Posts Tagged With: Fire

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th.    7 Pookie 0007. (November 21, 2018)

 

“It has been said that necessity is the mother of invention. In the same vein, desperation is the father of compromise, panic is the sister of slapdash improvisation, and despair is the second cousin of quiet apathy.”
Pike, J. Zachary. Son of a Liche (The Dark Profit Saga Book 2) (p. 7). Gnomish Press LLC.

 

Happy National Welcome New Immigrant’s Day (Previously known as Thanksgiving).

Happy Birthday to my son Jason on December 8.

Happy Birthday to Annmarie (December 3)

 

 

 

 

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

 

 

A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST:

 

After three days, while on our late afternoon walk, we discovered the mysterious orb still there. Now, however, with a sign affixed to its surface announcing “Fountain. Free. Take it away.” Mystery solved, perhaps.
IMG_5845

It is now three and one-half months since the growth on my neck first appeared and I went to my oncologist for the first time for a diagnosis. Since then, I have had a PET scan, two CT scans, four sonograms, three visits for biopsies, a stress test, two blood tests and at least 8 meetings with five separate doctors and I still have no treatment plan. Today, I am awaiting insurance company approval for a second opinion on the feasibility of surgery. During all that time, the swelling tumor on my neck has grown from an insignificant bulge to a goiter like bump and my diagnosis has gone from, “It is nothing to worry about” to “You’re probably going to die.” I am no longer amused.

Groucho Marx had a cousin from Argentina named Gaucho.

Days pass, I read a lot, watch the news on television, see the Niners lose again, spend too much time on Facebook — It is now Wednesday, I finally have an appointment scheduled in San Francisco at UCSF for my second opinion. Sometimes bitching and shouting works.

Thursday was a good day although the air quality made it better to stay indoors. San Francisco was reported to have the worst air quality in the world today because the smoke from the many fires in northern California hung over the city like a dirty shower curtain. Sacramento was not too far behind. Nevertheless, I felt good today. Whether it was from the valium I had taken last night to help me sleep or something else I do not know. In the afternoon, I felt good enough to brave the hazardous air and drive into the Golden Hills to pick up Hayden and Jake. The Skate Park was closed because of the hazardous air-quality, so we went to the house where we discussed the possibility of the three of us driving to a Mountain Bike track somewhere in the mountains this weekend. After doing some research about the various trails, I left them to ruminate on the alternatives and returned to the Enchanted Forest.

Back at the house, I busied myself posting various articles on Facebook from two of my blogs, “Trenz Pruca’s Journal,” and “Papa Joe’s Tales, Fables, and Parables.” I was doing this because I wanted to increase the number of views this year to more than any of the Blogs’ prior years. At first, I was afraid to mention here in T&T how I spend several hours a day (at least four) because it might reveal me to be an insecure recluse desperately seeking recognition for what I feared were my inept and odd scratchings. Eventually, I convinced myself that it was no more than an obsession to “beat my record.” So instead of revealing my pitiful insecurities, I exposed one of my more idiotic neuroses which I somehow believed was less embarrassing. Anyway, for “Papa Joe’s” I passed my best year in early November. For “Trenz Pruca”s Journal,” it will be close to the end of the year before I know if I will succeed or not.

In any bureaucracy, all the work is done low on the food chain. Everyone else just holds meetings.

Last night, I dreamed a movie, actually two, one complete and one half-way through. This is not unusual. I have dreamt movies before. Usually, in my dreams, I enter one of the movie theaters I remember that existed on Fordham Rd. in the Bronx way back when I was going to college at the end of the 1950s. They were grand old Egyptian-Baroque buildings. In my dreams (and probably in real life) the theaters had deteriorated to become purveyors of soft porn and old movies. Strangely, in my dream, I had to go downstairs to get to the theater. The movie was an old one I had never seen before — a melodrama about two families going through various domestic crises. I woke up briefly half-way through the second feature but fell back to sleep almost immediately. The movie was still running but had now become a porn flick and I was an actor in it. This was notable, not because of the nature of my involvement and the vigor of my participation, but because I have not experienced such dreams for years now.

I awoke that morning with Naida caressing my arm as it lay across her body. It made me both happy and sad. Happy because it is so nice to wake up in the morning with someone who loves you and sad because I fear those mornings are going to end far too soon.

Those who observe well, dream well.
Friday was a non-event and then came the weekend.

