Lido Shuffle

Interesting event on Tuesday: As we docked, a small brown critter decided to come up to the ship, hoping for asylum or something like that; a chase involving port and ship staff, along with hilarity, ensued.

My initial thought was that the critter was a weasel of some sort or maybe Rob Ford, former mayor of Toronto.  Further investigation identified the Canadian resident more specifically as a mink.  Which is a type of weasel, of the non-politician breed.  Anyway, we don’t know what happened to him/her, although the consensus was that it eventually stopped trying to get on the Voldemort and headed back into the woods.  Or to Toronto.  To do more mink-esque things.

On an unrelated note, Ms. Rivers sometimes has trouble pronouncing non-Anglo-Saxon words/names.  Case in point:  She was pronouncing “Goombah”, the Italian-American slang word for friend, as sounding like “Gum-ba”.  A more recent example was the pronunciation of “Lido” (as in the Lido deck of this ship) as “Lie-Dough”.  As a service, I played the Boz Scaggs song Lido Shuffle for her in order to make the point about proper pronunciation.  Now it’s important to note that she is SIGNIFICANTLY more cultured than I am…to the point of me sometimes being Beavis to her Daria…so in totality, this is about all she can ever hope to learn from me.  But at least it’s something.

Getting back to cruise notes, Wednesday, August 12^th was spent in Syndey, Cape Brenton Island, Nova Scotia.  Prior to this trip I had never heard of the place.  It strikes me as being kind of like the lessor achieving brother of Prince Edward Island.  Some of the views were very scenic…

…reminding me of what one would see in Maine.  We also visited a museum dedicated to Alexander Graham Bell.  Honestly, I didn’t know he was Canadian.  That previous sentence is probably the most American phrase I will utter during the entire trip.  The museum was small, but informative, and like most things Canadian, impeccably clean and the staff was very friendly.

Speaking of Canadians being kind and friendly, on Tuesday we stopped at a kind of tourist-y store where I proceeded to look for AA batteries (needed for the mouse I am using on this trip).  They only had AAA.  However, the store owner insisted on going back to her storeroom and scrounging up two slightly used AAs for me.  She would not take any money for them, but we settled on my making a 5 Canadian dollar donation to her cat fund (she told me she had 4 cats).  Reason #458 why I love Canada.

Special note about Canadian tour-guides in these here parts:  They seem almost genetically compelled to sing while guiding groups on a bus.  I am not joking.  I am also not complaining, as so far, I’ve heard far worse coming out of my own mouth, but it does seem kind of strange.  I wonder if they take request?  Maybe next time I can ask for “Fly By Night” by Rush (after all, we are in Canada…), although based on experience to date, they would likely insist on singing it in Gaelic. 

All things considered, Wednesday was a lighter day activity wise.  While on Tuesday we walked over 16,000 steps, Wednesday was half that total.  It’s all good though, as none of those steps on either day were for purposes of earning a living.    

Speaking of earning a living, part of what I want to do on the trip, inside of my head, is ponder my working future.  Do I want to retire sooner or wait longer?  The head and the heart aren’t all that misaligned on this topic, yet there is something in the larger equation of it all that I don’t understand.  A kind of “dark matter” that is influencing how I feel (just as dark matter in the universe influences other things), but yet I can’t quite understand it.  Understanding is a big deal to me.  How big of a deal?  Well let’s put it this way:  I greatly admire folks who possess true faith, as in the ability to believe in the absence of empirical evidence (which is why I find Anne Lamott’s books so compelling).  This is a gift I mostly lack.  At some point though, I will need to make a leap of faith when it comes to my working life.  It’s more a question of when than why or how.

Next stop? Halifax, Nova Scotia.  

 

In the Strangest of Places there is Sometimes Truth to be Found

I've been wanting to post this for a while.  Not necessarily to share it, but more so that I can have it.  Some things are just worth keeping.

I am a big fan of the FX television series "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia".  It is an absurd, often times raunchy, off-beat show; a kind of "If the people in the TV show Friends were scumbags".  You can watch the whole series, as I have, via Hulu (and likely other streaming platforms).  You can learn more about the series HERE.

Towards the very end of the last episode, there was a scene that I was completely unprepared for; granted that there is a lot that comes out of left field when it comes to Always Sunny...think guns, drinking green paint, huffing, rum ham, crowtein, anything MyPoyles related, etc.  Yet what I saw in the scene, well, it actually meant a lot to me.  

By way of set-up, the character Charlie finally meets his actual father, who then dies.  Charlie goes on a quest to honor a tradition that involves taking his father's body to a certain place.  Here's the scene...

...I could have said most of those words about my own father.

Legacies are complicated things.  

Glittering Prizes and Endless Compromises

I love the song "Spirit of Radio" by Rush.  

Mind you that this has nothing really to do with the posting, but that doesn't change the fact that it's a great song.

By way of actual intention, consider this to be something of an update of sorts to my last posting.  To that point, I can report that a week + from the surgery that I am pretty close to being back to normal, with a few exceptions noted.  These include the fact that I will continue to be under lifting restrictions for a while to come and not being able to wear pants that have a belt is something of a challenge. I can live with both, by the way, thanks in part to my having stocked up on sweat and parachute pants.  Ms. Rivers also continues to ground me in reality every time I propose to do something stupid.  Which is often.

