in place) and its potential: where, for instance, to place the 42" TV? While it was a bit chilly up there, I probably burned off a bit more of the previous night trying to stay warm.
As I left, I realized that I needed more than coffee to get all systems working, so a visit to the Kwik Trip fed me as well as the car. It was a delightful March weekend, and only the normal number of idiots was loose on the highways, and our little car did as well on mileage as it ever has. Safe, uneventful road trip. Big nap upon arrival home.
If you know me, you know Don Lee: we both stopped at outlet malls on the way to the brewery on Saturday, Don at Johnson Creek, WI, and me in Wisconsin Dells. We both arrived responsibly early in Lake Mills, and rather than sit in the parking lot at the brewery we each set off to cruise the town. We passed each other at least once...and were both still early for the opening of the tap room at Tyranena. Ah, well... brewery touring with the anal-retentive roommates:-)
I guess it's fair to say that I like to drink. Beer. Wine. Booze, once in awhile. Not often more than one of those per evening. Wine has come more into the mix the past few years, and to a certain extent booze, because there's less sheer volume, and somewhat less waking in the middle of the night to pee. Those of you who waded through some of the blogs about my health concerns will understand how any reduction in peeing without giving up any buzz might be appreciated.
But I do like beer. For one, I have it timed out better for the arrival of the buzz. For two, I can handle a few. For three, I generally hit way full or other measures of having had enough - queasy, sleepy, etc. - before I hit full puking or, worse, full asshole ( disagreement has to be based on the level of asshole you think I'm at when I'm sober). And, perhaps both the good thing and the weak spot, some of it just plain tastes great. For instance, I'm having a new Rush River (River Falls, WI) product, Lost Arrow Porter Ale. One of the empty bottles joins my collection of Porter bottles - hey, it's the family name, and I'm up to about 40 - and all those beers made their way past my taste buds. This is a bit richer and creamier than many porters, and while there's a hint of smokiness, it's smoothed out very well.
Last Saturday, I met my old college roommate Don at the Tyranena Brewery in Lake Mills, WI. We each had a Sheep Shagger Scotch Ale. That beer had a little sharper edge than the Rush River, but it was good enough that I had a second, and bought a growler to take to Jefferson. Don followed me to the home of Bob and Lynn, where it occurred to me that Don married his bride Helen and Bob wed Lynn on the same day in September 1979 (I stood up at Don's ceremony in Beloit but bailed out early and made it to Appleton for some of Bob and Lynn's reception). Bob and Don had met several times through the years but not in many a year, and it was kind of fun to have them meet again. We all went to dinner at The Edgewater, along the Rock River just south of Jefferson, which must have the lowest ceiling of any dining establishment (not quite six feet in some places) and which offers a nice supper club menu with excellent steaks and a few upscale touches. By this hour I wasn't driving, a damn fine idea as a couple of beers accompanied dinner. After dinner Don headed for home, in the Milwaukee suburb Shorewood.
I went with Bob and Lynn to the Jefferson Optimists' annual Trivia Contest. This was my fifth visit, out of maybe fifteen or so contests, and we had won on my first two but hadn't placed since.
This is done in an interesting format, and seems to be part of a little circuit in southern Wisconsin; some of the participating teams travel to a number of contests. The most challenging part is that no sources are permitted: if someone on your team doesn't know, you must guess, and our team has over the years talked ourselves out of right answers more than once. There's an entry fee, multiple raffles are offered, a couple of side games are available for individual play - at a price - and food and beverage (Leinenkugel's, and a couple of light beers) are offered. This is, at its heart, a big fun fundraiser for the Optimists, who picked it up when the Jaycees disbanded, and a willing participant can cough up $40 to $50 by buying into the concept. The whole thing was over in three and a half hours, including the awards which saw us earn third place medals (yes, actual bronze-colored 3rd place medallions on ribbons).
Bob and Lynn's home is a historic 19th-century place, and they have filled it with various collectibles including a lot of Christmas stuff. They moved some of it aside to get me into a bedroom, but I stayed up very late talking to Lynn and putting an end to the growler. I have finished growlers before, but I haven't been up until 2:30 for a great long time. Although the net result was a necessary caution on Sunday morning, I was still the first one moving and had coffee made when Bob came down.
Their old garage was a later addition to the property and was not satisfactory; they had been looking at ways to make the upgrade for a few years. This year the old unit was gone and a new beauty, three car bays with a second story, is up and beginning to be finished off. Bob and I took coffee to the upper level, which Bob intends to develop into a mancave, and sat in the unheated room to talk, and to size up its light (windows in place) and its potential: where, for instance, to place the 42" TV? While it was a bit chilly up there, I probably burned off a bit more of the previous night trying to stay warm.
As I left, I realized that I needed more than coffee to get all systems working, so a visit to the Kwik Trip fed me as well as the car. It was a delightful March weekend, and only the normal number of idiots was loose on the highways, and our little car did as well on mileage as it ever has. Safe, uneventful road trip. Big nap upon arrival home.
If you know me, you know Don Lee: we both stopped at outlet malls on the way to the brewery on Saturday, Don at Johnson Creek, WI, and me in Wisconsin Dells. We both arrived responsibly early in Lake Mills, and rather than sit in the parking lot at the brewery we each set off to cruise the town. We passed each other at least once...and were both still early for the opening of the tap room at Tyranena. Ah, well... brewery touring with the anal-retentive roommates:-)
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Seasons
And then there was yesterday.
Yesterday I walked the dog in my shirtsleeves (yes, and pants and shoes). The sun shone, the light breeze blew. It was the first time since, oh, say, October, that this was possible.
Things smelled fresh and damp. It was a day for car windows to be down and moon roofs to be open. It was a day to sit on the steps of the front porch and drink a delicious Sprecher Piper's Scotch-style Ale. 60-some degrees. Sunny.
This past winter - dear Lord, let it be past - wasn't our snowiest; in fact, we're short on moisture. It wasn't our coldest, although January as a month may be close. It's just that it arrived the day before Thanksgiving, with significant snow and nasty cold, and save for a couple days in early February, it just sat down and stayed. We had several below-zero nights (read: mornings for walking the dog) in December, and about half of the month in January, and a bunch in February, and a couple in March. We had only a couple big snows, but a lot of little ones. My view is that snow is to be shoveled, and driven through, so it's generally not a positive. We had a roof leak due to ice from accumulated snow (ice damn!) and although I've avoided a bad fall this winter, Wendy wiped out once.
Here's the side note. Wendy slipped on ice when Laura was a baby, and broke her ankle. She fell again, and busted a shoulder. I hit the sidewalk hard last winter, and narrowly missed a concussion. You start walking funny on icy walks and roads, with stiff leg muscles and little stiff steps, and I swear that old people walk the way they do because they just don't loosen up one spring after a tough winter. Someone once said that you can tell the Wisconsin people on the Florida beaches in January: no shirts, swimsuits, but hunched shoulders and funny walks.
Febrauary and March are sometimes harder: the walks clear, but snow melts during the day, freezes at night, and sets up an obstacle course on the early morning dog walk. Can I see the ice? How deep is it? It it frozen all the way, or is there water under it? From a normal walk, I need to switch into funny ice steps and back out several times per block. Is it worth the rubber-trimmed boots? Do I need the ice cleats? This morning I needed to take three runs at climbing the icy slope, less than two feet, to pick up the poop. Good neighbor, my ass.
I can't imagine that folks who live in year-round temperate climates have any sense of deprivation about good weather, so they can't appreciate as we northerners do the blessing of an early shirtsleeve day. Of the warmth of the sun. Of the smell of fresh air. Of the opportunity to open the windows of the car, of the house. Of the chance to let the cat onto the porch. But we who can't count on such days appreciate them all the more.
Oddly, it's one of the joys of living in cold climates. Today wasn't bad, but it was cooler and a bit windy, and you could feel the damp in the air from all the melting. The rest of the week, and beyond, appear to be seasonal and without blizzard. Only one golf course has announced its opening, and they may be hasty. Several rivers are in flood, including those where I'm headed this weekend.
But ah, there was yesterday.
Yesterday I walked the dog in my shirtsleeves (yes, and pants and shoes). The sun shone, the light breeze blew. It was the first time since, oh, say, October, that this was possible.
Things smelled fresh and damp. It was a day for car windows to be down and moon roofs to be open. It was a day to sit on the steps of the front porch and drink a delicious Sprecher Piper's Scotch-style Ale. 60-some degrees. Sunny.
This past winter - dear Lord, let it be past - wasn't our snowiest; in fact, we're short on moisture. It wasn't our coldest, although January as a month may be close. It's just that it arrived the day before Thanksgiving, with significant snow and nasty cold, and save for a couple days in early February, it just sat down and stayed. We had several below-zero nights (read: mornings for walking the dog) in December, and about half of the month in January, and a bunch in February, and a couple in March. We had only a couple big snows, but a lot of little ones. My view is that snow is to be shoveled, and driven through, so it's generally not a positive. We had a roof leak due to ice from accumulated snow (ice damn!) and although I've avoided a bad fall this winter, Wendy wiped out once.
Here's the side note. Wendy slipped on ice when Laura was a baby, and broke her ankle. She fell again, and busted a shoulder. I hit the sidewalk hard last winter, and narrowly missed a concussion. You start walking funny on icy walks and roads, with stiff leg muscles and little stiff steps, and I swear that old people walk the way they do because they just don't loosen up one spring after a tough winter. Someone once said that you can tell the Wisconsin people on the Florida beaches in January: no shirts, swimsuits, but hunched shoulders and funny walks.
Febrauary and March are sometimes harder: the walks clear, but snow melts during the day, freezes at night, and sets up an obstacle course on the early morning dog walk. Can I see the ice? How deep is it? It it frozen all the way, or is there water under it? From a normal walk, I need to switch into funny ice steps and back out several times per block. Is it worth the rubber-trimmed boots? Do I need the ice cleats? This morning I needed to take three runs at climbing the icy slope, less than two feet, to pick up the poop. Good neighbor, my ass.
I can't imagine that folks who live in year-round temperate climates have any sense of deprivation about good weather, so they can't appreciate as we northerners do the blessing of an early shirtsleeve day. Of the warmth of the sun. Of the smell of fresh air. Of the opportunity to open the windows of the car, of the house. Of the chance to let the cat onto the porch. But we who can't count on such days appreciate them all the more.
Oddly, it's one of the joys of living in cold climates. Today wasn't bad, but it was cooler and a bit windy, and you could feel the damp in the air from all the melting. The rest of the week, and beyond, appear to be seasonal and without blizzard. Only one golf course has announced its opening, and they may be hasty. Several rivers are in flood, including those where I'm headed this weekend.