At five o’clock in the morning, Naida woke up and said that she had to go downstairs to write something in her memoir — something about her approach to math as a child, a complex method that included fingers, beacons and musical rhythms ( the left hand did the rhythm and the right counted the repetitions). I went back to sleep and fell into a marvelous dream. I was somewhere in the Mediterranean, in a colorful small town by the sea. I was younger, a drifter and con man. My friend Blackie had engineered a scam that had gone bad. I was accused even though I had no part in it. A younger Isabella Rossellini, who was a princess of some sort, rescued me somehow. We laughed a lot and got naked. Then Naida woke me up to go to the Saturday coffee at the Nepenthe Club House.

The weekly Saturday coffee was usually attended by the older members of the community. Women outnumbered men more than two to one. Although each person sported a name tag, I never could recall names even after staring at the tags so, as usual, I gave them nicknames — the football coach, the two spies (one a man who was a senior executive in the State Department, the other a woman with coiffed white hair whose job prior to retirement was shrouded in mystery), the leader, the cute lady, the model (an eighty-year-old ex-model), the model’s husband the architect ( a 90+ year old architect of some renown) and others. There was also a mother-daughter duo that one could not discern who was the mother and who the daughter. They whispered and laughed together in the corner. Also, there is always a woman there, usually without a name tag, that attended to the refreshments. I do not know if she is a resident or an employee of the HOA.

The Leader, a large woman, selflessly devotes herself to the task. She feels quite distressed and obviously hurt if anyone challenges or disagrees with her, so we don’t. She opened a small roll-on piece of luggage that accompanies her everywhere, pulled out some papers and a small bell that she rings to call us to order. Then, she announces the events scheduled, calls for volunteers for the myriad of charitable activities planned to be undertaken and so on. After that, we clean up the clubhouse and leave.

Naida and I then went shopping and had lunch at Ettore’s where I choked on a piece of turkey breast and threw-up all over my plate.

The mysterious orb remains, in the gutter by the house. No one has claimed it yet.

 

 

B. A SHORT TRIP INTO THE SIERRAS:

 

On Sunday, we decided to escape the fire-caused air pollution and drove into the Sierra foothills. We drove to Jackson. There is a bookstore that sells Naida’s books. The bookstore has a Sherlock Holmes museum on its second floor with a room made to look like the great detective’s Baker Street residence. While Naida went into the store to discuss book things, I took the dog for a walk around the time. The little fellow got into a snarling match with a large pit bull. I admired his courage, not his common sense.

After that, we went for lunch a Teresa’s one of the better restaurants in the town. It always saddens me that so many Italian restaurants here and even in Italy have passed from the families whose food came from the techniques and recipes that their mothers develop to please the taste of their families who ate the food every day, to others whose recipes and techniques are often designed to lower costs and aspire only to being merely acceptable. If you are ever in Jackson you should stop for a meal at Teresa’s.

While there, I learned the story of how Naida got her name. It was not an uplifting story. It was as remarkable and as disturbing as the rest of her life.

We drove back by way of Ione. While passing through the town Naida told me about a friend of hers, an Indian woman, who was Dave Brubeck’s piano teacher when he was growing up there.

 

C. OFF TO THE CITY — THE BIG ENDIVE:

On Monday, we set off for San Francisco. Before leaving we drove to the kennel to board Boo-boo for the night. It took a little time because the person typing the required forms was blind. He had to lay one eye on the computer screen in order to read the form. Then, after saying a teary farewell to the dog, we left.

By the time we had reached Vacaville, the smog from the Forrest fires was so thick our lungs began to ache. We had coffee and a brioche there and then drove on into The City. Noe Valley where Peter and Barrie live was only slightly less occluded with the smog. They gave us some masks and we walked down to 24th street for lunch. After lunch, Peter and I went to Bernie’s for coffee. The air was too unbreathable to sit at the “Geezer’s Bench” so we sat at a table by the window drinking coffee and complaining about the pains and burdens of growing old.

The next morning, we went to UCSF for my appointment. On the way, as we passed the Ferry Building, Naida told me that at one time she worked with the State Department of Corrections on a massive study on the effectiveness of various parole alternatives on the recidivism rates of violent criminals. The results showed that nothing works.

I met with a Dr. Ryan for a second opinion on the possibility of surgery on my neck. The surgeon’s office was located on the fourth floor of a hospital in Mission Bay. Many years ago I had some involvement in the approvals for the development of Mission Bay. Precisely what, I do not remember. It now has become a hub or medical treatment technology. The cancer department impressed me. It is set up so that most of the diagnostic and treatment needs of the patient can occur in one place without the usual delays.