In hindsight, this has been more difficult than I imagined.  While I expected some pain after the main event, it ended up being more significant than I thought.  Not unmanageable, by any stretch, but more than I expected.  I'm talking about three nights sleeping in a chair, uncomfortable as it was.  And I hate sleeping in a chair, for the record.  The Hillbilly Heroin prescribed for the first three nights (well enough to cover three nights...) was helpful, but doing even the most basic things was a chore.  Now, the baseline level of pain is more like a mild discomfort, and I more or less don't get the throbbing pain from strenuous acrobatic activities such as "getting up" and "standing".  As I told someone at work, it feels like I have been getting better at a rate of about 5% per day.

Ms. Rivers and I, both being older than younger, still remember a time when these types of things resulted in overnight hospital stays.  To be honest, and fully in hindsight, I don't know that being in a hospital overnight or longer would have sped up my recovery.  This is in part due to the fact that your average hospital is in fact one of the least restful places you can find yourself at any given time.  This is out of necessity, which I get, but while sleeping in a chair at home I don't have to hear a buzzer coming from another room (for example).  And the lights are off.  What the same day surgery thing does require is a bit of diligence and reading comprehension, which makes me wonder why it apparently is as successful as it appears to be, but who am I to argue with success?  I just know that I am a rule-follower by design, so if the instructions say "don't peel your wound-glue like Elmers off your finger tips" then I gladly obey.

Productivity is down.

I have not been nearly as productive as I would normally be, which seems equal parts realistic and a non-event to everyone but me.  Being a rule-follower (as noted above), I have been pretty good at not exceeding the lifting limit placed on me, although I also confess to actually weighing a few things to see if I could get it to slide under the limit.  This is an example in action of the guilt I feel at not always being able to do things, to pull my weight, if you will.  In the far, dark corners of my head I can hear my mother yelling about my just laying around.  In my case now though I would have Ms. Rivers yelling about my doing too much (she actually doesn't yell...she doesn't have to...but it is a kind of motivational equivalency).  

As to what I have been up to, well, I finished watching all 17 seasons of "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia".  Great show, by the way.  

And yesterday I picked up leaves from the front of the house (all while not lifting more than 10 pounds).  And I've done some online shopping.  That's about it.  That's about enough as well.

Lastly, thank you to all who wished me well, checked in on me or otherwise sent good vibes my way.  Every word or comment has been deeply appreciated.  

Tube Time

An actual joke I told the nurses who wheeled me into the procedure room for a recent combination endoscopy and colonoscopy...

Q:  What's the difference between the tubes used for a colonoscopy and an endoscopy?

A:  The taste.

I know, that's pretty horrible, but consider the fact that it's pretty darn hard to come up with an "endoscopy/colonoscopy" joke.  And yes, I actually came up with that all on my own.

What's definitely not a joke is the fact that I had been trying to get this procedure done since early 2000, and have endured more reschedules than Walmart has endured employee class-action lawsuits (I know, HR humor isn't very funny either).  Up until the actual event, my last procedure date was supposed to be July 29th, which got rescheduled a week beforehand to today.  For the record, anyone who thinks that COVID is no longer an issue in this country needs their head examined.

So what have I learned from this whole experience, outside of the fact that COVID is alive and well, still wreaking havoc with healthcare?

First, I shouldn't give driving directions while still under the lingering effects of sedation.  I actually had Ms. Rivers driving in circles around Scranton for a bit on the way home.

Second, I need to think long and hard about what happens next.  For example, they want to do another colonoscopy in a year, mostly because, in their estimation, my prep wasn't very good this time around.  I will note that following the rules was burned into me from an early age.  I followed the prep instructions to the letter.  Upon hearing this, one of the staff at the hospital suggested that I may need to do two days of prep for "2022 Colonoscopy 2.0".  This is where the "think long and hard" part comes into play.  At this stage, I am unwilling to do that; while my opinion could change, I doubt it will.  If you've ever been through colonoscopy prep you will know why.  I'll certainly consider other options, such as maybe different prep potions, but two days of broth, Gatorade, and orange jello?  I don't think so.

Third, the older you get, the more you think about the mortal coil.  My test results were not great, but, I am sure they could be much, much worse.  For example, the newly decreed lifetime forever ban on all things Advil (and its various cousins) will be a pain in my head, but if it stops some degree of gut rot, well, it's probably worth it.  Other things will not be quite so simple, such as potentially altering my diet away from that of an average 12-year-old boy and more towards that of a 58-year-old boy.

Finally, it's all so very, very tiring.  As noted above, I have been trying to get these tests done since 2000.  Now that it's over, well, I am just fatigued, both physically (from the IV joy juice they gave me) and mentally (all that time spent beforehand thinking about this, and the prospect of having other things to think about after the fact).  In the final analysis, though, this is life, which reminds me of the fact that the older I get, the more the John Mellencamp song Minutes to Memories makes sense.  

"There are no free rides, no one said it'd be easy"...

"The"

Many years ago, when Ms. Rivers and I first started dating (that sounds pathetic coming from someone who isn't in their 20's or younger, but so I digress), I remember her telling me that she would not allow her sons to watch "The Family Guy".  Given the content of the show, I was hardly in a position to argue the point.  That, however, hasn't been what's stuck with me all these years later.

Before I go further, to make sense of this posting, the first thing you need to realize that the show is actually titled...

Family Guy

-not-

The Family Guy

The second thing to know is that the moment I find something off-beat and funny, well, I'll literally beat it to death to the point of being ridiculous. 

To that second point, all these years later, I've taken to adding random "The" to things.  For example...