But ah, there was yesterday.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Another Pot of Pourri
Ross, my good friend and my daughter's intended, writes a blog in which he takes on sports, food and movies. Laura contributes occasionally. Me, I like food well enough but tend to be more interested in beer.
I spent a little quiet time at work recently exercising our access to Google by looking up some song lyrics, so I can sing to myself and get the words right. I also looked up some notable quotes about drinking. There are several good sites, "The Opinionated Beer Page" being one. My search began with "Work is the curse of the drinking class," which, as I had hoped, came from Oscar Wilde. Moving through several other classics, I came to Hemingway's "always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut." And I returned to that gentle, positive thought from Benjamin Franklin: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."
It is that happy spring season when bocks, Marzens and Maibocks come forth like daffodils. Bock, of course, is the German term for a ram, a mountain goat or sheep with the big curly horns. Leinie's made a beer called Big Butt for a few years, under the spurious premise that the two rams depicted on the label were preparing to butt each other; this was a so-called doppelbock. Marzen ("mare-zen") is also German, for "March" beer, and Maibock ("My bock") is, follow along, bock for May (Mai). Capitol Brewery in Middleton, WI has their Maibock available, and the Blonde Doppelbock. Summit Brewery in St. Paul has also released this year's Maibock.Leinenkugel's has rolled out its 1880s Bock; this is both welcome, since it's a pretty good brew, and sad, since Leinie's Bock used to be a lovingly-anticipated sign of Lent and priced like Leinie's Original, and now it's priced like all the craft-brewery-style product: $12 can get you a case of Leinie's Original, or a 12-pack of the craft line.
A couple of beers are of similar style but appear to be year-round offerings: Rush River Brewery, of River Falls, WI, makes The Unforgiven Amber, as well as at least two other nice beers, and your friendly Trader Joe's, if it sells beer and wine, offers its private label Vienna Lager. Both of these are indeed coppery Vienna-style lagers, which is also the style of Oktoberfests and some Marzens and Maibocks, although Maibocks tend to be lighter in color. The grain symbol on the bottlecap of the Trader Joe's beers looks exactly like the grain symbol on the cap of one of my old favorites, Gordon Biersch Marzen, which makes me want to find out who brews the Vienna Lager for Trader Joe's. Sand Creek Brewing, in the historic plant in Black River Falls, WI, makes an excellent English-style Ale, which looks and tastes similar to some of these.
As a general rule, these beers are full of flavor but not overly heavy. They can be slightly sweet, as they will present their malty character first, but the good ones will have just enough bitterness from well-balanced hops to clean up the mouth and prevent "aftertaste," which must be somehow different from what beer lovers call "finish." Good beers of this style have plenty of finish but not a cloying aftertaste, unless you knock back a healthy number of them. And since they're not the beers with the highest alcohol content, you just might choose to do that.
I haven't seen it yet in stores, but I am looking forward to "Fighting Finches" Maibock from Tyranena Brewery in Lake Mills, WI. As I'll be going through there next Saturday on my way to Jefferson, WI, to see Bob and Lynn and play in their local Trivia contest, I plan to stop in at the tasting room and see if it's out yet, and maybe grab a growler. And I might do the same at our local brewpub, Das Bierhaus, where Robert, the German-trained brewmaster, should have either a Marzen or a Maibock, or on the happiest day both, on tap. As for tonight, there's a cellar-cooled Capital Maibock calling my name.
I spent a little quiet time at work recently exercising our access to Google by looking up some song lyrics, so I can sing to myself and get the words right. I also looked up some notable quotes about drinking. There are several good sites, "The Opinionated Beer Page" being one. My search began with "Work is the curse of the drinking class," which, as I had hoped, came from Oscar Wilde. Moving through several other classics, I came to Hemingway's "always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut." And I returned to that gentle, positive thought from Benjamin Franklin: "Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."
It is that happy spring season when bocks, Marzens and Maibocks come forth like daffodils. Bock, of course, is the German term for a ram, a mountain goat or sheep with the big curly horns. Leinie's made a beer called Big Butt for a few years, under the spurious premise that the two rams depicted on the label were preparing to butt each other; this was a so-called doppelbock. Marzen ("mare-zen") is also German, for "March" beer, and Maibock ("My bock") is, follow along, bock for May (Mai). Capitol Brewery in Middleton, WI has their Maibock available, and the Blonde Doppelbock. Summit Brewery in St. Paul has also released this year's Maibock.Leinenkugel's has rolled out its 1880s Bock; this is both welcome, since it's a pretty good brew, and sad, since Leinie's Bock used to be a lovingly-anticipated sign of Lent and priced like Leinie's Original, and now it's priced like all the craft-brewery-style product: $12 can get you a case of Leinie's Original, or a 12-pack of the craft line.
A couple of beers are of similar style but appear to be year-round offerings: Rush River Brewery, of River Falls, WI, makes The Unforgiven Amber, as well as at least two other nice beers, and your friendly Trader Joe's, if it sells beer and wine, offers its private label Vienna Lager. Both of these are indeed coppery Vienna-style lagers, which is also the style of Oktoberfests and some Marzens and Maibocks, although Maibocks tend to be lighter in color. The grain symbol on the bottlecap of the Trader Joe's beers looks exactly like the grain symbol on the cap of one of my old favorites, Gordon Biersch Marzen, which makes me want to find out who brews the Vienna Lager for Trader Joe's. Sand Creek Brewing, in the historic plant in Black River Falls, WI, makes an excellent English-style Ale, which looks and tastes similar to some of these.
As a general rule, these beers are full of flavor but not overly heavy. They can be slightly sweet, as they will present their malty character first, but the good ones will have just enough bitterness from well-balanced hops to clean up the mouth and prevent "aftertaste," which must be somehow different from what beer lovers call "finish." Good beers of this style have plenty of finish but not a cloying aftertaste, unless you knock back a healthy number of them. And since they're not the beers with the highest alcohol content, you just might choose to do that.
I haven't seen it yet in stores, but I am looking forward to "Fighting Finches" Maibock from Tyranena Brewery in Lake Mills, WI. As I'll be going through there next Saturday on my way to Jefferson, WI, to see Bob and Lynn and play in their local Trivia contest, I plan to stop in at the tasting room and see if it's out yet, and maybe grab a growler. And I might do the same at our local brewpub, Das Bierhaus, where Robert, the German-trained brewmaster, should have either a Marzen or a Maibock, or on the happiest day both, on tap. As for tonight, there's a cellar-cooled Capital Maibock calling my name.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Patience
"Patience is a virtue" is one of the oldest of old adages. I remember my grandmother, the queen of old adages, saying this. I remember my parents saying it. I remember teachers saying it. Of course, I also remember my grandmother saying, "For the Land's sake!" And "Is that a diamond on the end of your nose? No, it's snot." And, in her dotage, mistaking me for her younger brother.
Must be a virtue I don't have.
Now there are many things that masquerade as patience. Fear is the chief among them: I don't want to fight the fellow who horned into line ahead of me, so I'll let it ride. I don't look forward to this discussion with my spouse about money, or spending, or about how the laundry is sorted, so it can wait or I'll adjust. My job sucks, but there's not much out there.
Things set aside from fear, while they may look like patience, tend to fester. They either show up at the wrong time, as when the laundry issue explodes out of context during family Christmas ("White Christmas? You wouldn't know from whites!"), or they turn into something else, such as a sudden fondness for the local German brewpub (yes, by God, Menomonie has a brewpub with a German-trained brewmaster who brews some kick-ass beers), or they lead to general shutdowns, such as a pronounced fondness for naps. While I love naps and sleeping, and sometimes list them as hobbies, there are times that they carry a whiff of depression, and caring observers may wish to intervene in some gentle fashion. Please consult with my dog and my cat for gentle but effective ways to wake me up, usually 20 minutes before the alarm goes off.
They can lead to acceptance of conditions in the workplace that might in less parlous times lead one to the exit.
Lack of concern or interest may also look like patience. "I really think this color of drapes would look better in here than these old ones." Yeah, sure. As long as they keep the sun from screwing up the game on the plasma, what the hell. Er, I mean, "of course, I think you're onto something there. We've been talking about drapes for years." Or, "I'd like to join this club that meets Thursday evenings at 7." OK, that's when my favorite show is on and you hate it. You could go to the brothel for all I care. Er, "that sounds nice. You've been saying you need an activity."
Total ignorance is one of the sadder substitutes that can pass for patience. Mine lasted for only an hour, but I remember 9/11/2001, when for an hour or so after the tragedies began unfolding, I wouldn't have advocated any reaction. Because I had no clue what was happening. I was listening to a rock station, and the last thing I heard was the closing verse of the Doors' "Roadhouse Blues": "woke up this mornin', and I got myself a beer. Well,I woke up this mornin' and I got myself a beer. The future's uncertain and the end is always near." Then I walked into work and heard that hell had come up to the surface.
Another sad mimic is a sense of helplessness, of powerlessness. "So what can I do?" "Who can stop this from happening?" They'll do it anyway. It's the way things are. Shit happens. Life's a bitch and then you die. Patience and resignation can look quite a bit alike. I can absorb this blow because I have to.
Real patience is an expression of confidence, of power. "I can let this happen because of what can be learned, because they need to go through it..." I can absorb this because when it's over, my position and everyone else's will be better. I can wait through this because the end result will be that. I can wait for you because if and when you figure it out, you'll be here with me.
Or, as in the current turmoil, the fix will not be quick, and it won't happen without everyone helping, but we can fix it. We just need diligence, time, and, uh, patience.
Must be a virtue I don't have.
Now there are many things that masquerade as patience. Fear is the chief among them: I don't want to fight the fellow who horned into line ahead of me, so I'll let it ride. I don't look forward to this discussion with my spouse about money, or spending, or about how the laundry is sorted, so it can wait or I'll adjust. My job sucks, but there's not much out there.
Things set aside from fear, while they may look like patience, tend to fester. They either show up at the wrong time, as when the laundry issue explodes out of context during family Christmas ("White Christmas? You wouldn't know from whites!"), or they turn into something else, such as a sudden fondness for the local German brewpub (yes, by God, Menomonie has a brewpub with a German-trained brewmaster who brews some kick-ass beers), or they lead to general shutdowns, such as a pronounced fondness for naps. While I love naps and sleeping, and sometimes list them as hobbies, there are times that they carry a whiff of depression, and caring observers may wish to intervene in some gentle fashion. Please consult with my dog and my cat for gentle but effective ways to wake me up, usually 20 minutes before the alarm goes off.
They can lead to acceptance of conditions in the workplace that might in less parlous times lead one to the exit.