The surgeon was a youngish man in his mid-forties, dressed in a dark blue suit (He did not have a bow tie). Following the usual prodding, he confirmed the opinion of the previous surgeon that an attempt to operate would probably be fatal. The tumor had entwined itself around the muscle like a lover and pressing up against the artery. If he operated he would have to cut a flap of chest muscles to fold over the wound. He did indicate that all the tests done so far do not show that cancer had spread any farther and those other treatments may work. I then told him I was also looking into various trials including with one of his office colleagues that Terry recommended. He then arranged for an appointment with the doctor in a trial that focuses directly on my problem.

Although this was a somewhat more positive result and made me feel much better, I realized that I am effectively dead in the very near future should these treatments not work.

We drove home that afternoon, picked up the dog, watched some movies and prepared for Thanksgiving.

And on Wednesday the rains came.
Have a Happy National Welcome New Immigrant’s Day.

 

 
,

PETRILLO’S COMMENTARY:

 
IS TREASON A REPUBLICAN CAMPAIGN STRATEGY?

 

We now know that, in order to win the Presidency in 1968, Richard Nixon, with the assistance of Anna Chenault, committed treason in colluding with the then President of South Viet-Nam to sabotage the Vietnam Peace Talks on the eve of the election. Among other things, that treachery cost the lives of 20,000 American servicemen due to the prolongation of the war.

A scant 12 years later, Republicans working for the election of Ronald Reagan to the Presidency similarly resorted to treason in sabotaging the American Government’s attempts to free the hostages trapped in the American Embassy. Later in disregarded our treaties and laws they sold arms to our enemies and gave aid to those attempting to overthrow a legitimately elected democratic government.

In 2016 the same Republican playbook was used by Donald Trump or his associates in the Republican Party to collude with the Russian State, the enemy of this nation and one of our major competitors, in order to assist in securing his election to the Presidency of the United States.

There appears to be a pattern of behavior by the leaders of the Republican Party to hide, behind the pretense of patriotism, treasonous behaviors in the pursuit of power. In all three cases, after the treason was exposed, members of the Republican Party, many of whom were not involved in the original activities, worked diligently to cover it up and protect the members of their party that was implicated.

While it may be said that there are no patriots in the pursuit of power, unfortunately, that form of lust for power seems currently limited only to some members of a single political party.

What is perhaps even more tragic are those Americans who claim to love the flag, anthem and pledge of allegiance to this country and who post innumerable pleas on social media to support and remember our men and women in uniform far too often blindly support those same political leaders who have degraded our patriotic symbols and abetted the injury and death of good Americans protecting our nation.

Shame on them all.

 

 

 

DAILY FACTOID:

 

 

There are about thirty-trillion cells in a human body working more or less together to sustain life. Roughly the same amount of bacteria and fungus are along for the ride. A single human body contains about 5000 times more cells than there are humans on earth. At every moment in one’s life, some cells in one’s body are dying and others are being created. At some points in your life, all your cells are different from they had been at some other time, yet you still remain you. If all your cells die you die. If all your cells are separated and somehow kept alive you would not be. Biologists call organisms like humans superorganisms, swarms or ensemble organisms. Individually we are not you or me but we are each Borg.

 

 

 

 

 PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

 

 

 

A. Adventures with Hayden on Top:

 

A few years ago, while I was sitting at the table one evening doing little more than staring at the wall, I noticed Hayden writing away in a notebook. This was a very unusual thing for him to do. He typically spends the evenings watching television, building Lego Cities, running around the house screaming for no discernible reason and, just before bedtime, completing his homework. I asked him what he was doing. He said it was a secret and continued to diligently attend to whatever he was working on. When he finished he came over and showed me the notebook.

A few nights previously, I had promised him that we would write a short comic book together entitled “Hayden Without a Hat.” Each evening thereafter he asked me if I was ready to write the story with him and each night I gave some excuse or other.

The notebook contained the following (everything is as he wrote it including the punctuation, except for the quotation marks which I added). I promised him I would “publish” it. So here it is:

“Story for little boys, girls!

Hayden Without a Hat

Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Hayden Without a Hat.

“Oh, no!” says Grandpa Pooky. “Oh no!!!” Grandpa Pooky says “You need a hat.”

“A hat…” says Hayden, “a hat.” “Let me think. Hmmm, ok” Hayden says. “I do need a hat!!!!

“Hey, we can go to the hat store.”

So Hayden picked out his favorite hat. It was just like Grandpa Pooky’s hat.

Remember kids always have a hat!!! And mom’s and dad’s.”

I told him that I also sent a copy to his mom because it would make her so proud of him. He said I should not have because she would make him do it again and again until he got bored.

