Herself should play by pub rules

Started playing with some numbers. It struck me how different the dems and pubs are in choosing delegates. Is one system better? One party is campaigning for the general election right now, including foreign trips already completed. The other party is gnawing off its own leg below the knee to try to free itself from the predicament it put itself into. You can talk amongst yourselves and come to a consensus answer: It takes a village to _________?

I came to a conclusion: If the dems used pub rules, Herself would win the nomination with ease.

A couple of avenues to explore …

First, the pubs have 5% of their total delegates designated as “super-delegates,” those amorphous beings with PACs waiting to receive contributions from presidential campaigns are they contemplate their endorsement. The dems? 19%. Funny thing, too (like “funny” pathetic, not ha-ha), is that the majority of the dems supers are unelected party figures.

So, first, let’s recalculate the delegate totals by state to 95% pledged and 5% super. The 794 present supers (until the page is turned in the client list book) drops to 202.

Next, let’s switch to the winner-take-all approach of the pubs, as opposed to the proportional allocation the dems use.

Before any changes, the pledged delegates are: O'bambi, 1,677; Herself 1,515.

Recast existing pledged delegates as described above: O'bambi, 1,529; Herself 1,659.

Roles reversed. Who’d be calling for O’bambi to drop out, eh?

Future contests: O'bambi - Guam, Indiana, NC, Oregon, Montana, and SD. Herself - PA (my home state), WV, Kentucky, and Puerto Rico.

Expected pledged counts: O'bambi, 1,851; Herself, 1,991. So very close to 2,024.

Of the 202 super-delegates, O'bambi would need 173, or 86%. Herself would need just 33, or 16%.

The last adjustment is one that just befuddles me. Both pubs and dems rule books provide for a 50% hit in delegate counts for violating scheduling provisions. So Michigan and Florida both violate the scheduling dictates of both parties. The pubs say, “OK, 50% hit!” The dems say, “OK, no delegates for you!”

Hunh? They can’t write a rule and a sanction in advance and uniformly enforce it? if the sanction wasn’t good enough, then change the rule book. Duh?

Presume they merely enforced them: Give Herself half of Florida's recast pledged - 95 delegates. Clinched.

Poor, poor Herself. What a remarkable way to run a party.

Not sure why, but I feel like adding this note. This website has the draw of an impending train wreck. Claims to be a completely anonymous way to send e’s to people. I detest finding things like this. I know I won’t use it, but it is soooo inviting.

pass the popcorn!

This seems to be the movie that has Muslims with their burkas in a bunch. I have no issue with it whatsoever. You may need to log in to You Tube first - not sure.

But first a trailer!



And now for our feature presentation:



Why should it bother me? Below is a movie with a real Muslim speaking his mind.



If people can portray Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell as extremists and thereafter declare that they are not condemning all Christians, then I have no issue with condemning some acts by some people done in the name of Islam.

Pretty clear to me.

Post Script - been spending a little on the net searching over FITNA issues. Seems the screamers are screaming loudly. Like they can actually control information? Are they from the Dark Ages? Oh, yeah. Dumb question. Withdrawn. Well, just in case ...

Here’s the Wikipedia write-up. Good parsing of the movie.

Wikileaks will probably ensure access to the movie forever, but just in case, here is the link to the torrent.

I have downloaded the movie and will post it on my own if needed.

the doctor is in march 2008

We gots a sick boy ... right to it!

Near-Syncope in a 24-Year-Old Man

Background.

A 24-year-old man with no significant past medical history presents to the emergency department (ED) with a complaint of several episodes of a sensation of nearly blacking out. (Ut oh. Sounds bad. Where’s my stethoscope thingey?) The episodes have occurred about 3-4 times over the 3 days before presentation. (Un hunh. OK. Scribble, scribble. Go on. Tell me, how long did each of these episodes last?) The duration of each episode has ranged from a few minutes to over an hour. (Ok, ok. Scribble, scribble. Anything with your heart? Head?) The patient notes that he has felt his "heart beating really fast," with associated light-headedness. (Scribble, scribble. Any chest pain, shortness of breath, or nausea associated with these events?) He denies having any chest pain, shortness of breath, or nausea associated with these events. (Scribble, scribble. So, you like doing anything when this happens? You know, like, banging the misses, pulling the trouser taffy?) He cannot identify exacerbating or alleviating factors; specifically, he denies exertion as an inciting factor. (Scribble, scribble.) The remainder of his review of systems is negative except for some mild chronic shortness of breath. (Shortness of breath? Taking any meds?) The patient takes no medications at home and has no active medical conditions. (Smoke?) He smokes 2-4 packs of cigarettes per day and has done so for 5-6 years. (WHAT?!? Up to 4 packs a DAY? You throw in some weed just to change the ashtray flavor in your mouth?) He denies any illicit drug use or recent use of over-the-counter medications or herbal remedies. (You sure your heart ain’t cranked out? Anybody in your jet stream die of heart disease yet?) He has no history of any significant cardiac disease or sudden cardiac death in his family.