Lack of concern or interest may also look like patience. "I really think this color of drapes would look better in here than these old ones." Yeah, sure. As long as they keep the sun from screwing up the game on the plasma, what the hell. Er, I mean, "of course, I think you're onto something there. We've been talking about drapes for years." Or, "I'd like to join this club that meets Thursday evenings at 7." OK, that's when my favorite show is on and you hate it. You could go to the brothel for all I care. Er, "that sounds nice. You've been saying you need an activity."
Total ignorance is one of the sadder substitutes that can pass for patience. Mine lasted for only an hour, but I remember 9/11/2001, when for an hour or so after the tragedies began unfolding, I wouldn't have advocated any reaction. Because I had no clue what was happening. I was listening to a rock station, and the last thing I heard was the closing verse of the Doors' "Roadhouse Blues": "woke up this mornin', and I got myself a beer. Well,I woke up this mornin' and I got myself a beer. The future's uncertain and the end is always near." Then I walked into work and heard that hell had come up to the surface.
Another sad mimic is a sense of helplessness, of powerlessness. "So what can I do?" "Who can stop this from happening?" They'll do it anyway. It's the way things are. Shit happens. Life's a bitch and then you die. Patience and resignation can look quite a bit alike. I can absorb this blow because I have to.
Real patience is an expression of confidence, of power. "I can let this happen because of what can be learned, because they need to go through it..." I can absorb this because when it's over, my position and everyone else's will be better. I can wait through this because the end result will be that. I can wait for you because if and when you figure it out, you'll be here with me.
Or, as in the current turmoil, the fix will not be quick, and it won't happen without everyone helping, but we can fix it. We just need diligence, time, and, uh, patience.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Let Me Explain
What is it that makes the Oak Tree Theory useful? Ideally, it has some predictive value: as things contract, you may assume that at some point they will again expand.
Probably more relevant is the implied availability of competitive genetic material. Once the world boils down to Miller vs. Bud, the two main antagonists are competing with each other for resources, measuring themselves against each other, and starting to look more and more like each other. But when those new acorns at the edges start to sprout, when some new mutations have a fighting chance, then more diversity enters the biosphere/marketplace. We see Bud using Michelob as a craft-brewing label, buying a stake in Redhook, bringing out Bud Select (they can't all be gems) and American Ale (but some of them can be gems). Miller wisely uses its subsidiary Leinenkugel's as its craft brewery.
It's kind of fun to make up rules about life.
Today's news: Paul Harvey died. Paul Harvey Aurandt. 90 years young. I met him: he came to autograph books at Conkey's in Appleton. A line had developed; people wanted to see the famous man. He came in the back door of the store, eyed up the crowd. He walked forward until he could just be seen, said in his trademark voice, "Oh, my," very carefully polished the toes of his shoes on the back of his pantlegs (a lost art; I can show you someday if you need to know), and strode toward the signing table with a hearty "Hello, Americans." It was hokey as hell, and perfect.
Probably more relevant is the implied availability of competitive genetic material. Once the world boils down to Miller vs. Bud, the two main antagonists are competing with each other for resources, measuring themselves against each other, and starting to look more and more like each other. But when those new acorns at the edges start to sprout, when some new mutations have a fighting chance, then more diversity enters the biosphere/marketplace. We see Bud using Michelob as a craft-brewing label, buying a stake in Redhook, bringing out Bud Select (they can't all be gems) and American Ale (but some of them can be gems). Miller wisely uses its subsidiary Leinenkugel's as its craft brewery.
It's kind of fun to make up rules about life.
Today's news: Paul Harvey died. Paul Harvey Aurandt. 90 years young. I met him: he came to autograph books at Conkey's in Appleton. A line had developed; people wanted to see the famous man. He came in the back door of the store, eyed up the crowd. He walked forward until he could just be seen, said in his trademark voice, "Oh, my," very carefully polished the toes of his shoes on the back of his pantlegs (a lost art; I can show you someday if you need to know), and strode toward the signing table with a hearty "Hello, Americans." It was hokey as hell, and perfect.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The Oak Tree Theory
I had better explain the oak tree theory. It says that of all the little trees starting out, some do better than others. They get better soil, better water, better light, or they have better genetics. After awhile these trees become larger than the others. and shade them, basically taking more of the sunlight. The others begin to die out, leaving fewer, larger trees.
This is how Random House and Doubleday end up being owned by the same German firm. This is how the US goes from 2500 breweries to 130. This is how Miller, owned by a South African firm, enters into partnerships with Coors, who is already hooked up with Molson.This is how Anheuser-Busch gets bought.
But then these large oak trees drop their acorns further and further from the trunk, and out near the edges, some new acorns can get started and acquire enough resources to become vigorous little trees. Eventually the large old trees may suffer from disease or storm, and their passing leaves their old spaces available (see: Schlitz, Stroh's). And we begin a new round, with many new trees in competition.
This is how we go from 130 breweries to over 900. This is how new publishers, and new media, got going.
It's just the circle of life.
This is how Random House and Doubleday end up being owned by the same German firm. This is how the US goes from 2500 breweries to 130. This is how Miller, owned by a South African firm, enters into partnerships with Coors, who is already hooked up with Molson.This is how Anheuser-Busch gets bought.
But then these large oak trees drop their acorns further and further from the trunk, and out near the edges, some new acorns can get started and acquire enough resources to become vigorous little trees. Eventually the large old trees may suffer from disease or storm, and their passing leaves their old spaces available (see: Schlitz, Stroh's). And we begin a new round, with many new trees in competition.
This is how we go from 130 breweries to over 900. This is how new publishers, and new media, got going.
It's just the circle of life.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Potpourri
So they found Stanford. How long does it take for the message to sink in: if it sounds too good to be true, it is? It's like the guy doing 90 down the freeway, who doesn't wonder why he's passing everyone else so vigorously and/or doesn't use the speedometer?
Speaking of driving, a longstanding pet peeve area of mine, whatever happened to the complete stop? The evil influence of Boston, where the red eight-sided signs are taken as helpful hints for drivers, has apparently spread to the rest of the nation.
In addition to the initialed diseases I mentioned awhile ago, I suffer from a couple other curious maladies. One indeed bears ititials: CRS (Can't Remember Shit). Another refers to a previous sufferer: Dunlap's Disease (my stomach done lapped over my belt...). I really did have macular pucker, otherwise known as cellophane retinopathy, but it cleared up. This, being inside the eyeball, was for a bit as great a concern as the recent urethral fun became.
And now you need to understand how the universe works, through two theories I have developed and used over the past years and which help clarify things.
First is the Souffle theory, which explains the stock market. In a souffle, there is milk, there are eggs, and there is hot air. Your challenge is to determine how much of each is out there. About eight years ago, I called 7500 as the milk-and-eggs point; that number was tested today. We'll see.
Next is the Oak Tree theory, which covers entire industries and explains contractions and expansions. The examples I have pointed to are the publishing and brewing industries.
Speaking of driving, a longstanding pet peeve area of mine, whatever happened to the complete stop? The evil influence of Boston, where the red eight-sided signs are taken as helpful hints for drivers, has apparently spread to the rest of the nation.
In addition to the initialed diseases I mentioned awhile ago, I suffer from a couple other curious maladies. One indeed bears ititials: CRS (Can't Remember Shit). Another refers to a previous sufferer: Dunlap's Disease (my stomach done lapped over my belt...). I really did have macular pucker, otherwise known as cellophane retinopathy, but it cleared up. This, being inside the eyeball, was for a bit as great a concern as the recent urethral fun became.
And now you need to understand how the universe works, through two theories I have developed and used over the past years and which help clarify things.
First is the Souffle theory, which explains the stock market. In a souffle, there is milk, there are eggs, and there is hot air. Your challenge is to determine how much of each is out there. About eight years ago, I called 7500 as the milk-and-eggs point; that number was tested today. We'll see.
Next is the Oak Tree theory, which covers entire industries and explains contractions and expansions. The examples I have pointed to are the publishing and brewing industries.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Plain Speaking?
The recent medical adventures have got me back onto a couple of things which have bugged me over the past few years. Both are related to medical advertising.
The first is hardly new: the pharmaceutical companies advertise specialized prescription medicines directly to us, the consumers. This asks us to become diagnosticians and figure out what's wrong with us, then go to our doctors and tell them what they ought to prescribe. I thought that one of the reasons to visit a doctor was to ask them to diagnose the problem and prescribe what they think is best.
This is one of the reasons I gave up years ago the reading of "popular psychology" books. I readily identified with the problems described by the authors, but didn't seem to find relief from their suggested therapies; then, on reflection, realized I didn't have the problems, or at least not too severely.
The medical advertisers accomplish somewhat the same thing. Do I have what they're describing? Hey, it kind of feels/acts like that. Maybe I'd better go ask the doctor if old XXX "is right for me." I actually got sucked into that a little bit with medications for "BPH, or enlarged prostate." All those guys, missing the fun because they had to pee. I probably should have seen a urologist much earlier in the process.
And here's our entry to the second thing that irks me. BPH (benign prostatic hypertrophy, or something like that). Maybe my knees hurt from RA (rheumatoid arthritis) as well as from the osteoarthritis that the X-rays show I've got. What about ED (erectile dysfunction)? COPD (who knows, but it means you can't breathe easily)? PAD (peripheral artery disease)? (I don't claim to have all of these.) Pretty soon I'll need a second box of Alpha-Bits to keep up with the D's.
The shortening of disease names to their initials has the effect of making these things seem less serious, less threatening. Hey, maybe with the magic medicine I can have a normal life. The initials also make it easy to slap a label on something, rather than find out the individual nature of people's problem and tailor an appropriate treatment.
I once wrote about a page and a half of a fantasy story in which place names, character names, and other elements had as their names the names of advertised drugs, mostly prescription. The brooding castle Imitrex... as I went, I began trying to attach a medicine name to a place or person somehow related to the nature of the medicine or the problem it was supposed to fix. It's been a few years, and there are many new medications - who knows, maybe they'll have a newspaper, the Daily Cialis, with, er, op-ED pieces.
The first is hardly new: the pharmaceutical companies advertise specialized prescription medicines directly to us, the consumers. This asks us to become diagnosticians and figure out what's wrong with us, then go to our doctors and tell them what they ought to prescribe. I thought that one of the reasons to visit a doctor was to ask them to diagnose the problem and prescribe what they think is best.
This is one of the reasons I gave up years ago the reading of "popular psychology" books. I readily identified with the problems described by the authors, but didn't seem to find relief from their suggested therapies; then, on reflection, realized I didn't have the problems, or at least not too severely.