 

 

 

B. Tuckahoe Joe’s Blog of the Week:

 

It is my habit, whenever my mind ratchets into an obsession, to search the internet for information that either confirms my craze of the moment or questions it. Once I find something that either confirms or denies it, I usually stop my research. Of course, like many, my recent mania is focused on he who is not my president. As a result of my tripping through the tulips of the internet in search of information confirming my biases, I came across, FactCheck.org® A Project of The Annenberg Public Policy Center (https://www.factcheck.org/) that appeared remarkably unbiased in analyzing those so-called facts upon which we seem to so vehemently disagree in public discourse. It is a site I would recommend anyone consult before responding to some blog post of a Facebook item with which they disagree or agree. The authors seem remarkably and pleasantly blind to the emotions behind the so-called facts upon which they opine. For example, the following is a summary of Trump’s “Numbers” during his first year in office published in January 2018:

Here we offer key measures of what has happened since Trump was sworn in on Jan. 20, 2017, according to the most up-to-date and reliable statistical sources available. Some highlights:

Employment growth slowed by 12 percent. Nevertheless, the unemployment rate kept dropping, reaching a 17-year low. The number of job vacancies rose, also to a nearly 17-year record.
Economic growth picked up to a 3.2 percent annual rate in the July-September quarter from 1.5 percent for all of 2016.
The number of people caught trying to cross the border with Mexico fell by nearly half.
The number of refugee admissions fell by 70 percent.
Restrictions in the federal regulatory rulebook continued to grow, but at less than half the pace during the two previous administrations.
The number of coal mining jobs, which Trump promised to bring back, went up by only 500. Manufacturing jobs grew just a bit faster than total employment.
Real weekly wages rose 1.1 percent. Corporate profits and stock prices hit new records.
The number of people without health insurance went up — by 200,000 according to a government survey, and by 3.2 million according to a more recent Gallup poll.
The U.S. trade deficit that Trump promised to bring down grew instead, getting 11.5 percent larger.
The number of people on food stamps, which Trump wants to cut, grew by nearly 3 million.
The federal debt rose nearly 3 percent; projected annual deficits worsened.
Trump won confirmation for a dozen federal appeals court judges — quadruple the number Obama put on the bench during his first year.
The U.S. image abroad took a hit. The number of foreigners telling pollsters they have a favorable view of the USA fell nearly everywhere. The only big gain was in Russia.

This was updated in October as follows:

In the time Donald Trump has been in the White House:

The jobless rate dropped to the lowest in nearly half a century, and the number of unfilled job openings hit a record high.
Economic growth spurted to a 4.2 percent annual rate in the most recent quarter.
Median household income rose to the highest level ever recorded in 2017. Poverty declined.
The growth of federal regulations slowed, and has lately reversed.
Crime rates declined. The number of homicides went down 0.7 percent last year after rising for the previous two years.
Carbon emissions rose. Coal mining jobs went up a bit.
Corporate profits, stock prices and home values set record highs.
The trade deficit grew larger.
The federal debt increased by nearly $1.4 trillion, more than 9 percent. Yearly deficits increased.
The U.S. image abroad plunged.

As one can see, there is something on each side of the Great National Divide that someone can chew on. However, note that in their analysis of their summary they point out:

Employment – The average monthly gain under Trump is 190,000 jobs, which is 12 percent below the average monthly gain of 217,000 during Obama’s second term.

Trump will have to pick up the pace if he is to fulfill his campaign boast that he will be “the greatest jobs president that God ever created.”

Household Income —However, a senior Census official cautioned that the latest “records” in 2016 and 2017 are due in part to a change in the survey questions in 2014. Starting then, the annual survey has picked up some sources of income that were previously missed. Taking this into account, Jonathan L. Rothbaum, chief of the Income Statistics Branch, said the 2017 median income would be in a “statistical tie” with incomes measured in 2007 and 1999.

Crime — In Trump’s first year, the murder rate dropped down a notch to 5.3 per 100,000 population — still higher than in each of the first seven years under Obama.

And so on. So a caution to those who use this site to read the entire article before jumping to conclusions. After you do that, please jump to whatever conclusions you like.

 

 

 

B. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:

 

If you know whatever you do well enough to be terrorized by one’s own ignorance, you probably are competent at what you do. If, on the other hand, you feel supremely confident you know whatever you need to know to do whatever you do, then you can rest assured that you are most likely unqualified.

 

 
C. Today’s Poem:

 

Crossing The Border

Senescence begins
And middle age ends
The day your descendants
Outnumber your friends.
by Ogden Nash

 

 

 

D. Giants of History: Peter.

 

I received the following comments on my previous post from my ever interesting and a humorous friend Peter.