Today we are going to the Philadelphia

Where the show "It's Always Sunny in the Philadelphia" takes place

Last Sunday I had the Turkey Loaf for dinner

I got my younger stepson a vintage poster from the Supertramp for his bedroom

I enjoy listening to a CD from the Roxette on my drive to work

I have a great family doctor at the Geisinger

My younger stepson likes it when his Mom makes the eggs in a hole for breakfast

The odder the place where I can insert a "the", well, the better.  Why?  I can't really explain why, other than the fact that in some small way it amuses me and that I always need to have lots of different things pinging around in my head at any given time, including finding odd places where I can insert a "the".  Fortunately, Ms. Rivers is pretty tolerant of my rampant silliness.  Given the other myriad of things I could be doing, well, this seems like a minor inconvenience.

On a happier note, it's almost the 2021, which is truly good news.

50 Shades of Elvis

Well, actually more like 8.

File this one under the category of "For no reason other than to just entertain me".

I'm convinced that, when you talk about the late Elvis Presley, it's simply not right to describe him in the singular.  In point of fact, I think there are actually 8 Elvises(1).  Allow me to explain.

Elvis #1:  Growing Up Elvis

This is the Elvis before there was an Elvis.  The blonde Elvis.  The Elvis with the burgeoning and almost un-natural attachment to his momma.  This the Elvis up until he made that initial recording at Sun Records (for, you guessed it, his momma).

Elvis #2:  Initial Fame Elvis

This is the "shaking his hips on national television and causing a commotion" Elvis.  The Elvis when most people think about Elvis.  The "Love me tender..." Elvis.  This is the epitome of all Elvis.

Elvis #3:  Army Elvis

This is Elvis when he joined the United States Army, stationed in Germany.  The Elvis who, while old enough to be in the Army, developed an almost un-natural attachment for a 14-year-old named Priscilla, who would later go on to be his wife " 'cilla".  This is the "your career is over" Elvis.  

Yet, life could not keep an Elvis down.    

Elvis #4:  Movie Elvis

This is the Elvis that made countless crappy movies, where Elvis always played a quasi-heroic outsider type who manages to save the day through elaborately staged 50's-era rock and roll songs.  Having seen a few Elvis movies myself, I defy anyone to binge-watch all of the Elvis movies and come out of the experience with most of their sanity in-tact.

Elvis #5:  '68 Comeback Special Elvis

This is the black leather-clad Elvis who, tired of repeating the same movie over and over again like some endless run of Home Improvement episodes, decided(2) to get back to his roots.

Want more '68 Comeback Special Elvis?  Click HERE. 

Elvis#6:  Vegas Act Elvis (a.k.a. In The Ghetto Elvis)

This is the "okay, I am a singer again, so now what?" Elvis.  The Elvis who wasn't capable of being a contemporary of artists such as The Beatles.  The Elvis who apparently discovered plus-sized rhinestone jumpsuits and had a flair for belts only slightly smaller than your average World Wrestling Federation champtionship belt.  The Elvis who fancied himself a gun-tot'n real G-man and developed an unnatural affinity for, of all people, Richard Nixon.

("Nilvis" from Wikipedia)

This is also the "In the Ghetto" Elvis.  Seriously, listen to the song.  This song should be an auditory aid when teaching the concept of insincerity to junior high school students.

Elvis#7:  Dead on the Throne Elvis

This is the Elvis who died on the toilet at age 42.  The Elvis who technically suffered from cardiac arrest as a cause of death, but given the circumstances, including his insatiable appetite for certain drugs, it's not much of a stretch to come to the conclusion that Elvis actually died from chronic constipation(3).  That's a crappy way to die(4). 

More on the death of Elvis, all be it a sanitized version, can be found HERE.

Elvis#8:  Revisionist History Elvis

This is the Elvis of Graceland.  The Elvis of countless impersonators.  The Elvis of legend and lore.  The Elvis that didn't have an unnatural affinity for his momma, didn't date a minor, didn't have Col. Tom Parker strong-arm songwriting credits away from actual song-wrinters(5) and wasn't the demanding customer of proto-Dr.Feelgood drug-dealer Doctor Nicky(6). 

A final note of sorts:  

I don't dislike Elvis.  I really don't.  I grew up listening to some of his music, and as noted above, I've seen far too many Elvis movies (a.k.a. Elvis#4) in my life.  I'll also note that, when you look at what this guy packed into a life of 42 years, well, it's nothing short of truly amazing.  

However (and you knew there was a "however" coming), the notion of what Elvis represents does bother me.  This includes what's already been mentioned in this posting plus his cultural appropriation (and sanitization) of The Blues and the willful ignorance of those who admire him.  Yes, I know we are all flawed as human beings, but if you are going to stake your livelihood on being such a public person, you had better be prepared for the accompanying scrutiny.  When you look at the life of Elvis, well, it's actually not always such a pretty picture.

Thank You.  

Thank You Very Much.

* * * * * *

(1) The correct plural of "Elvis" is "Elvises", not "Elvii, although I will note that "Elvii" would sound much better.  Citation HERE.

(2) When using a phrase like "Elvis decided..." it's important to remember that, outside of say dating a 14-year-old while an adult, Elvis didn't make a ton of actual decisions himself.  The man behind the curtain was his manager/svengali, "Colonel" Tom Parker.  More on "The Colonel" can be found HERE.

(3) Modern medicine is a great thing.  While many medications provide a tremendous service to us, some work, in part, by disrupting the connections between nerves and your brain.  A side effect though is that they also disrupt some of the nerve signals in your digestive system, resulting in, among other things, chronic and debilitating constipation.

(4) With apologies for the bad pun, but come on, this is a posting about Elvis Presley for Pete's sake. Potty humor is to be expected.  Sh*t, I did it again.