The medical advertisers accomplish somewhat the same thing. Do I have what they're describing? Hey, it kind of feels/acts like that. Maybe I'd better go ask the doctor if old XXX "is right for me." I actually got sucked into that a little bit with medications for "BPH, or enlarged prostate." All those guys, missing the fun because they had to pee. I probably should have seen a urologist much earlier in the process.
And here's our entry to the second thing that irks me. BPH (benign prostatic hypertrophy, or something like that). Maybe my knees hurt from RA (rheumatoid arthritis) as well as from the osteoarthritis that the X-rays show I've got. What about ED (erectile dysfunction)? COPD (who knows, but it means you can't breathe easily)? PAD (peripheral artery disease)? (I don't claim to have all of these.) Pretty soon I'll need a second box of Alpha-Bits to keep up with the D's.
The shortening of disease names to their initials has the effect of making these things seem less serious, less threatening. Hey, maybe with the magic medicine I can have a normal life. The initials also make it easy to slap a label on something, rather than find out the individual nature of people's problem and tailor an appropriate treatment.
I once wrote about a page and a half of a fantasy story in which place names, character names, and other elements had as their names the names of advertised drugs, mostly prescription. The brooding castle Imitrex... as I went, I began trying to attach a medicine name to a place or person somehow related to the nature of the medicine or the problem it was supposed to fix. It's been a few years, and there are many new medications - who knows, maybe they'll have a newspaper, the Daily Cialis, with, er, op-ED pieces.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
What's In a Name?
One of my few readers has complained that during the entries describing my recent medical adventures, I used the word "penis" more often than was wanted.
First off, that was where the problems, both the longstanding one ostensibly under treatment and the various non-helpful bits along the way, presented themselves.
Second, that was the work site. And it was worked on by doctors, nurses, and maybe others (I was anaesthetized three times. And those tiny miners...).
Third, it was the part that should have at least smiled at the attention from all those women, but Noooo... tubes were going to go in and out of it, or were already there, and things were wrong, and it cowered in understandable fear.
But, let's see, maybe there were some other terms available: the male organ, for example, which sounds both prudish and utterly rude all at once, besides which we have a full array of organs, not just the one. Perhaps the member, or male member (what, pray tell, might be the female member? And member of what?).
I could have called it the pee-pee, which might have gotten it confused with the substance it lets out, or the wee-wee, which has the same problem. Or the wiener, which was a popular term in elementary school.
Dick. Prick. Cock. Dong. Schlong. John Thomas. One-eyed trouser snake. Rod. Hose. Tool. Etc. The secret of bodice-ripper novel writing, and some porn, was not in choosing the noun but in dropping at least two adjectives in front of it. Turgid, throbbing, engorged are just a few. Rampant manhood. You get the idea...
Or, as we did in high school, I could have named it. One fellow called his "Sock," because he claimed that's where he had to tuck it in the morning; I thought it was because he stuffed a rolled-up pair in the front of his trousers. Another name was "Charlie Brown," the poor little round-headed bald kid.
Or I could have just used some pronoun, like in the movie, "My Favorite Year." Peter O'Toole, as a washed-up actor, finds himself in the women's room. A woman comes out of the stall, sees him, and complains, "This is for ladies only." O'Toole, partly exposed (or so it's hinted), replies, "So is this, madam, but once in awhile I have to run a little water through it." The obligatory digression: this movie has been a favorite of mine for some time. The leads are O'Toole and Mark Linn-Baker (cousin Larry), who is supposed to shepherd the drunken legend O'Toole until he completes an appearance on a 50's TV show. O'Toole also delivers a line which I've stolen: after being thrown out of a New York restaurant for assorted bad behavior on some previous visit, he is greeted by the host with "Wonderful to see you again, Mr. Swan." The reply: "Wonderful to be seen." Some fine little performances, and a couple fine big ones.
I think the complaining reader would have preferred to hear much less mention of the "private part" altogether. But it's like Voldemort in the Harry Potter books: if that's what the problem is, you need to call it by name.
First off, that was where the problems, both the longstanding one ostensibly under treatment and the various non-helpful bits along the way, presented themselves.
Second, that was the work site. And it was worked on by doctors, nurses, and maybe others (I was anaesthetized three times. And those tiny miners...).
Third, it was the part that should have at least smiled at the attention from all those women, but Noooo... tubes were going to go in and out of it, or were already there, and things were wrong, and it cowered in understandable fear.
But, let's see, maybe there were some other terms available: the male organ, for example, which sounds both prudish and utterly rude all at once, besides which we have a full array of organs, not just the one. Perhaps the member, or male member (what, pray tell, might be the female member? And member of what?).
I could have called it the pee-pee, which might have gotten it confused with the substance it lets out, or the wee-wee, which has the same problem. Or the wiener, which was a popular term in elementary school.
Dick. Prick. Cock. Dong. Schlong. John Thomas. One-eyed trouser snake. Rod. Hose. Tool. Etc. The secret of bodice-ripper novel writing, and some porn, was not in choosing the noun but in dropping at least two adjectives in front of it. Turgid, throbbing, engorged are just a few. Rampant manhood. You get the idea...
Or, as we did in high school, I could have named it. One fellow called his "Sock," because he claimed that's where he had to tuck it in the morning; I thought it was because he stuffed a rolled-up pair in the front of his trousers. Another name was "Charlie Brown," the poor little round-headed bald kid.
Or I could have just used some pronoun, like in the movie, "My Favorite Year." Peter O'Toole, as a washed-up actor, finds himself in the women's room. A woman comes out of the stall, sees him, and complains, "This is for ladies only." O'Toole, partly exposed (or so it's hinted), replies, "So is this, madam, but once in awhile I have to run a little water through it." The obligatory digression: this movie has been a favorite of mine for some time. The leads are O'Toole and Mark Linn-Baker (cousin Larry), who is supposed to shepherd the drunken legend O'Toole until he completes an appearance on a 50's TV show. O'Toole also delivers a line which I've stolen: after being thrown out of a New York restaurant for assorted bad behavior on some previous visit, he is greeted by the host with "Wonderful to see you again, Mr. Swan." The reply: "Wonderful to be seen." Some fine little performances, and a couple fine big ones.
I think the complaining reader would have preferred to hear much less mention of the "private part" altogether. But it's like Voldemort in the Harry Potter books: if that's what the problem is, you need to call it by name.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
All Prudent Speed
Well, the house needs some help with the roof. Believe it or not, the roof was a key part of the whole house project, until the basement got out of control and we decided that we didn't want our (miserable lying SOB) contractor on top of our house. Yesterday was the first day both warm enough and with the sun high enough to do a little melting on the roof of our one-story back room, which of course is on the north side of the two-story house. We have had ice dam problems in the past, years ago, which caused water to back up and find its way into the roofing and eventually into our back room, dripping through the suspended ceiling. We understood that the suspended ceiling was to hide a number of sins in the plaster ceiling and the space between the roof and the ceiling. We last roofed 20 years ago; that, plus the use of heat coils on the edge of the lower roof, seemed to put a halt to the problem.
This winter has been unpleasant. Not horribly snowy: although it snowed about 15 times in December and a few in January, only one snow exceeded two inches and most were under one inch. But December and especially January were well below average in temperature - where's the global warming when you need it?!? -and we ended up with a considerable snow-and-ice pack on that back roof. Melting up near the house couldn't make it to the edge where the coils had made passageways, so when hearing the surprising and dismaying drip drip drip onto the floor of our back room, I grabbed a wastebasket and got a bucket. I took off the lovely glass lampshade from the ceiling fixture, which was only half-full of water that had trickled down the fixture... and taped the switch into the off position.
Then I went into Laura's old room upstairs and removed the inner windows, then the outer storm/screen. Thank goodness this is easy. I went out onto the back roof with a snow shovel and a little hand axe - for gentle tapping - and cleared snow away from the suspected leak site. Wendy stood inside and watched me, cajoling me to come back in. She had the phone in hand, the better to dial 911 in case my natural klutziness won out.
This was all made harder as Laura and Ross were home, and we were all dressing to attend the wedding of one of Laura's good friends. But all went well: I got the window reinstalled, and we all got ready in time. I repeated the exercise today, to make a better water pathway as rain is expected Monday and Tuesday. I have a ladder that used to be high enough to get me onto the back room roof, but after the house project, we sit about 18" higher than before and, with my fear and hatred of ladders, I can't make that work. Add a new, taller ladder to the house project expense.
Oh, and add about $1300 for our trusted occasional project contractor Eldon to go into the basement and augment the shoddy and insufficient green board and sill that the original schmuck installed, then insulate the boundary. Our new basement got down to 43 degrees F, when the outside temperature was -10, and we ended up using a fan to blow upstairs air into the basement to restore a few degrees to our floor.
And the roof still needs doing, and Laura and Ross will be married this fall... good thing I LIKE oatmeal 3 times a day and am learning to deal with cheap wine.
Eldon Hilson is a local handyman, carpenter and contractor whom we have hired from time to time to handle small projects around the house. He's the ultimate Norwegian bachelor farmer, who lived with his parents well into his adulthood and may still do so (he's my age or beyond). He has been known to delay jobs while he worked with 4-H kids on their projects. Wendy once hired him for work on our porch, and he showed up with a bill for a job he'd done 3 years previously. On a couple of our jobs, he'd finish up except for one or two last trim pieces, which we still hold onto and call "Eldonboards," and hope to get him to nail down someday. But he's honest as the day is long, and a skilled carpenter, and a good source of local gossip, so we feed him coffee and doughnuts and continue to bring him in at need.
Except that we wanted the basement done in one year, we probably should have hired him in the first place.
This winter has been unpleasant. Not horribly snowy: although it snowed about 15 times in December and a few in January, only one snow exceeded two inches and most were under one inch. But December and especially January were well below average in temperature - where's the global warming when you need it?!? -and we ended up with a considerable snow-and-ice pack on that back roof. Melting up near the house couldn't make it to the edge where the coils had made passageways, so when hearing the surprising and dismaying drip drip drip onto the floor of our back room, I grabbed a wastebasket and got a bucket. I took off the lovely glass lampshade from the ceiling fixture, which was only half-full of water that had trickled down the fixture... and taped the switch into the off position.
Then I went into Laura's old room upstairs and removed the inner windows, then the outer storm/screen. Thank goodness this is easy. I went out onto the back roof with a snow shovel and a little hand axe - for gentle tapping - and cleared snow away from the suspected leak site. Wendy stood inside and watched me, cajoling me to come back in. She had the phone in hand, the better to dial 911 in case my natural klutziness won out.
This was all made harder as Laura and Ross were home, and we were all dressing to attend the wedding of one of Laura's good friends. But all went well: I got the window reinstalled, and we all got ready in time. I repeated the exercise today, to make a better water pathway as rain is expected Monday and Tuesday. I have a ladder that used to be high enough to get me onto the back room roof, but after the house project, we sit about 18" higher than before and, with my fear and hatred of ladders, I can't make that work. Add a new, taller ladder to the house project expense.