In response to my comment, “My mother always said I screamed constantly from shortly after birth until I began to talk and then I complained of everything until I became a teenager and then thankfully I only sulked.” Peter wrote:

I recall returning to Calcutta at the end of a 15 hour jeep ride during which I was continuously trying to avoid stopping the jeep to get out and barf because of whatever was ailing me, managed to reach Howrah across the river from Calcutta in the middle of the usual total traffic jam of conveyances and all manner of living creatures and feeling really sick and miserable (holding it in still), but reminding myself that I Would manage to reach the hotel, and that at least I had an air ticket out of there. Of course, “Terminal” leaves one with nothing ahead unless you happen to believe in whatever variety of hereafter you may subscribe to and which can (if you’re lucky) override the stuff to bitch about in the “right now”. Then, there’s always Lucretius.

In response to “bitching” he wrote:

An apt parallel, perhaps, is the true story of the famous scientist, J. B. S. Haldane, who we met in Bhubaneswar shortly after our arrival in late 1964 two weeks before he died. Haldane was from the well-known Haldane family in England; Viscount Haldane was a distant past relative. Years after he emigrated to India accepting an invitation to settle in Orissa (now Odisha) from its then Chief Minister, Biju Patnaik (noteworthy himself as the aviator who flew Sukarno out of Indonesia to safety during that country’s revolution that led to Sukarno’s eventual leadership of that country), as Haldane had decided he loathed the English and hated the Americans, so India was a welcome destination, Haldane became seriously ill.

In response to, “One of the good things about knowing your days are limited but you are otherwise in good health is that you have few restrictions on pandering to yourself.”

Absolutely. Re: one day at a time, etc. My uncle Herbie continued his lifelong habits of cigars and liquor until his end, despite my aunt’s entreaties to cease. He’s the one who played the piccolo; I periodically ponder whether indeed I should have done that, thus avoiding schlepping the band equipment around that I do; too late now, but also I wouldn’t have done that – wasn’t what I was listening to on the radio in NYC on WCKY (I think), top of the radio dial, broadcasting live from Small’s Paradise in Harlem [no relation to what just burned down, of course].
.

 

 

TODAY’S QUOTE:

 

 

“He was a six-foot-three ex-boxer. He would never know what it was like to feel yourself small, weak and powerless. He would never understand what rape did to your feelings about your own body: to find yourself reduced to a thing, an object, a piece of fuckable meat.”
Galbraith, Robert. Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike Book 3) (p. 432). Little, Brown and Company.

 

 

 

TODAY’S PHOTOGRAPH:

 

 

DSCN1074

Waiting to pee-pee.

Categories: October through December 2018, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th.    23 Papa Joe 0006 (October 5,2017)

 

 

Happy Birthdays to My Grandson’s Anthony and Aaron and also to Me.

 

 

“Indecision may or may not be my problem.”
Jimmy Buffett

 

 

 

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

 

Notes: 1. Barrie will be holding the Moby Dick Marathon somewhere in San Francisco later this month. Anyone wanting to participate should contact her for details.

2. I am planning a trip for the latter part of December. I may spend a few days in Hawaii first. Finances permitting, I am also thinking about either driving to LA and visiting some friends then going on to Ensenada (or Tijuana) for a week, or taking a cruise on the Amazon River for a few days (a bucket list venture), or a short cruise in the southern Caribbean. Given my age, I would like to know if there is anyone who would like to join me to share expenses and keep an eye on me or, at least, to dissuade me from doing this at all.

 

POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN EL DORADO HILLS:

Hmm… for the past few days, I felt like death was sitting on my shoulder taking a crap… Today, all that seems gone leaving behind only a faint nausea like the background hum of vehicles passing on a nearby freeway. Missing that sense of utter physical and mental despair that dogged me for most of last week, I decided to turn on the TV and watch the 49rs game.

One day this past week, HRM’s school, in conjunction with a local church, held an all-day event for the seventh-grade students in an effort, I suppose, to gauge their emotional wellbeing. H told me he was surprised that almost a half of the students, boys and girls alike, ended up crying after they told the rest of the class how bad their home lives were. At least four children claimed to have thought of suicide multiple times.

Now, for the moment, dismissing the possibility of mass hysteria and liberal guilt grasping me and demanding I do something to help these children, I must note, these children live in an upper-middle-class subdivision and are not faced with a lack of material goods even in those circumstances where their parents had mortgaged away their lives in order to provide these children the benefits of living here, I have to wonder if there is more here than meets the easy opinions of an aged retiree. For example, according to a study from New Zealand Only 17% of 11 to 38-year-olds experience no mental disorders. But then perhaps that is only in New Zealand.

H was very surprised and upset at his classmates’ distress. “I think I have a great life,” he said.

Today, a strong afternoon wind blew up from the valley and into the foothills. It made sitting by the pool a bit too chilly for me, but swimming in its heated water was delightful. Often when I swim in the afternoons, I am the only person in the pool. I like that.