(5) Basicly, Elivs' manager would force songwriters to give Elvis partial songwriting credit in exchange for recording their music.  Citation HERE.

(6) Dr. Nicky refers to the real-life doctor George C. Nichopoulos, who effectively was the Official Elvis Dope-Dealer.  "DrFeelgood" refers to a terrific song by Motley Crue (see hyperlink).

Life with Walleye Vision

I've always been this way.

(Guess which one is me, pre-eye surgery)

The comment "Walleye Vision" came in jest from a co-worker in the early '90s.  I didn't actually mind.  In fact, though, Walleye Vision is a real medical term that refers to something called "exotropia".  More on that in a moment.

I speak, of course, about my eyes.  My peepers.  Make that my "admittedly malfunctioning" eyes.  I was born with a condition that basically prevents me from focusing both eyes at the same time.  The diagnosis of it all breaks down something like this, from general to specific:

Strabismus 

(literally "to squint")

Amblyopia 

("lazy eye")

Exotropia 

("eyes pointing outward")

Just to make things even more interesting, one of my eyes is near-sighted and the other is far-sighted, which I understand is not uncommon in cases such as mine.

So, how is my vision anyway?

Well first the bad:  I really can't see out of both eyes at the same time, and as a result, I have poor depth perception.  Where "bad" means that, for example, as a kid, I would occasionally walk into parking meters in downtown Scranton.  3D movies?  They just look dark and blurry, even with the glasses on.  Suffice to say, having a backup camera on my truck is a godsend.  If you want to get a sense as to how I actually see the world, this is something of an approximation:

(from https://www.nvisioncenters.com/conditions/amblyopia/)

The not so bad?  My eyes, individually, have fairly good corrected vision.  As in they work individually well when I am wearing my glasses.  They just don't work well together.  Kind of like the Beatles, circa 1969.

Music references aside, I can sense that my non-focusing (at the moment) eye sees things, but that visual is almost not there.  It's easy to tell which eye is the "working" one, by the way, as it will be the eye focusing forward; the other eye will have moved off to the side somewhere.  It may appear that I am looking sideways, but the reality is that the sideways looking eye can't see (much of) anything.

There are some additional things that go with this whole hot mess, including:

• A strong propensity towards vision-induced headaches*
• Near constant eyestrain (see the first bullet)
• Chronic bloodshot eyes (no, I have not been drinking)
• Not the best nighttime vision (I'm not sure why)
• Blurry vision when I am tired (not all that uncommon)
• A complete and utter inability to draw a straight line (I have a lot of company)
• On rare occasion, double-vision (not fun when you are 5 years old; see below)

(*) Basically, I take enough in the way of painkillers that it's a small wonder my blood clots at all. 

Growing up I knew my eyes were different.  Having had two surgeries (at about ages 5 & 6) and occasionally having to wear an eye patch provided me with that clue.  There was also the time when I was pretty sick with a fever and a bad case of double vision, with objects being distorted, seeming to move towards me, and then fall into the background.  That particular episode was horror-movie quality, at least for a 5-year-old.  For the most part though, I didn't catch much in the way of grief from other kids.  Oddly enough, as someone who was self-conscious about almost everything, my eyes didn't cause me all that much stress.

As I got older, it wasn't until my 30's that I actually began to find out what was medically wrong with my eyes.  Not that it mattered all that much by that point.  My main concern was that my vision not get any worse, which thankfully has not been the case.  Technically speaking, my vision has gotten better over the years.  Individually.  In each eye.  These days, my primary vision concern is the fact that I have a freckle inside my left eyeball (a Choroidal Nevus) that needs to be monitored.  Worst case...to the tune of about a less than 1% chance...is that I end up with eyeball cancer, but there's a silver lining with that one:  I'd lose the eye, but gain a really cool pirate eye-patch or, even better, a glass eyeball that I could take out and amaze grandchildren with when that time comes.  Needless to say, I've already had plenty of practice when it comes to only looking out of one eye.

   

In the end, well, we all have these little (and not so little) idiosyncrasies that make us unique.  There's no sense wishing that we were somehow not so different because the wisdom of getting older teaches us that we're all the same in being different anyway.  And that's okay.  

Exile on Corona Street, Day 15

(Some Sound Advice)

It's Day 15 and there is no sign that the pandemic crisis is going to let up any time soon.  While that's far from good news, the reality is that fortunately, the fatality rate for Covid-19 is still relatively low in the United States, at about 1.96%.  Granted that any fatality is bad, especially when it is someone we know.  At this stage though, we need to hang onto any bit of hope we can get.

On a related note, it does appear that the fatality rate varies wildly between states in this country.  For example (all data from THIS site, as of 4:45pm on March 31, 2020):

Louisiana:  4.6%

Georgia:  3.4%

Michigan:  2.8%

Mississippi:  2.1%

New York:  2.0%

Texas:  1.5%

Connecticut:  1.4%

Florida:  1.4%

New Jersey:  1.2%

Pennsylvania:  1.2%

Massachusetts:  1.0%

When the dust settles on this truly sad period in our country's history, two things will become self-evident about the fatality rate:

1. Adjusting for age, the poor will be far more likely to die from Covid-19.
2. Access to quality healthcare is more of a challenge in the southern United States.

Both points have a common underlying thread, namely that healthcare in the United States is rationed based upon the ability to pay.  Then again, this isn't necessarily "new" news; if anything the pandemic will simply amplify what some have realized for a long time.