Oh, and add about $1300 for our trusted occasional project contractor Eldon to go into the basement and augment the shoddy and insufficient green board and sill that the original schmuck installed, then insulate the boundary. Our new basement got down to 43 degrees F, when the outside temperature was -10, and we ended up using a fan to blow upstairs air into the basement to restore a few degrees to our floor.
And the roof still needs doing, and Laura and Ross will be married this fall... good thing I LIKE oatmeal 3 times a day and am learning to deal with cheap wine.
Eldon Hilson is a local handyman, carpenter and contractor whom we have hired from time to time to handle small projects around the house. He's the ultimate Norwegian bachelor farmer, who lived with his parents well into his adulthood and may still do so (he's my age or beyond). He has been known to delay jobs while he worked with 4-H kids on their projects. Wendy once hired him for work on our porch, and he showed up with a bill for a job he'd done 3 years previously. On a couple of our jobs, he'd finish up except for one or two last trim pieces, which we still hold onto and call "Eldonboards," and hope to get him to nail down someday. But he's honest as the day is long, and a skilled carpenter, and a good source of local gossip, so we feed him coffee and doughnuts and continue to bring him in at need.
Except that we wanted the basement done in one year, we probably should have hired him in the first place.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
But Life is Pretty Good, After All...
OK. Lousy contractor, bladder surgery, etc. Economy in the shitter. But hey, where's the actual pain? As of this writing, I'm employed, my wife is well employed, we have health insurance and some retirement benefits, and vacation and sick leave. Our retirement funds have lost much of their value, but they have some years ahead in which to recover somewhat. Even our discretionary investment isn't quite gone yet. The car is OK. The house...well, that's another entry, coming soon.
And, as I start toting it up, life has brought much joy and much of interest. What follows is kind of a life list, in part to remind me and in part to say, hey, cool!
I have heard President Kennedy speak, at the Air Force Academy graduation of my cousin. I've shaken hands with Jimmy Carter and Al Gore. I've heard, live, presentations by Gore, Carter and Norman Schwartzkopf. I was patted on the head by WI Governor Warren Knowles at a Packers preseason game.
Oh, yeah, I was at the Ice Bowl. December 31, 1967. 13 below at kickoff. Packers defeated Cowboys to go on to the second Super Bowl.
Musically I've done fairly well. I have heard concerts by Louis Armstrong and Ray Charles. I've been at performances by Jimmy Buffett, Willie Nelson and Peter, Paul and Mary, The Association, Tom Rush, The Mothers of Invention (three times, twice in Appleton, WI), Peter Nero, The Manhattan Boys' Choir, and several others. And I played string bass behind Doc Severinson. I've seen two performances by Mickey Hart (he was one of the drummers for the Grateful Dead) and his world percussion tours; the concert finales left their venues and closed (1) the Las Vegas Strip (all right, one lane) and (2) part of Times Square.
I've seen live comedy from George Carlin, David Brenner, George Kirby, and David Steinberg. I've met authors Paul Harvey, Isabel Allende, Jeremy Rifkin, John Ciardi and a very drunk Hunter S. Thompson. And Neil Gaiman, who's on a bit of a roll lately.
My great-uncle Chester Colgrove was written up in the Saturday Evening Post in 1949, just before he lost all the oil money. If you go back eleven generations in the Porter family, you'll find folks who fought the injustice of the Salem witch trials. My daughter is the fifth generation of my relatives to attend the University of Minnesota.
I've been to some wonderful places: Chicago, Milwaukee, Minneapolis. My house. Washington, D.C., several times and I want to go again. Cincinnati, with Mount Adams. San Antonio, especially the Riverwalk. Boston, New York. The rockbound coast of Maine. The North Shore of Lake Superior, which some say looks more like the rockbound coast of Maine than the rockbound coast of Maine. Toronto. Montreal. The moonscape of Sudbury (seriously, astronauts trained on the nickel mine tailings). Amethyst mining in Ontario. The POW camp.
The Grand Canyon. Arizona also has Mingus Mountain, Arcosanti, the Sonoran Desert Museum,, the Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest, Sedona and the Red Rocks region, Oak Creek Canyon, and some stuff by the Colorado River. Not to say Phoenix, Tempe, Monte's Steakhouse, etc., etc.
Las Vegas. Los Angeles. San Diego. Tijuana. Laguna Beach. Capitola. San Francisco. Alcatraz. The redwoods. Yosemite. Highway 101 in Oregon. California 1, for much of its length at one time or another.
Mount Rainier and Olympic national Parks in Washington, both about two hours from our apartment in Tacoma. Seattle, and Pike Place Market. The Roy Rodeo, local but great fun.
Tom and Roseanne's Big Food Diner in Eldon, Iowa. Hot Springs, Arkansas. Nauvoo, Illinois.
The Mormon Tabernacle. Lake Coeur d'Alene in Idaho, in perhaps the finest view location anywhere. Yellowstone, the Black Hills, the Badlands, Wall Drug.
And some of the places on the way: Columbus, Indiana, with its architecture; Hannibal, MO; Blanchard Caverns in Arkansas; Branson; Portsmouth, NH; Baltimore; a good deal of Florida; Mammoth Cave; and the homes and chosen restaurants of friends and relations in many great places.
England and Scotland. Paris. Germany, Austria, Switzerland. Turkey. The Dominican Republic.
Just listing these places wakes many memories - and hey, thank goodness for that - and may lead to some storytelling in future entries.
I've been to the top of the Eiffel Tower, the Space Needle, the Empire State Building. the Sears Tower and the John Hancock Building in Chicago. I've set foot in the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Caribbean, the mediterranean, and the Aegean, and Lakes Michigan and Superior. I walked across the headwaters of the Mississippi at Lake Itasca. I visited Cooperstown and the Baseball Hall of Fame.
What's most exciting about all of this is that there's so much more to do.
And, as I start toting it up, life has brought much joy and much of interest. What follows is kind of a life list, in part to remind me and in part to say, hey, cool!
I have heard President Kennedy speak, at the Air Force Academy graduation of my cousin. I've shaken hands with Jimmy Carter and Al Gore. I've heard, live, presentations by Gore, Carter and Norman Schwartzkopf. I was patted on the head by WI Governor Warren Knowles at a Packers preseason game.
Oh, yeah, I was at the Ice Bowl. December 31, 1967. 13 below at kickoff. Packers defeated Cowboys to go on to the second Super Bowl.
Musically I've done fairly well. I have heard concerts by Louis Armstrong and Ray Charles. I've been at performances by Jimmy Buffett, Willie Nelson and Peter, Paul and Mary, The Association, Tom Rush, The Mothers of Invention (three times, twice in Appleton, WI), Peter Nero, The Manhattan Boys' Choir, and several others. And I played string bass behind Doc Severinson. I've seen two performances by Mickey Hart (he was one of the drummers for the Grateful Dead) and his world percussion tours; the concert finales left their venues and closed (1) the Las Vegas Strip (all right, one lane) and (2) part of Times Square.
I've seen live comedy from George Carlin, David Brenner, George Kirby, and David Steinberg. I've met authors Paul Harvey, Isabel Allende, Jeremy Rifkin, John Ciardi and a very drunk Hunter S. Thompson. And Neil Gaiman, who's on a bit of a roll lately.
My great-uncle Chester Colgrove was written up in the Saturday Evening Post in 1949, just before he lost all the oil money. If you go back eleven generations in the Porter family, you'll find folks who fought the injustice of the Salem witch trials. My daughter is the fifth generation of my relatives to attend the University of Minnesota.
I've been to some wonderful places: Chicago, Milwaukee, Minneapolis. My house. Washington, D.C., several times and I want to go again. Cincinnati, with Mount Adams. San Antonio, especially the Riverwalk. Boston, New York. The rockbound coast of Maine. The North Shore of Lake Superior, which some say looks more like the rockbound coast of Maine than the rockbound coast of Maine. Toronto. Montreal. The moonscape of Sudbury (seriously, astronauts trained on the nickel mine tailings). Amethyst mining in Ontario. The POW camp.
The Grand Canyon. Arizona also has Mingus Mountain, Arcosanti, the Sonoran Desert Museum,, the Painted Desert, the Petrified Forest, Sedona and the Red Rocks region, Oak Creek Canyon, and some stuff by the Colorado River. Not to say Phoenix, Tempe, Monte's Steakhouse, etc., etc.
Las Vegas. Los Angeles. San Diego. Tijuana. Laguna Beach. Capitola. San Francisco. Alcatraz. The redwoods. Yosemite. Highway 101 in Oregon. California 1, for much of its length at one time or another.
Mount Rainier and Olympic national Parks in Washington, both about two hours from our apartment in Tacoma. Seattle, and Pike Place Market. The Roy Rodeo, local but great fun.
Tom and Roseanne's Big Food Diner in Eldon, Iowa. Hot Springs, Arkansas. Nauvoo, Illinois.
The Mormon Tabernacle. Lake Coeur d'Alene in Idaho, in perhaps the finest view location anywhere. Yellowstone, the Black Hills, the Badlands, Wall Drug.
And some of the places on the way: Columbus, Indiana, with its architecture; Hannibal, MO; Blanchard Caverns in Arkansas; Branson; Portsmouth, NH; Baltimore; a good deal of Florida; Mammoth Cave; and the homes and chosen restaurants of friends and relations in many great places.
England and Scotland. Paris. Germany, Austria, Switzerland. Turkey. The Dominican Republic.
Just listing these places wakes many memories - and hey, thank goodness for that - and may lead to some storytelling in future entries.
I've been to the top of the Eiffel Tower, the Space Needle, the Empire State Building. the Sears Tower and the John Hancock Building in Chicago. I've set foot in the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Caribbean, the mediterranean, and the Aegean, and Lakes Michigan and Superior. I walked across the headwaters of the Mississippi at Lake Itasca. I visited Cooperstown and the Baseball Hall of Fame.
What's most exciting about all of this is that there's so much more to do.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Peeing, Part 7
It's two weeks since the last invasion of my penis. I am going peepee in the potty like a big boy. I'm having only a few small bits pass in my urine. Sometimes those bits can re-direct the stream, so I have to pay attention. Like it says in the tavern restroom: "We aim to please. You aim, too, please." I have not had bloody urine since early the day after the last surgery. My stream is generally much better that it was before the treatment began; this means that my bladder empties more completely and faster, so I finish in the can in two minutes rather than five. And it seems that the dreaded post-pee dribble is reduced.