The morning after I wrote the above paragraph, I learned that that wind, besides chilling me at the pool, also snapped power lines setting off wildfires and turning much of California into an inferno. Over twenty uncontrolled wildfires blanket the State as I write this. Much of the City of Santa Rosa has become a smoking ruin. Throughout the State, twenty-thousand people have been forced to abandon their homes. 

1024x1024-1

 

So, on Sunday, I will turn 78 years old. Like most people, I guess, I lived like I believed living would go on forever. 78, however, seems to me to be pretty old. I think I will celebrate by going to see the new Blade Runner movie. If I remember the original movie correctly, replicants as they were called, lived only about 6 years — shorter if Harrison Ford caught up with them. Too bad for them — a lot happens in 78 years — much of it forgotten — that is a shame too.

The smoke from the fires a hundred miles away savaging Northern California has reached the foothills today. If it is so difficult to see and breathe here, I cannot imagine what it is like at the center of the conflagration. The schools have notified us that students will not be allowed out of doors for recess. I have retreated back into the house and dousing my eyes with eye-drop medication. The blood sun red moves through a sickly yellow sky like a harbinger in a bad movie about the zombie apocalypse. Over 20,000 people are without homes here in California. How many more in Texas, Florida, the Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico I cannot guess.

 

 

 

 

MOPEY JOE’S MEMORIES:

The following, from my beloved friend Cousin Irwin Schatzman, was sent to me about eight years ago. He had throat cancer like I did. One year after radiation therapy, he was declared in remission, like I have been. One year after that, he was dead. Cancer had spread to his brain. He was a brave, funny, and kind man — at least kind to me. I still miss him.

 

MONDAY, DECEMBER 20, 2010
GLOWING MAN’S JOURNAL DECEMBER 2010

SAY WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THAT OLD BRAIN OF MINE? I don’t suppose you could refer to it as a “long-lost pal” or the former owner of “a saber-sharp wit,” but there was something there. It got me through quite a few years making things up so I could impress my colleagues and bring home a few farthing. But, I never really won any awards of note with it. In fact, now that I think about it, something seemed to hold back its promise of a larger potential. I just always assumed that greater things were not meant to be, but I suspect it was laziness and trying to enjoy the good life which stifled my growth as a person of some uniqueness.

The Glowing Man got his start in 2009 with the advent of a radiation program consisting of some thirty-three sessions intended to irradiate a tumor that had grown on the left Parotid Gland of yours truly. Actually the bugger had been inside my neck for over thirty years but I had never taken steps to have it removed owing to vanity and it was only when the pain set in that I decided it was time to go and maybe after the operation I might not be uglier than I have always been; One wag suggested that I could claim the scar as being the result of a bad duck in a fencing master’s class.

Being “cancer free” has had its appealing aspects (although that meant I had no spooky condition to talk about and while away the hours with my drunken friends). So I went back to a life of boredom, which included no drinking at all and with no drinking comes thinking.

Last month, I was shoved into one of those scanning machines for a test or two and guess what?! I was no longer alone in my skull. The picture of my brain which developed suggested to me that it was almost to be considered as hiding. So (music roll please) now I glow once more.

Every Monday through Friday morning at 8:15 AM, I hop a shuttle bus in Garden Grove and am carried out to Ontario, California where I proceed to get zapped. Only this time it’s a different course and only ten sessions are imposed, at least initially. You see unlike cancer cells not normally visible to the naked eye, the cancerous growths are most visible to the scanning equipment. One large tumor on the back of my brain and smaller ones on the sides of my brain. Not to be outdone, the rest of my body decided to add-on a tumor and installed it in my right lung. There goes any chance I will be able to sneak that cigar after thirty-five years of not smoking (cough cough). On the shuttle bus, each cancer patient tells their story and my telling has resulted in the appellation which I am currently being referred to by my fellow passengers as, “Mr. Tumor Head” – I don’t know how much that beats being called “Mr. Potato Head” but it’s a start.

From 9:30 AM to 10:30 AM we are in treatment flirting with the lady radiation technicians who have to move my stiff tired old body about and grasp me to help me up (I caught on quick) and then it’s back on the bus for the return trip arrival at the starting point about 11:30AM. Not bad timing and while maybe the activity does suck, the time spent doesn’t seem to be enough to consider as having ruined the whole day except for the concept of having to find myself in lovely Garden Grove, and twice in one day.