(NOTE TO SELF. Four packs a day. Figure 5 minutes from opening the pack to stubbing it out. 80 events at 12 per hour constant rate equals 6 hours 40 minutes a day devoted to smoking. Figure 16 hour day, that’s 42% of his waking life is smoking.)

On physical examination, the patient is afebrile (aaa—ahhhh—ahhfff-eee-br-eeeyyyeee-llleee; ahf-e-br-eye-lee), with a pulse of 65 bpm (cuz it’s so gummed up that’s it top rate), a blood pressure of 120/84 mm Hg, and a respiratory rate of 15 breaths/min (6.25 of which are laced with nicotine). His room air saturation reading is 100% (check the gauge, must be stuck). In general, he is well-appearing and in no acute distress (OK. So he bathed and isn’t whimpering. How many cigarettes has he excused himself to go smoke during your examination?). The patient's neck examination shows no jugular venous distention (yeah, did you look in his ears? Bet he’s got tar build-up in there). The heart sounds, including S1 and S2, reveal no audible murmurs, rubs, or gallops (probably sounds more like a Wrigley’s Gum Quality Assurance Department staff meeting). The apical impulse is nondisplaced and of normal impact (I have no idea what that means). The lung sounds are diminished throughout (really? Shocking!), but there are no wheezes, rales, or rhonchi. He has no edema of the lower extremities, and the distal pulses are easily palpable. All other exam findings, including a neurologic examination, are unremarkable. (You want remarkable? Tie him down for an hour and watch nicotine withdrawals hit him. Four packs a day? Crack habits are cheaper.)

The patient is placed on a cardiac monitor, and an 18-gauge intravenous (IV) catheter is inserted into the antecubital fossa (aaa-aannntt-eee – oh, forget it). Laboratory tests consisting of a complete blood count (CBC) and serum electrolytes are ordered. A portable chest radiograph reveals slight hyperinflation and hyperlucency of the lung fields (some reaction in the lungs? How surprising.), with a flattened diaphragm and central pulmonary artery enlargement (tar build-up similar to having a tile grout injected into you will tend to enlarge the receiving vessel). An electrocardiogram (ECG) is obtained (see Figure 1).


What is the diagnosis? (Hint: Pay close attention to the intervals and the QRS complex morphology.)
A. Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome (I’d pick this one if it were Winston-Pall Mall-Marlboro syndrome)
B. Ventricular fibrillation
C. Sinus tachycardia
D. Non-sustained ventricular tachycardia

(Yeah, OK, here we go. This dude shows up smoking 4 packs a day, feels a little lightheaded, and they are going to find some fancy name for it. Wanna cure? STOP SMOKING, you idiot!)

Discussion:

Preexcitation (you see? “preexcitation.” “Pre-” nothing. It is post-four packs a day.) is characterized by an accessory pathway within the heart that conducts action potentials between the atria and ventricles outside of the normal conduction system (which conducts through the atrioventricular [AV] node-His-Purkinje system). The phenomenon was defined by Durrer et al in 1970, who stated that "preexcitation exists, if in relation to atrial events, the whole or some part of the ventricular muscle is activated earlier by the impulse originating from the atrium than would be expected if the impulse reached the ventricles by way of the normal specific conduction system only."[5] Of the various types of preexcitation syndromes, the most common is Wolff-Parkinson-White (WPW) syndrome. (Funny. A syndrome. Smoking four packs a day is a syndrome. These people are idiots. I’m done. You keep reading if you want to …)

WPW syndrome can be identified by a classic fusion QRS complex ECG pattern that is a combination of simultaneous normal conduction through the AV node and aberrant conduction through the accessory tract. This fusion QRS complex leads to particular ECG features that include a shortened PR interval (<120 msec) and a widened QRS complex with a delta wave representing preexcitation of the ventricle through the accessory pathway. The distinctive ECG pattern of the accessory pathway was initially described by Wolff, Parkinson, and White in 1930 as a bundle branch block with a short PR interval. Additionally, as mentioned, WPW syndrome is recognized as the most common form of ventricular preexcitation, although it likely represents a collection of pathologic conditions rather than a single structural abnormality.