I had a visit today with the urologist. He says that I should notice continuing improvement as time goes by. I am still on reduced lifting for the rest of February, but not as severe as before. He says I shouldn't snowmobile or ride ATVs (I've never done either one). I should stay off the exercise bike for a couple more weeks. I am not taking either of the prescription prostate medicines I had been on, Flomax or Avodart, as they did little and their target is now about half its former size. The parts that are gone were the parts that squeezed the urethra and the parts that crowned up into my bladder, causing difficult access to the outlet. I showed him a shape about the size of a small lemon, and he said that was a good estimate of the bladder stone he removed. He had sent the bit of tissue he removed for lab work, and he told me it was not cancerous. He said my urine sample was free of bacteria, so no infection had set up shop. He gave me the OK to begin imagining using my penis for things other than peeing. And, barring any setbacks, I will see him again this summer.
Based on that last round of problems, I have a bit of lurking paranoia. But I think that I may end up winning this one. To celebrate, I think I'll have another beer.
I had a visit today with the urologist. He says that I should notice continuing improvement as time goes by. I am still on reduced lifting for the rest of February, but not as severe as before. He says I shouldn't snowmobile or ride ATVs (I've never done either one). I should stay off the exercise bike for a couple more weeks. I am not taking either of the prescription prostate medicines I had been on, Flomax or Avodart, as they did little and their target is now about half its former size. The parts that are gone were the parts that squeezed the urethra and the parts that crowned up into my bladder, causing difficult access to the outlet. I showed him a shape about the size of a small lemon, and he said that was a good estimate of the bladder stone he removed. He had sent the bit of tissue he removed for lab work, and he told me it was not cancerous. He said my urine sample was free of bacteria, so no infection had set up shop. He gave me the OK to begin imagining using my penis for things other than peeing. And, barring any setbacks, I will see him again this summer.
Based on that last round of problems, I have a bit of lurking paranoia. But I think that I may end up winning this one. To celebrate, I think I'll have another beer.
Peeing, Part 6
Let's see, continuous irrigation... ah, yes, that's where they hang a gallon bottle of sterile water on a pole - actually two, so the top one might empty out before they get back but the bottom one probably won't - and run it into the input of a three-way catheter. Then they hang the largest night bag low on the chair or bed, and hook that up to the output (the third valve is the one they use to waterfill the balloon that holds the thing in the bladder). Then they set the drip feed to high, and come back every 45 minutes to dump the night bag and throw on another gallon.
This insured that I'd have people checking on me on a regular basis, and that three shifts of nursing staff would be messing with my privates, especially when the catheter output clogged up with a few stray clots a few times. Very nice ladies, all, and to no avail versus blood and tubing. I found that I could sleep through bag changes but not clog-ups. I started out in a chair, thinking I would sleep there as it was kind of a hospital recliner, but moved to the bed when I realized that it was way adjustable.
A hospital gown trying to cover tubes hanging from one's penis is not the most elegant way to receive visitors, but my wife's friend had given her a ride to Eau Claire Tuesday evening so she (Wendy) could check on me and recover the car for her need the next day, and Susan came up along with Wendy. No, she didn't get to attend to my parts, but it took some careful blanket work to avoid frightening all three of us.
Wednesday morning, I woke up, agreed with the chaplain that a little prayer would be a good thing, and was hauled off to surgery. As they began prepping me, someone from the medical staff told me that, yes, the thing I had been unable to pass was some kind of tissue and yes, it looked like "fish bait." So my thought that it looked like a grub was close enough. After I faded out, the surgeon went in, took a look around, and removed some blood clots and the rest of the loose chunk of prostate, along with a few more stone fragments. It was brief enough: I remember seeing 7:30 before the procedure and 8:45 after. I returned to my room, got a small late breakfast, slept a bit, then they came and removed the catheter. Just before noon I was brave enough to try a whiz on my own, and was more or less successful. I had lunch, and called Wendy's friend Beth's friend Del, who had volunteered to take me home as Wendy was attending a class at the U of Minnesota. He arrived in Eau Claire, and I was allowed to walk out to his vehicle. I was home by about 1:30 p.m.
The rest of Wednesday I snoozed, drank water, and peed. Thursday morning I took Lucy the dog for her walk, and gave a surprise to Beth as we met her at the end of her dog walking. I took Thursday off, it being a day following surgery performed through my penis, and found I was doing reasonably well.
I had booked a four-day weekend to attend Trivia in Appleton, but I had been badly unnerved by the tissue obstruction in my poor penis, and Friday I postponed the decision to go or not. As it turned out, we had a visit from our dear friends Terry and Ed, formerly and still occasionally from Madison but now also from Rhinelander, who were on their way home from a visit to one of their daughters. Then the weekend was miserably cold, and I just plain wimped out. My work holiday party was Sunday night in Eau Claire, and I didn't even go to that. Now, I had been nipping at the wine bottle during the day and driving wasn't wise, and I was on a ten-pound weight limit and the party was a bowling event, so I felt doubly justified on that one.
I feel bad about missing Trivia: my health concerns weren't much of an issue through the weekend. But when you can't pee, and when you've seen blood clots and white fibrous material failing to get through your peeing parts, it can color your attitude for awhile.
During all of this, I had very little actual pain, except for those times I felt a serious need to pee and couldn't; these times were what sent me to get re-catheterized, or to the clinic, or to call the nurses to suction out the catheter. I took Vicodin for a couple days following the first surgery, for less than one day after the second, and not at all after the last one. As I may have mentioned, Vicodin is nasty in its tendency to cause constipation, and the hassle of clearing that, which took a couple days after I stopped it following the first event, influenced my choice.
Then there's the informative nature of pain. I don't like pain, and don't seek it out. I don't get S&M, or people who are into domination. I have long-term pain issues with my knees, and I try to ameliorate that. But at a certain level, pain is a meter. It lets me know how I'm doing, how things are progressing. Am I healing? Can I move the leg, or arm, or shoulder further that I could yesterday? Less far? Is the sore throat responding to the medicine? Do I know where this headache came from (hangover, maybe)? It's a bit like snow, and like sticking a ruler into it to see how much you got before firing up the snowblower. You want to get rid of it, but you want to know about it. I'm going to have to do some exercises to work out a new knee problem; I will probably do the work first, to sense how things are, then take pain relievers to get through the day.
I have had to pay a little more attention to my fluid intake. Since the first surgery, it has been valuable to run fluids through my bladder, to help flush little remnants and reduce clotting. Water is generally the best for this, but anything that makes me pee has been OK. Yes, beer is pretty good at that, and some wine, George Dickel No. 12 Tennessee Sippin' Whisky, or ouzo/raki alternated with water have helped the days go by. Coffee, juice, soda, Simply Limeade - they all serve.
This insured that I'd have people checking on me on a regular basis, and that three shifts of nursing staff would be messing with my privates, especially when the catheter output clogged up with a few stray clots a few times. Very nice ladies, all, and to no avail versus blood and tubing. I found that I could sleep through bag changes but not clog-ups. I started out in a chair, thinking I would sleep there as it was kind of a hospital recliner, but moved to the bed when I realized that it was way adjustable.
A hospital gown trying to cover tubes hanging from one's penis is not the most elegant way to receive visitors, but my wife's friend had given her a ride to Eau Claire Tuesday evening so she (Wendy) could check on me and recover the car for her need the next day, and Susan came up along with Wendy. No, she didn't get to attend to my parts, but it took some careful blanket work to avoid frightening all three of us.
Wednesday morning, I woke up, agreed with the chaplain that a little prayer would be a good thing, and was hauled off to surgery. As they began prepping me, someone from the medical staff told me that, yes, the thing I had been unable to pass was some kind of tissue and yes, it looked like "fish bait." So my thought that it looked like a grub was close enough. After I faded out, the surgeon went in, took a look around, and removed some blood clots and the rest of the loose chunk of prostate, along with a few more stone fragments. It was brief enough: I remember seeing 7:30 before the procedure and 8:45 after. I returned to my room, got a small late breakfast, slept a bit, then they came and removed the catheter. Just before noon I was brave enough to try a whiz on my own, and was more or less successful. I had lunch, and called Wendy's friend Beth's friend Del, who had volunteered to take me home as Wendy was attending a class at the U of Minnesota. He arrived in Eau Claire, and I was allowed to walk out to his vehicle. I was home by about 1:30 p.m.
The rest of Wednesday I snoozed, drank water, and peed. Thursday morning I took Lucy the dog for her walk, and gave a surprise to Beth as we met her at the end of her dog walking. I took Thursday off, it being a day following surgery performed through my penis, and found I was doing reasonably well.
I had booked a four-day weekend to attend Trivia in Appleton, but I had been badly unnerved by the tissue obstruction in my poor penis, and Friday I postponed the decision to go or not. As it turned out, we had a visit from our dear friends Terry and Ed, formerly and still occasionally from Madison but now also from Rhinelander, who were on their way home from a visit to one of their daughters. Then the weekend was miserably cold, and I just plain wimped out. My work holiday party was Sunday night in Eau Claire, and I didn't even go to that. Now, I had been nipping at the wine bottle during the day and driving wasn't wise, and I was on a ten-pound weight limit and the party was a bowling event, so I felt doubly justified on that one.
I feel bad about missing Trivia: my health concerns weren't much of an issue through the weekend. But when you can't pee, and when you've seen blood clots and white fibrous material failing to get through your peeing parts, it can color your attitude for awhile.
During all of this, I had very little actual pain, except for those times I felt a serious need to pee and couldn't; these times were what sent me to get re-catheterized, or to the clinic, or to call the nurses to suction out the catheter. I took Vicodin for a couple days following the first surgery, for less than one day after the second, and not at all after the last one. As I may have mentioned, Vicodin is nasty in its tendency to cause constipation, and the hassle of clearing that, which took a couple days after I stopped it following the first event, influenced my choice.
Then there's the informative nature of pain. I don't like pain, and don't seek it out. I don't get S&M, or people who are into domination. I have long-term pain issues with my knees, and I try to ameliorate that. But at a certain level, pain is a meter. It lets me know how I'm doing, how things are progressing. Am I healing? Can I move the leg, or arm, or shoulder further that I could yesterday? Less far? Is the sore throat responding to the medicine? Do I know where this headache came from (hangover, maybe)? It's a bit like snow, and like sticking a ruler into it to see how much you got before firing up the snowblower. You want to get rid of it, but you want to know about it. I'm going to have to do some exercises to work out a new knee problem; I will probably do the work first, to sense how things are, then take pain relievers to get through the day.