The radiation is intended to shrink the tumors. Once that is over if it works, it looks like a morning cup of chemo for as long as I want to try to hold the growth of the cancer in check so that it doesn’t spread including to other parts of my body aside from my brain and lung. I should still be able to brush my teeth and walk around the block (a final indignity for an aging male — the doctors fearing seizures and lawsuits took away my car keys, so no more driving). If the radiation doesn’t work, well then right now it looks like the party is over; however accomplished, the imbibing of chemo does not sound very appetizing to be sure but I guess it’s something to do in the interest of living better through chemistry, or just living.

Lifespan, shmife span. Don’t know for sure how long I will be around, although soon some ongoing investigation and reports by doctors will be finished and we may have a better idea. Maybe just months. Though 2011? Maybe not. My suspicions are on the short side. But If the chemo doesn’t do the job then the coming months will definitely bring on some changes. But don’t be concerned for me even if your name isn’t “Argentina”. Owing to how I have lived my life, and observations I have made about my existence, even with the threat of cancer hanging over my nose mean that I now strangely find myself content I do not worry. And if the inevitable should appear to be but a few steps or hours away, based on my experience, I am firmly convinced I can make the best of my last days if I want to. After all, I know by now, kid, that dying is easy, it’s living that’s hard.

 

 

e

 

DAILY FACTOID:

 

The following factoid was sent to me by the Old Sailor for no discernible reason.

Charles Bronson was born Charles Dennis Buchinsky, the 11th of 15 children, in a Roman Catholic family of Lithuanian descent in Ehrenfeld, Pennsylvania in the coal region of the Allegheny Mountains north of Johnstown, Pennsylvania.

His father, Valteris P. Bučinskis (who later adjusted his name to Walter Buchinsky to sound more “American”), hailed from the town of Druskininkai in southern Lithuania. Bronson’s mother, Mary (Valinsky), whose parents were from Lithuania, was born in the coal mining town of Tamaqua, Pennsylvania. His father had Lipka Tatar roots.

 

 

 

 PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

 

A. David Wong on Top:

 

An Excerpt from Fear: Hell’s Parasite by Dr. Albert Marconi:

To understand what occurred, we must ask ourselves a simple question, one which is surprisingly difficult to answer: Why do we, as humans, have eyes? Your natural response would be, “To see things, you doddering old fool,” but as an answer, that is incomplete to the point of being incorrect. Your eyes fool you on a daily basis because they, quite simply, were designed for a very specific (and for the most part, obsolete) purpose. Remember, the vast majority of species on this planet do not have sight and get along just fine without it; you have no evolutionary need to become aware of the world’s general appearance. You, as Homo sapiens, have eyes primarily so that you can find and kill other living beings.

The prey we hunted—gazelles and the like—have eyes mounted on the sides of their heads, so that they can see predators coming from all directions. Ours face forward and grant us depth perception, to measure the distance between ourselves and our fleeing dinner. The true, deadly purpose of human sight is also the reason the color red attracts our attention; it is the color of blood, the sight of which would have instantly sent up an internal thrill of alarm or elation, depending on the circumstance. Thus, today you see that hue screaming for your attention from stoplights, fire trucks, and fast-food logos—a calculated appeal to your hardwired bloodlust.

All of this is to say that our sight is very limited, precisely because it is skewed to serve a few specific functions, all of which are geared toward one singular goal: Survival.

Thus, data that is not immediately relevant to that mission is filtered and discarded—you may have “seen” a thousand automobiles on your commute to work this morning but you will be unable to bring a single one of them to mind—unless, of course, a particular vehicle had swerved into your lane and caused a near-death experience. It is literally a form of tunnel vision, the limits of which you are largely unaware of moment to moment. It is therefore not difficult to circumvent this sense we call vision; even the common flea can effectively vanish before our eyes merely by jumping. It does not take any special intelligence or talent to deceive us. We would do well to remember this.

Now, extend this concept to the way in which you “see” the world in a metaphorical sense; the internal idea you have of the universe as you would describe it to an inquisitive alien. Remember, the brain and consciousness also evolved with survival in mind, to the exclusion of all else. Thus, your mental perception of the universe suffers from this same tunnel vision—it is in no way geared toward producing an objective view of reality; it only produces a view of reality that will help you survive. You will “see” the universe that you need to see. This is not a metaphor; it is an indisputable, biological fact born out of necessity.

Whether you “see” the universe as pure or corrupt, peaceful or violent, just or unjust, is largely determined by what you need to believe in order to motivate yourself to continue living for another day. Your perception of reality is therefore also very easy for other beings to hijack for their purposes. Think of the relationship between a cult leader and his followers. He will isolate them and make them believe they are an island in a sea of depravity, that signs of an imminent apocalypse are all around them. If he is adept at his task, members of the flock will readily lay down their lives in defense against this phantom threat. Ask them why, and they will state that their fatalistic beliefs are merely the result of unbiased, objective observation of the world around them. They are telling the truth! They just do not grasp the fact that they do not believe based on what they observe; they observe based on what they have been tricked into believing.