* * * * *

In addition to watching Covid-19 march through the United States like Sherman through Georgia, I'm also been busy with the business of career stuff.  Finding my next...and hopefully, final...career stop is going to be a bit of a challenge in the current environment, but I've not always been known for doing things the easy way.  At this point, I've got my resume spruced up, I've re-introduced myself to most of the job boards and I'm looking at opportunities for networking.  I'm also being a realist in that this could be a long haul.  Something could also happen for me quickly as well.  I just don't know (and hold that thought).

Looking back, I've already been through what I'll call "Layoff Bootcamp" when I was retired at the end of 2016 after nearly 28 years with the same employer.  Calling that time difficult is a bit of an understatement.  One thing that I learned from that experience though is that, at least for me, my expectations are probably the biggest hurdle I'll face.  I don't know what will happen, and that is disconcerting.  Especially for me.  I don't however, have much of a choice in this matter.  In fact, the only thing I do have the ability to make a choice resides with my attitude.  That sounds too much like a bad Pinterest graphic, I know, and I concede right now that I will be failing from time to time to choose a positive, productive attitude.  Another thing I learned though from the end of 2016 though is that choosing a positive attitude is something I need to do for me.  The alternative just isn't much fun, especially these days.

Let's be careful out there.

Exile on Corona Street, Day 9

(because we all need a reminder)

You know, the least that the cosmos can do for us during this time of forced shut-in is to not make it miserable outside.  Today has been a pretty overcast & gloomy day in Northeastern Pennsylvania, with temperature in the low 40's and a perpetual sense of drizzle in the air.  I know, you could argue that the reverse, as in it being really nice outside, would be worse, but I disagree...there is nothing preventing any of us from going outside and enjoying the fresh air.  As long as we stay outside and keep at least 6 feet away from others.

As for me, I did go outside today, mostly to take some measurements for an outdoor project that I'll be starting soon.  I've got the time.  See yesterday. 

I had wanted to start these postings with some news of the pandemic crisis, but honestly, why make it worse?  What I will provide, of interest to my fellow Pennsylvania residents, are the following links:

Covid-19 Cases by Pennsylvania County

Interactive PA County Covid-19 Map

You can add these to the Guardian/Johns Hopkins University excellent overall United States coverage (link HERE) if you want to keep up with the numbers.  

Among other news of note, there is conflicting information about how Covid-19 may interact with  Ibuprofen products, leading some to say that Acetaminophen may be the better choice to manage aches, pains and the like (reference HERE).  If you don't have Acetaminophen/Tylenol in your home, you may want to get some.  We didn't have any*, so there was a purchase made yesterday.  I really should be using Acetaminophen/Tylenol all the time, as it easier on the entirety of my digestive system, but Ibuprofen works better.  Anyway, go get some Tylenol, before the mad hordes start to hoard it.

Bouncing back to home, and in the news of the pedestrian and ironic, I'm getting the parts tomorrow needed to set up dual monitors at home.  This was for all the working at home I will was going to be doing.  I'm still going to set it up, as it's yet one more thing to tinker with and add to my technical resume.  On a more serious note, others have tried to convince me of the merits of dual monitors, but the last 9 months have truly shown me the light.  If you want less paper in your work life, go the dual monitor route.  

Lastly, now more than ever we need music.  More music.  Right before I started typing, this song just happened to appear in my head...

...which given the situation in New York City seems all the more fitting.  Here's to hoping that the lights go back on before too long.

Oh, and hey, let's be careful out there.




(*) In fact, I have some in my former work office, in a desk drawer.  Unfortunately, I can't access it at the moment, as I'm still working on the mechanics of collecting my (former) office stuff.

IKEA Smell

I make no secret of the fact that I really like IKEA.  In fact, it's about the only retail experience these days that I find the least bit interesting.  Simply put, IKEA turns shopping for things into an event.  In my case, that would be an event that is worth driving 90 or so minutes to experience two or three times a year.  Among the many reasons I enjoy about IKEA?  The smell.

The Internet tells me that IKEA smells like cinnamon buns (reference HERE), but I don't buy it.  I know the smell of cinnamon buns.  I like the smell of cinnamon buns.  IKEA does not smell like cinnamon buns.

If I had to describe the smell, it would be something that's a combination of:

• A light cleaning solution/disinfectant of some type
• 3,000 tons of laminate
• The cafeteria, although not a particular food
• Something sweet
• Slightly herbal
• Slightly floral

Maybe this is part of some greater Swedish conspiracy to get folks like me to buy more reasonably priced but yet stylish self-assembled furniture*.  Maybe it's all in my head.  But the smell is there, I swear it is.

I could rant on and on about how much I enjoy going to IKEA and why it's a terrific business (including their composting of cafeteria scraps).  In fact, over the course of the 11+ years of the blog I probably already have, but I am too un-motivated to check at the moment.  I will note though that I do have one IKEA complaint:  The don't sell ribs in the cafeteria anymore.  When I first went to IKEA, something like a dozen years ago, the cafeteria had ribs that were among the best I have ever had in my entire life.  Bar none, I swear.  Alas, the ribs are gone, and I have to make do with the Swedish meatballs (which are pretty good).

To end on a high note, some IKEA humor.

(*) All of the furniture in my home office is from IKEA, including two work surfaces, a bookcase, a dresser, a cube unit, a rolling file storage unit, and a Symfonisk speaker lamp.

The Interesting Life of Rudy Giuliani

Rudy Giuliani has been in the news quite a bit over the past few months, and none of it has been all that flattering.  In a way, he’s a modern-day tragic kind of figure:  Going from “America’s Mayor” in New York City during 9/11 to now someone more known for outrageous statements to the press and seemingly shady foreign dealings.  With that noted, here are some facts about Rudy Giuliani, most of which are actually true.