I have had to pay a little more attention to my fluid intake. Since the first surgery, it has been valuable to run fluids through my bladder, to help flush little remnants and reduce clotting. Water is generally the best for this, but anything that makes me pee has been OK. Yes, beer is pretty good at that, and some wine, George Dickel No. 12 Tennessee Sippin' Whisky, or ouzo/raki alternated with water have helped the days go by. Coffee, juice, soda, Simply Limeade - they all serve.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Peeing, Part 5
The first part of this tale is of a couple weeks of happiness with a few bumps. Like Christmas Day, when I blew out a couple of clots and sprayed pink (bloody) pee all over our host's bathroom. I cleaned up as much as I could find. Or when something the size of a dime passed through my penis, and I marveled at it, thinking that such would not have been possible for many years previously. It is a tale of ever-increasing vigilance, as restroom visits became shorter (a hoped-for benefit) but more unpredictable. It's picking up a Reader's Digest, then setting it right back down as I realized I needed some control over a formerly safe, if nearly-dead, process.
Things seemed to be progressing nicely. Clots seemed to be on the decline, and would show up every few days, and would clear acceptably. My urine remained almost entirely yellow, or even clear if I ran enough water (etc.) through. I was in Fat City, thinking that the urologist was a genius and that I had maybe waited too long to achieve this happy state.
January 20th - a day which will live in infamy (sorry, FDR). Things started out OK; even my first restroom visit at work seemed fine. WARNING: the squeamish, who should have bailed long ago, are hereby told flat out that things will get disgusting.
About noon, I felt a need to go, and went to the john. I was unable to get urine to pass, which was a bit unhappy-making, but I noticed blood dripping from my penis. OK, I thought, I have a clot which isn't quite passing yet. Sadly, I noticed this blood right after shaking some onto my pants.
I went back to my work station, trying to sit in a really inconspicuous way. After a couple hours, the urge to go returned, and I got some coverage for my position and went back to the restroom. I managed to pass a tiny bit of bloody urine, but was not getting relief from the pressure. I saw a clot trying to emerge, and was able to grab it with toilet paper and remove it.
Then I saw the thing which knocked me back. I saw a bit of white tissue, looking something like a grub, trying to emerge. I strained, I pushed, but advanced this piece of stuff only a little. My penis became directional, as if this thing was of some length and was aiming things, somewhat to the right. A small tip emerged, and I grabbed it with toilet paper and pulled, but I broke off a bit. At this point I knew I was in some trouble.
I called the Urology Clinic, and was told to get over there. I bailed from work, with excellent support from my co-workers, and drove to the clinic, about 20 minutes across Eau Claire. There, the nurse and a urologist tried, with no local anaesthetic, to get hold of the tissue and/or clots and pull them out. Getting some, they backed off and re-catheterized me, draining off a good quart of pent-up pee which was by now quite pink.
After discussion, they did a quick irrigation, which tried to extract some old clots, and set up a bag to run lots of fluid in as a rinse. Then they decided I should spend the night in the hospital, with a continuous irrigation, and would have a surgical look-see in the morning.
Things seemed to be progressing nicely. Clots seemed to be on the decline, and would show up every few days, and would clear acceptably. My urine remained almost entirely yellow, or even clear if I ran enough water (etc.) through. I was in Fat City, thinking that the urologist was a genius and that I had maybe waited too long to achieve this happy state.
January 20th - a day which will live in infamy (sorry, FDR). Things started out OK; even my first restroom visit at work seemed fine. WARNING: the squeamish, who should have bailed long ago, are hereby told flat out that things will get disgusting.
About noon, I felt a need to go, and went to the john. I was unable to get urine to pass, which was a bit unhappy-making, but I noticed blood dripping from my penis. OK, I thought, I have a clot which isn't quite passing yet. Sadly, I noticed this blood right after shaking some onto my pants.
I went back to my work station, trying to sit in a really inconspicuous way. After a couple hours, the urge to go returned, and I got some coverage for my position and went back to the restroom. I managed to pass a tiny bit of bloody urine, but was not getting relief from the pressure. I saw a clot trying to emerge, and was able to grab it with toilet paper and remove it.
Then I saw the thing which knocked me back. I saw a bit of white tissue, looking something like a grub, trying to emerge. I strained, I pushed, but advanced this piece of stuff only a little. My penis became directional, as if this thing was of some length and was aiming things, somewhat to the right. A small tip emerged, and I grabbed it with toilet paper and pulled, but I broke off a bit. At this point I knew I was in some trouble.
I called the Urology Clinic, and was told to get over there. I bailed from work, with excellent support from my co-workers, and drove to the clinic, about 20 minutes across Eau Claire. There, the nurse and a urologist tried, with no local anaesthetic, to get hold of the tissue and/or clots and pull them out. Getting some, they backed off and re-catheterized me, draining off a good quart of pent-up pee which was by now quite pink.
After discussion, they did a quick irrigation, which tried to extract some old clots, and set up a bag to run lots of fluid in as a rinse. Then they decided I should spend the night in the hospital, with a continuous irrigation, and would have a surgical look-see in the morning.
Peeing, Part 4
December 19th rolled around, and it was of course snowing again. We drove to Eau Claire in the early morning dark, and I got wired up again in the pre-op room with IVs, the much-appreciated heated blanket, etc. This surgery was to go up the urethra with a laser and fry out some of the obstacle-making parts of the prostate. "Photoselective vaporization" is the delicate medical term for burning out bits of one's interior. This was the day the urologist told my wife, but not me, that my prostate was 5 times normal size. Jeezus! If I'd known that, I'd have let him at it years sooner! Godzilla roaming around my lower peeing parts! What with the years of low PSA scores, there wasn't much thought of prostate cancer, but still...
It seemed to go well, and I went home wearing the traditional bag. This was Friday, and things seemed OK through the weekend, and the blood was way down by Monday morning, so I removed the catheter and went off to work. By the end of that day, things were coming around, and I was peeing in the potty like a big boy.
In fact, I was peeing with a vigor not seen since my pre-teen years. Over the next couple weeks, I had to re-learn some urination habits. I had to aim. I couldn't read during the process. I would be done in one minute, not four or five. Many bits of stone, blood clots, etc., were still passing and might slow or misdirect my stream at any time. You have to know that my original concern was that I could write notes and shave while slowly passing urine, and now I was dealing with springtime glacier-fed mountain streams that had no concern for limits. I spent as much time cleaning up rest rooms after myself as I had spent waiting for pee. Things, in short, were weird.
One contributor to the torrents was that I was encouraged to drink plenty of fluids, and indeed I drank much more water than usual, as well as coffee, soda, beer and wine. I tried manfully to keep up the inputs, but I did slow down in the evenings, switching to shots of tasty liqueurs in hopes of waking up less often. This was moderately successful.
I did learn to dislike Vicodin. They ought to go ahead and issue a bottle of Phillips Milk of Magnesia with each prescription. Did you know that Magnesia was in ancient Turkey? Now Manisa, this city is the home of a spiced honey that I really enjoy. Vicodin does nice things for pain but it bricks up the intestines something fierce.
It seemed to go well, and I went home wearing the traditional bag. This was Friday, and things seemed OK through the weekend, and the blood was way down by Monday morning, so I removed the catheter and went off to work. By the end of that day, things were coming around, and I was peeing in the potty like a big boy.
In fact, I was peeing with a vigor not seen since my pre-teen years. Over the next couple weeks, I had to re-learn some urination habits. I had to aim. I couldn't read during the process. I would be done in one minute, not four or five. Many bits of stone, blood clots, etc., were still passing and might slow or misdirect my stream at any time. You have to know that my original concern was that I could write notes and shave while slowly passing urine, and now I was dealing with springtime glacier-fed mountain streams that had no concern for limits. I spent as much time cleaning up rest rooms after myself as I had spent waiting for pee. Things, in short, were weird.
One contributor to the torrents was that I was encouraged to drink plenty of fluids, and indeed I drank much more water than usual, as well as coffee, soda, beer and wine. I tried manfully to keep up the inputs, but I did slow down in the evenings, switching to shots of tasty liqueurs in hopes of waking up less often. This was moderately successful.
I did learn to dislike Vicodin. They ought to go ahead and issue a bottle of Phillips Milk of Magnesia with each prescription. Did you know that Magnesia was in ancient Turkey? Now Manisa, this city is the home of a spiced honey that I really enjoy. Vicodin does nice things for pain but it bricks up the intestines something fierce.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Peeing, Part 3
This winter, 2008-09, has been a piece of crap up our way. Winter showed up right after Thanksgiving, sat down and made itself comfy, and has not let up. In Menomonie, we have not had any horrible snow events, only one over three inches, but we have had ten or eleven snows of up to two inches. One or two laid ice down on sidewalks that has not come off in several weeks, so walking sucks. And it has been colder than Toby's ass: half of January mornings have been below zero F.
My first surgery was December 9. It was snowing in the predawn dark when I drove to Eau Claire (Wendy was there, but I needed the feeling of control). Luther Hospital has these pre-surgery gowns that they blow warm air into, which are really sweet. I got all tubed up and waited. This was the day that Gov. Blagojewicz got busted, so the pre-surg TV had lots to watch.
My one-hour procedure took about two hours. It seems that my 2-inch stone was over 3 inches, and was resistant to the little tools they could send up the tube in my penis. The ultrasound. The laser. The tiny miners with pickaxes. I was mercifully well gone when this was going on. The doctor showed Wendy a tube full of rubble that had been my bladder stone. My best estimate of the size of this thing is maybe a small dinner roll, or an average lemon.
I went home with my first-ever catheter and bag. I was off work for a couple days, and went to see the doctor on Thursday, two days after the surgery. He removed the catheter, which showed me how easy it is to remove them, and althought I was still passing some blood, we headed for home.
Something wasn't quite right. I couldn't get urine to pass, bloody or not, and I was pushing fluids as ordered, and something had to give. I went to Urgent Care at our local clinic and got a catheter re-inserted. This involved more ladies (medical staff) mucking with my penis, and again any joy of that was wiped out by fear an concern for what was wrong.
I began to grow used to the bag. There was the leg bag, good only for a couple hours but discreet under the pants leg. I could walk the dog. No, there was no freezing even in the bitter cold. There was the night bag, which hung neatly on the stand next to my recliner. Don't have to pee, just glance at the bag.
Sunday, I removed the catheter myself. Maybe I'd be okay and be ready for work on Monday.
As it turned out, not so. I couldn't pee. And by the time I figured this out, we missed Urgent Care by half an hour and had to go to Emergency to have yet another catheter installed. Yes, more ladies mucking with my penis, and yes, fear still in control.
Word of these sad developments led the fine folks from the urologist to move my second procedure up from Jan. 16 to D ec. 19. The idea was that the enlarged prostate was not allowing post-surgical debris to make it to the mouth of the urethra.