And so it goes for all of us.

Wong, David. What the Hell Did I Just Read: A Novel of Cosmic Horror (John Dies at the End). St. Martin’s Press.

David Wong is the pseudonym someone whose paying job is as an editor of Cracked.com. His series of novels (John Dies at the End) defies logic and common sense, and are filled with the smarmy adolescent humor of the magazine site as well as monsters and other strange creatures.

 

B. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:

Many years ago, when I was a mere lad, business executives used to tell us “the customer is always right,” now they tell us “our duty is only to our investors.” I do not view this as progress.

 

C. Today’s Poem:

 

I Saw A Man Pursuing The Horizon – Poem by Stephen Crane

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
“It is futile,” I said,
“You can never — “

“You lie,” he cried,
And ran on.

(Probably a Trump voter.)

 

D. Xander’s Perceptions:

Pete XanderHaving had my house in Lake Arrowhead burn in the Old Fire in late October 2003, along with virtually everything my kids and I owned, I can relate to the folks in Santa Rosa as well as victims of past fires in Malibu and Orange County. I was hired as a contract land use planner to the City of Malibu to help process permits for the owners of a thousand homes and outbuildings lost in Malibu after the Old Topanga Fire in 1993.

I heard many many horror stories from fire victims and knew what and how to pack in case of such an emergency. When my home went up in flames ten years to the day, I joined the unfortunate members of a club no one wants to belong to. I cringe and hold my breath every fall when the first Santa Annas blow, and I don’t relax until the first rains of November. As a staff member of the Coastal Commission from 1980 through 1986, I worked on permits to rebuild in Malibu, Pacific Palisades, Laguna Beach, and the south Orange County coast.

My heart goes out to those who suffered through the recent holocaust in Santa Rosa, especially the parents of young kids, who have the unenviable task of trying to explain to their kids how life will go on and things will get better. Be honest with them and don’t pull any punches, but explain things at age-appropriate levels. Your kids will have nightmares for months; mine did, and they were in junior high. Make it okay for them to feel scared, because they will, regardless of whether you do or not. Make sure they know YOU are scared, too, and that you understand why they feel the way they do.

Most importantly, though, be honest and open. They need to know they can trust you and rely on you. Hold yourself together for their sake, because you are all they have to hang on to. Don’t try to replace lost pets that look exactly like the pets they lost, and don’t be in a hurry to move on to the next phases of your lives. They need time for the open wounds to heal first, and you only have one shot at getting it right. Let them know it’s OK for them to be angry about what happened because it isn’t fair. Be there for them, and they will always love you for that.

 

 

TODAY’S QUOTE:

 

The Wit and Wisdom of the Fat Man, Andy Dalziel (pronounced Dee-ell).

“I always said that If you ended up with life left over at the end of your money, the state would take care of you, but if you ended up with money left over at the end of your life, you were an idiot!”

“Women, eh? You can fuck ’em but you can’t fathom them.”

“Never trust a man who believes his own crap.”

“Okay, I’d spent a bit of time in a coma recently, but that’s no reason not to know what’s going off.”

“If there weren’t enough meat on young Clara to make a Christmas starter, there were plenty here for a main course with something left over for Boxing Day.”

“She laughed archly, like a cracked hurdy-gurdy playing ‘The Rustle of Spring.’”

“…she gave me a nod that would likely have broken my nose if she’d been close up, then turned to hoist herself onto a bar stool, showing off a pair of haunches a man would be proud to have the tattooing of.”

“Like me old mam used to say, there’s some folk you needn’t be kind to, but you should always try to be fair with everyone.”

“Once you feel like a prisoner, everyone looks like a guard.”

“…there’s many a good tune played on an old double bass—”

“She were a big bossy woman, used to rolling over folk who got in her way, like an anker of ale, but she must have been a bonny lass once, and she still had a gallon of jimp left in her.”
Hill, Reginald. The Price of Butcher’s Meat (Dalziel & Pascoe series Book 23). HarperCollins.

 

Of all the mysteries and police procedurals I have read, I like those written by Reginald Hill best — especially his series featuring the cops from Mid-Yorkshire, Andy Dalziel, Peter Pascoe, Sgt. Wield, and their significant others.

 

 

 

 

TODAY’S PHOTOGRAPH:

IMG_4062

St. Johns after the Hurricane (from a friend of the Old Sailor).

 

 

 

Categories: October through December 2017, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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