1.     Rudy Giuliani has been married 3 times.  If you add his marriage count to that of RushLimbaugh, Newt Gingrich, and Donald Trump, you get a total of 13.  This puts him below the average for that list of family values espousing Republicans.  Rudy can thank Rush for boosting the average above 3. *

2.     Rudy Giuliani’s first wife was his second cousin. *

3.     Rudy Giuliani and his first wife did not have children.  If they did though, for example, have a male child, that individual would be both Rudy’s son and his cousin.  That would make for some confusion at family reunions.  “This is my son, I mean my cousin, I mean my cou-son”.  *

4.     Rudy Giuliani’s favorite television show of all time is All in the Family. **

5.     Rudy Giuliani is a cancer survivor. *

6.     Rudy Giuliani is rumored to use 23 and Me as a dating app. **

7.     Rudy Giuliani could technically be called “Rudy Giuliani, K.B.E.” after receiving an honorary knighthood from Queen Elizabeth II. *

8.     Rudy Giuliani is a former U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York. *

9.     Rudy Giuliani has many detractors, but few doubt how much he loves his family.  Especially his cousins. **

10.  Rudy Giuliani once said, while defending President Trump, that “facts are in the eye of the beholder”.  It’s a good thing that the doctors and scientists who developed his cancer treatment had a differing opinion on the subject of “facts”.  *

(*) Actually true; see links for references.

(**) Not actually true, at least as far as I know.

Father's Day (two weeks early)

Point of reference:  I'm going to be traveling on the "real" Father's Day (June 16th), so I'm putting this out into the Internets a bit early.

In honor of Father's Day 2019, and especially for all of those father's out there who had no role model themselves (which includes me), I offer the following:  The Top 10 thing I wish I would have been taught to me by my father.  Listed in no particular order.

1. Screwdrivers.  There is no functional limit as to the number of screwdrivers (or, as my youngest daughter used to say when she was very small "who-di-bers") that a father should own.  Owning 24 is as good as owning 10.  30?  Even better.  The more, the better, because you never know when (or where) you may need a screwdriver.
2. How To Tie A Necktie.  A kid from the neighborhood taught me how to toe a necktie, just in time for parochial high school.  This is a must-have skill in life, be it for the occasional funeral or when the executives are showing up at work.
3. Save Extra Screws, Nuts, and Bolts.  Hardware such as screws, nuts, and bolts is strategically packaged to always have an extra piece or six.  Save those extra parts!  You never know when may need a half inch decking screw.  Plus, there is a certain satisfaction in knowing that, after you die, your next of kin will have to go through all your stuff and wonder "why the hell did he save all of this s#it?". 
4. Be A Good Man.  The world can be a cruel, unforgiving place at times, which makes it all the more important to not add to the insanity.  Be empathetic, considerate and compassionate.  All of those traits cost basically nothing, but yet can be priceless to someone having a bad day.  Be the person who folks say "is a good man".
5. Most Dogs Are Better Than Most People.  It's true.  What's more, anyone capable of abusing a dog (or other animals) is wholly capable of being equally cruel to other humans.  Don't allow people like that into your life.
6. Confidence vs. Humility.  Finding the right balance between confidence and humility is actually harder than college-level calculus.  Having worked on both, I say this with 100% certainty.  I tend to air on the side of humility, which isn't necessarily a good thing.
7. Tell Your Children That You Love Them.  Love is never implied.  Love is the most active of action verbs...it only really exists when it is being acted upon/shown.  Part of that action is in doing the daily things of a father well (fixing things, going on school trips, embarrassing your kids in front of potential/real boy/girlfriends).  Part of it is in simply telling your children that you love them, often.  Part of it is in when knowing when not to parent.
8. Work Hard.  Set a good example as a father by working hard at everything you do.  Be as passionate about cutting the grass as you are about your career.  Teach your children that there is dignity in all work and that no one should ever be above getting their hands dirty.
9. Don't Be Afraid (Of Yourself).  "An honest man's pillow is his peace of mind" is what John Mellencamp once noted in a song.  Having that ability to be comfortable with yourself, being able to face your better angels (and worse demons), not being afraid of your feelings is both difficult and necessary.  It's also an example of a "practice"...it's not something you ever master, rather it's something you always work at as a father.
10. Sing Loudly And Often.  I have a horrible singing voice.  It is wretched.  While I have some decent range (my voice is on the high side for a male, thanks to a lifetime of not smoking anything, ever...but I can get pretty low if needed), what noise that comes out of my mouth is more akin to howling wolves than an angelic choir.  This noted, I sing...often.  Part of this is because I always have a song in my head that just needs to get out.  Part of it is because, well, I just enjoy singing, talent be damned.  Fathers should all set a good example by making a joyful noise, regardless of talent.

I'll close this with a song (see #10) that I think is as good any written about being a Father.

Happy (early) Father's Day.