In the meantime, I worked for several days wearing the leg bag. Instead of requesting a "potty break," I would ask for a "bag break," and go "tap off a little." As discomfiting a notion as catheterization is, the reality is that it's not the worst way to go and that there's some convenience involved. Arriving home, I'd switch into the "night bag," and I could see when it was necessary to drain it.
My first surgery was December 9. It was snowing in the predawn dark when I drove to Eau Claire (Wendy was there, but I needed the feeling of control). Luther Hospital has these pre-surgery gowns that they blow warm air into, which are really sweet. I got all tubed up and waited. This was the day that Gov. Blagojewicz got busted, so the pre-surg TV had lots to watch.
My one-hour procedure took about two hours. It seems that my 2-inch stone was over 3 inches, and was resistant to the little tools they could send up the tube in my penis. The ultrasound. The laser. The tiny miners with pickaxes. I was mercifully well gone when this was going on. The doctor showed Wendy a tube full of rubble that had been my bladder stone. My best estimate of the size of this thing is maybe a small dinner roll, or an average lemon.
I went home with my first-ever catheter and bag. I was off work for a couple days, and went to see the doctor on Thursday, two days after the surgery. He removed the catheter, which showed me how easy it is to remove them, and althought I was still passing some blood, we headed for home.
Something wasn't quite right. I couldn't get urine to pass, bloody or not, and I was pushing fluids as ordered, and something had to give. I went to Urgent Care at our local clinic and got a catheter re-inserted. This involved more ladies (medical staff) mucking with my penis, and again any joy of that was wiped out by fear an concern for what was wrong.
I began to grow used to the bag. There was the leg bag, good only for a couple hours but discreet under the pants leg. I could walk the dog. No, there was no freezing even in the bitter cold. There was the night bag, which hung neatly on the stand next to my recliner. Don't have to pee, just glance at the bag.
Sunday, I removed the catheter myself. Maybe I'd be okay and be ready for work on Monday.
As it turned out, not so. I couldn't pee. And by the time I figured this out, we missed Urgent Care by half an hour and had to go to Emergency to have yet another catheter installed. Yes, more ladies mucking with my penis, and yes, fear still in control.
Word of these sad developments led the fine folks from the urologist to move my second procedure up from Jan. 16 to D ec. 19. The idea was that the enlarged prostate was not allowing post-surgical debris to make it to the mouth of the urethra.
In the meantime, I worked for several days wearing the leg bag. Instead of requesting a "potty break," I would ask for a "bag break," and go "tap off a little." As discomfiting a notion as catheterization is, the reality is that it's not the worst way to go and that there's some convenience involved. Arriving home, I'd switch into the "night bag," and I could see when it was necessary to drain it.
Peeing, Part 2
The urologist is a smallish fellow, about my age, very tidy (encouraging in a urologist) and given to bowties. "Why are you here?" "I'd like to pee better." "You're in the right place." This was in October (2008).
His first discovery, from a urine sample, was a raging bladder or prostate infection, of unknown duration but possibly laying there for a long time. He put me on a combo drug (antibiotic plus, including sulfa which is mainly used these days for prostate infections) for a month. He told me that prostate infections are very stubborn and notoriously under-treated, which made me think that I might have been harboring this little bugger for maybe years.
After this course of treatment, from which I noticed some small improvement, I went back for an actual exam. This was the day on which things started getting personal and weird. First off, nurses started attending to my penis. One was very nice, and the other quite attractive, but when they told me that the doctor intended to shove a tube up my penis to have a look around in my bladder, and began buttering me up with the local anaesthetic, fear took over.
The doctor inserted the tube, with surprisingly little sensation, and showed me my bladder with a mini camera. We saw bumps where my enlarged prostate was a problem, and we discovered a stone in my bladder, built from various precipitated minerals, of some significant size. We thought the stone was about 5 centimeters (2 inches) long, and it looked to be dark mineral with some funny flaky stuff around it. Yes, I saw this live on a monitor. No, I didn't feel it.
I learned that one of the effects of the enlarged prostate was that my bladder wouldn't completely empty, that this probably contributed to the growth of the stone, and that we needed to take some action to remove these obstacles.
Two surgeries were scheduled: the first, done with a scope up my penis, would blast apart the stone and remove the pieces; the second, after the bleeding settled so the field of vision was clear, and also with a scope up my penis, would use a "green light" laser to fry ("photoselective vaporization") parts of my prostate gland and open the bladder and urethra for easy urine passage. These were to be outpatient surgeries, in that morning, home by afternoon, next day off, etc.
His first discovery, from a urine sample, was a raging bladder or prostate infection, of unknown duration but possibly laying there for a long time. He put me on a combo drug (antibiotic plus, including sulfa which is mainly used these days for prostate infections) for a month. He told me that prostate infections are very stubborn and notoriously under-treated, which made me think that I might have been harboring this little bugger for maybe years.
After this course of treatment, from which I noticed some small improvement, I went back for an actual exam. This was the day on which things started getting personal and weird. First off, nurses started attending to my penis. One was very nice, and the other quite attractive, but when they told me that the doctor intended to shove a tube up my penis to have a look around in my bladder, and began buttering me up with the local anaesthetic, fear took over.
The doctor inserted the tube, with surprisingly little sensation, and showed me my bladder with a mini camera. We saw bumps where my enlarged prostate was a problem, and we discovered a stone in my bladder, built from various precipitated minerals, of some significant size. We thought the stone was about 5 centimeters (2 inches) long, and it looked to be dark mineral with some funny flaky stuff around it. Yes, I saw this live on a monitor. No, I didn't feel it.
I learned that one of the effects of the enlarged prostate was that my bladder wouldn't completely empty, that this probably contributed to the growth of the stone, and that we needed to take some action to remove these obstacles.
Two surgeries were scheduled: the first, done with a scope up my penis, would blast apart the stone and remove the pieces; the second, after the bleeding settled so the field of vision was clear, and also with a scope up my penis, would use a "green light" laser to fry ("photoselective vaporization") parts of my prostate gland and open the bladder and urethra for easy urine passage. These were to be outpatient surgeries, in that morning, home by afternoon, next day off, etc.
Peeing, Part 1
One of the wonderful things about ones own blog is that one can put anything out there, and readers are at their peril.
This tale begins many years ago, when I began having dreams about peeing. No, I didn't wet the bed as an adult (well, there was the one time after dozens of beers, and I'm not really sure but I was still on the floor and the carpet was...) but I would dream about things going on all around me, about buildings falling apart, about places flooding, and I was standing, peeing, and i couldn't do anything about whatever was happening until I finished peeing, and I would never finish peeing.
If you saw the Lord of the Rings first movie and remember the part when they went through the Mines of Moria, with the rotten tunnels and collapsing staircases, I had a dream which put me in a place like that - years before the movie - and things were collapsing like that, and I was peeing at some restroom at the top of one of those staircases, and I couldn't leave until I was done...
At any rate, about seven years ago, I was about to have my first colonoscopy (last mention of that end) when I came up with a major peeing issue. It was diagnosed as an infection, and was treated for a week, and things went on. There had been some decline in pee volume for a few years before that, but this caught my attention.
Over the past years, I have asked my GP about the peeing thing. We have tried Flomax, a prescription drug which is supposed to help relax certain muscles involved with the prostate and peeing. We have tried Avodart, which is supposed to help to shrink an enlarged prostate. The GP kept trying to describe my prostate in "don't worry" terms such as "enlarged," "big," and "let me see if I can figure out how big this thing is," the last of which is of no comfort when his finger is up my ass.
My father used to tell the story of his first prostate exam. "Let's see... he told me to bend over the edge of the table... I heard the snap of the rubber gloves... he put one hand on my shoulder to brace me up... he put the other hand on my shoulder to brace me up... ... ... why, that dirty son of a..."
This fall, when it was clear that neither of the prescription drugs was doing anything in particular to relieve my urinary distress ( slow stream, difficulty starting, difficulty maintaining, waking up a lot in the night, etc.), we decided on a referral to a urologist.
This tale begins many years ago, when I began having dreams about peeing. No, I didn't wet the bed as an adult (well, there was the one time after dozens of beers, and I'm not really sure but I was still on the floor and the carpet was...) but I would dream about things going on all around me, about buildings falling apart, about places flooding, and I was standing, peeing, and i couldn't do anything about whatever was happening until I finished peeing, and I would never finish peeing.
If you saw the Lord of the Rings first movie and remember the part when they went through the Mines of Moria, with the rotten tunnels and collapsing staircases, I had a dream which put me in a place like that - years before the movie - and things were collapsing like that, and I was peeing at some restroom at the top of one of those staircases, and I couldn't leave until I was done...
At any rate, about seven years ago, I was about to have my first colonoscopy (last mention of that end) when I came up with a major peeing issue. It was diagnosed as an infection, and was treated for a week, and things went on. There had been some decline in pee volume for a few years before that, but this caught my attention.
Over the past years, I have asked my GP about the peeing thing. We have tried Flomax, a prescription drug which is supposed to help relax certain muscles involved with the prostate and peeing. We have tried Avodart, which is supposed to help to shrink an enlarged prostate. The GP kept trying to describe my prostate in "don't worry" terms such as "enlarged," "big," and "let me see if I can figure out how big this thing is," the last of which is of no comfort when his finger is up my ass.
My father used to tell the story of his first prostate exam. "Let's see... he told me to bend over the edge of the table... I heard the snap of the rubber gloves... he put one hand on my shoulder to brace me up... he put the other hand on my shoulder to brace me up... ... ... why, that dirty son of a..."
This fall, when it was clear that neither of the prescription drugs was doing anything in particular to relieve my urinary distress ( slow stream, difficulty starting, difficulty maintaining, waking up a lot in the night, etc.), we decided on a referral to a urologist.
I hope I'm Welcome Back
Okay. The big story of the house fell apart. The house has not done so. Quite. Yet. I will eventually spin out the rest of that tale.
In the meantime, something else engaged my attention. I will post this as an announcement and a warning. The next parts of the tale will involve some medical stuff about private parts, and blood, and tubing, and other generally disgusting stuff. I will tell you that it needs to be written, but you may choose to skip through as you need to.
I also hope to come out of the funk that both the house and the medical thing have helped build. If I can do so, the blog will be back on a semi-regular basis, and maybe I will learn and grow.
In the meantime, something else engaged my attention. I will post this as an announcement and a warning. The next parts of the tale will involve some medical stuff about private parts, and blood, and tubing, and other generally disgusting stuff. I will tell you that it needs to be written, but you may choose to skip through as you need to.
I also hope to come out of the funk that both the house and the medical thing have helped build. If I can do so, the blog will be back on a semi-regular basis, and maybe I will learn and grow.
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