Dual Posting: Notes for After Our Passing

What follows is a joint post by Ms. Rivers a.k.a. Chris a.k.a. Mom and Steve a.k.a. Dad.  After watching numerous YouTube videos of the Long Island Medium (Theresa Caputo) and developing a slightly unhealthy fascination with her spiritual readings, Ms. Rivers wants to ensure our wishes are known about a future time after one or both of us have died.  (On a side note, Ms. Rivers believes that our souls continue to an after-life, while Steve sees no reason to believe this in the absence of any evidence or proof.*)

Ok, here we go; please note, no firm decisions have been made about our final arrangements.  Should either of us pre-decease each other and once we have both passed, we do not want anyone including our children to do the following:

• Place cremated remains in a cigar box until a decision can be reached about their permanent location, then lose the cigar box when moving.  [Steve here:  If you do this, I will haunt you, even if there isn't an afterlife.  I absolutely hate cigars!]
• Place ashes in an urn/vase and keep it on the mantel (in lieu of burial).  Or strap it into the passenger side of a vehicle to keep the driver "company" on outings.  
• Divide up ashes and place them in vessels as keepsakes for multiple family members.  In particular, do not fill up glass Christmas ornaments with ashes so that we can literally participate in each holiday season as decorations on your Christmas tree.
• Scatter ashes outdoors (especially on a windy day!) in a body of water, where it's likely they would immediately become lunch for birds, fish, and other land-dwelling things.
• Bury us in a cemetery without trees.  Or rabbits.  We want rabbits and other assorted non-human critters to frolic on top of our graves.
• Have some kind of enormous, gaudy, "I want attention" headstone.  Neither one of us like show-offs, be it in this life or the next.
• Putting anything plastic (flowers, crosses, etc.) on our graves.  We want to be buried in a cemetery, not a Dollar General.  
• Unless you plan on taking care of them, no live flowers either.  But if you do put live flowers on our grave and you were to take care of them, then I [Steve] would like Marigolds, as long as they are the multi-colored ones.  But not the really big poofy yellow or orange ones. 

Lastly, and most importantly, don't be sad when you think about us.  Life is measured in countless ways, none the least of which is in the amount of love one gives.  In our case, we've both been blessed to have found each other and to have children that will help us live on in spirit, always.

* * * * * *

(*) Slight rebuttal from Steve:  It's not that don't believe (in an afterlife), as that would be far too easy, and by and large I've never been one to do things the easy way anyhow.  Rather, it's more like "I want to believe" and "if the universe would just churn up some evidence, well, all the better".

New Year's 2019 Un-Resolutions

A short list of things I will strive to NOT do/accomplish in 2019.

1. I am not trying any new vegetables in 2019.  I tried a brussel sprout in 2012, which was more than enough.  For the record, after a single (disgusting) bite I basically swallowed the offending dwarf-cabbage whole.  Needless to say, there have been no repeats.
2. I am not staying current with the news.  At best I'll be a day or two behind.  Let's face it:  The country is in the toilet anyway at the moment, so the old saying is actually true:  No news really is good news.
3. I am not learning any new languages.  I'll stick with my pig-Spanglish, thank you very bien.
4. I am not committing to a regular blog posting schedule.  For the record, I am barely getting this one out.
5. I am not getting any new cats in 2019.  I wish I was, but I'm not.  This in spite of the fact that most cats and dogs are better than most people.
6. I am not committing to reading more fiction.  I'm sorry if that makes me look like an uneducated cro-mag to all you fiction readers and writers out there, but that's just how I roll.  I will be reading more books though in 2019 (I've already finished two this year).
7. I am not starting my Ph.D.  My academic career is over.  One soon-to-be doctor in the family is enough.
8. I am not committing to getting more sleep.  I probably should, which is a fact, but my mind just doesn't seem to allow such things.  I still have trouble falling asleep sometimes, in spite of having enough medication in me to tranquilize a rhino.
9. I am not contributing to any political campaigns.  Sorry, but not in 2019.  We'll see about 2020 (or when this guy runs again).
10. I am not listening to any new music in 2019.  I don't care how enthusiastic some family members are for, example, the Mountain Goats.  I'll stick with the 60's + 70's, with a bit of Duran Duran or maybe the Fixx thrown in for good measure.  

Two Years Later - January 5, 2019

(A sailor on leave, 1985-ish)

I found my brother Chris dead in his home on January 5, 2017.  We aren’t actually sure exactly when he passed away.  The circumstances of his passing are actually pretty terrible; in the past, I’ve noted that I was glad in a sense to have found him, as that spared others (such as my other brothers) from having to go through the trauma.  These days, well, I would no longer use the word “glad”, but perhaps instead I am relieved that others were spared the experience.  I will confess though that it's taken something of a toll on me over the intervening years.

Before I go on, my intent on writing this posting is to tell a funny story or two about Chris, but I’m not sure it will go in that direction.  I know that’s lifting the writing curtain up a bit, something that doesn’t necessarily make for good reading, but I’m going to do it anyway.  Maybe I need to give myself outward permission to take this wherever it goes.  Anyway, permission is officially granted.

When Chris met Chris.  When my brother Chris met my (future wife) Chris(tine), the very first words out of his mouth was a joke involving midgets and pornography.  With apologies for using the word “midget”, but that’s the word he actually used.  That was, by the way, the way he rolled.  Chris (the brother) loved to get a reaction out of people.  Now I did warn my future wife Chris(tine) about my brother Chris, but I don’t think the warning did him justice.  Very few things did my brother Chris justice.  It was in part homage to that first encounter that I ended up getting Chris this tee shirt for Christmas one year:

(Available from THIS fine site)

Chris loved the shirt though, and over the years I took great delight in finding other absurd shirts to get him, including one that proclaimed that PETA actually stood for “People Eating Tasty Animals”.

Of pumpkins and Limbaugh.  Chris absolutely loved Rush Limbaugh.  Not that he actually believed most of the nonsense that Limbaugh spewed (he said yes, but I knew better) but for Chris, it was mostly, I think, about rebellion.  That would be a rebellion against our mother, who could easily be thrown into a rage at the mere thought of talk radio, let alone “El Rushbo”.  While most folks stop rebelling against their parents at about age 19, Chris carried it forward until the day mom died.  She ended up getting the last word in their on-going war though, as Chris lost his seemingly perpetual reason for rebellion.  I’m convinced that this bothered Chris on some very deep level.  Anyway, at one point after a heated argument with me about talk radio’s Most Famous Pill Addict, Chris actually left in disgust, claiming that I was just going to keep calling him (Limbaugh) “Pumpkin Head” anyway.  In all fairness, Limbaugh’s head does kind of look like a pumpkin.  For the record, that was probably the only time in my life when I could claim any kind of real verbal victory against Chris.

A third story, and not necessarily a funny one.  Chris was secretly one of my biggest cheerleaders.  That’s an odd comment to make for those that knew Chris, but the two times in my life when I was at my lowest (well outside of finding my brother…) Chris made sure I knew of his confidence in me.  He knew I would get through my difficult divorce (and all divorces are difficult) and he was absolutely positive I would land on my feet when my nearly 28-year former career came to an end.  There was never any doubt in Chris’ mind either time, even though there was plenty of doubt in mine.  I wish I would have told him how much his confidence during those two difficult times meant to me.  That’s a common denominator or sorts about losing someone close to you:  You get to think about all the unsaid things. 

Speaking of confidence, well, that was an important part of Chris’ bag of tricks.  My genetic testing kit tells me that I am far more Irish than I want to actually believe (no offense to the Irish…I was hoping for more German), but if anyone in our family had the Irish “gift of gab” it was Chris.  He was engaging, smart, and confident.  Now I can play “engaging and confident” when I’m being paid to do so, but for Chris, well, it was the real thing.  My confidence was learned; Chris had it in his genetic code.  Even towards the end of 2016, a very difficult year from my brother, he could still manage to talk me into things.  Yeah, part of that was his skill, but part of it was the fact that I would have done anything to rescue my brother, as would have the others close to him.  For the record, I failed.  Kindly spare me the “it’s not your fault Steve” stuff, as I logically understand I am not to blame, but logic was in short supply when it came to Chris’ passing.

I think it was this confidence that, in part, made Chris clash so much with our mother.  What I saw as confidence she saw as arrogance, and she had little place in her world for arrogant men, with emphasis on the word “men”.  Maybe on some level, she felt that was intimidating.  I personally think that they were actually a lot more alike than dissimilar.  Maybe that’s why my brother didn’t spend much time with our mother.  While on vacation, as a general rule, I couldn’t count on Chris to check in on our mother; he wouldn’t do it or mom would flat out refuse to do anything with him.  All of this was quite a feat given the fact that, for a number of years, they lived across the street from each other.  In retrospect, their clashes were, I think, a function of both looking into a mirror and seeing things neither was especially keen to gaze upon.  Our mom saw in Chris some of her earlier life flaws; Chris saw in mom so much anger…anger that he held as well, but which he would completely deny up until the end, in spite of my encouragements to the contrary.

Gazing is a good place to end this posting.  When I found Chris, well, I didn’t get a horribly good look at him.  The bedroom where I found him was dark (his house had no electrical power at the time), something for which I have some gratitude.  That visual simply would not have been all that pleasant, given the details of his passing.  I did touch him though, in a one-time attempt to see if he was sleeping.  He wasn’t sleeping and I will never, ever, get that touch out of my mind.  Saying “mind” isn’t an adequate description here, as it’s more of a physical memory that I have of that final encounter with Chris.  I can still “feel” it.  I would have given anything for a chance to say goodbye, but ever the rebel, Chris wasn’t going to allow that to happen.  As I noted in his eulogy, my hope is that he is now in a better place with our mother, rebellion full exercised.

Until we meet again brother.

Filling the Bucket, Day 14 - Helsinki, Finland

On-Board the Viking Star

I expected Helsinki to be, well, bigger.  You hear about the city in the news of the world all the time, but when you get down to brass tacks, it's a city of little over 600,000.  Like Tallin, it's impeccably clean and cosmopolitan.  I'd best describe it as being, well, nondescript.  First thing in the morning we went down to the harbor market.

(Near the Harbor Market)

(Helsinki Town Hall)

(The Cathedral of the Finnish Lutheran Church)

In the afternoon we were on a small boat cruise of the waterways around Helsinki.

(An old fortification)

(A complex on one of the islands)

Finally, a few shots from the trip out of the Port of Helsinki.

(Basically the Helsinki skyline, all be it from pretty far away)

(On one of the many little harbor islands)

Observations:

• Streak Broken.  The streak has been broken, as I saw my first real pick-up truck in Europe in the Port of Helsinki, a late 70's/early 80's vintage full-sized Ford (the badge read "Ranger", but it was more of an F-150).  Gaze upon it in all of its splendor -

• English.  As somewhat expected, the English language skills I encountered in Helsinki were simply outstanding.  In fact, I vendor I spoke to at the harbor market spoke perfect English.
• Signs.  Most signs in Helsinki are written in both Finnish and Swedish (which is the largest minority in Finland).  Honestly, I couldn't tell the difference and in fact, thought that "gee, the place names here are really long here". 
• (Not) National Anthem.  Monty Python fans have probably heard the "Finland" song, but for those who have not...all together Fin-a-philes -

Tomorrow is our final stop, Stockholm.  This is a place I've always wanted to visit, literally, since I was a teenager.  It's the "bucket" in "bucket list".  Stops will include the Vasa and the ABBA museum.