Normal cardiac conduction of action potentials from the atria to the ventricles occurs exclusively through the AV node; the atrial impulses are subsequently propagated through a specialized conduction system (the AV-His-Purkinje system) and finally terminate in the ventricular myocardium. Action potential conduction through the AV node depends on slow inward calcium currents. In addition, the AV nodal system exhibits decremental conduction, which provides a protective effect; as the cardiac cycle is shortened (eg, the heart rate increases), there is decreased conduction through the AV node. This phenomenon limits the ventricular response to rapid atrial rates, such as those observed in atrial fibrillation or atrial flutter.

In preexcitation syndromes such as WPW, however, the action potential conducts to the ventricles at least partially through an accessory pathway termed the AV bypass tract or the bundle of Kent. Action potential propagation in the accessory pathway in WPW syndrome occurs through a rapid cellular influx of sodium. The consequence of the sodium-dependent action potential propagation mechanism is an accelerated conduction of impulses by the accessory bypass tracts, which leads to early activation of the ventricle as demonstrated by a shortened PR interval and a "slurred" QRS complex (ie, delta wave). Ventricular depolarization slowly spreads out from the bypass tract, while normal conduction that has been somewhat delayed through the AV node begins to conduct through the His-Purkinje system and spreads quickly to the remaining ventricular musculature. Although conduction velocity through the accessory pathway is faster than it is through the AV node, the accessory pathway often has a longer refractory period and, as such, is slower to recover excitability. Interestingly, the conduction of action potentials through the accessory pathway is nondecremental; therefore, the protective effect achieved by the AV node at higher heart rates is lost. These differences have important clinical implications. For example, a premature beat may conduct through the AV node normally while the accessory pathway remains refractory to conduction. The impulse then travels in a retrograde direction through the accessory pathway after ventricular depolarization, when it has recovered excitability. The consequence of this is the propagation of a reentry loop termed an orthodromic AV reciprocating tachycardia. This can then lead to rapid ventricular response rates that can degenerate into ventricular tachyarrhythmias. Rarely, antidromic tachycardias occur; conduction occurs in an anterograde direction through the accessory pathway and in a retrograde direction through the AV node.

Ventricular depolarization occurs through both the AV node-His bundle pathway and the accessory pathway; each pathway affects the ventricles by various degrees, depending on their relative activation times. As AV nodal conduction is delayed by either rapid atrial pacing or premature atrial beats, the accessory pathway contributes to a greater degree, resulting in a wider QRS morphology with an increasingly slurred delta wave. If the relative conduction time through the AV node is sufficiently delayed, total activation of the ventricle may occur through the accessory pathway.

The presence of accessory bypass tracts is not uncommon in the general population; however, less than half of the people with bypass tracts actually sustain a tachyarrhythmia. WPW syndrome affects approximately 0.15-0.2% of the general population, and of these individuals, 60-70% have no other evidence of heart disease. Mortality and morbidity associated with WPW syndrome occur as a result of associated dysrhythmias or from mistreatment of these dysrhythmias with inappropriate medications. Most studies report that the incidence of sudden death is in the 0-4% range. Men are affected more often than women,[5] accounting for 60-70% of all cases. Although this disease affects people of all ages, it is typically first recognized in children and young adults who present to the ED or their primary care physician with symptoms secondary to a dysrhythmia. Genetic mutations have been identified (by mapping genetic defects to specific loci) that account for the increased incidence of WPW syndrome in certain families.[2]

In patients with suspected WPW syndrome, evaluation should initially be directed at confirming the diagnosis and recognizing any potentially life-threatening arrhythmias. In patients with life-threatening arrhythmias, direct-current cardioversion should be immediately administered. In stable patients with tachyarrhythmias, an antiarrhythmic medication may be administered to terminate the arrhythmic episode, rather than immediately performing electrical cardioversion.

Studies have demonstrated that the best and most cost-effective treatment for patients with asymptomatic WPW syndrome is simple observation.[5] Most patients with symptomatic arrhythmias, drug-refractory WPW syndrome, or significant life-threatening arrhythmias are treated with nonpharmacologic therapy. Surgical ablation, previously the standard technique for drug-refractory WPW syndrome, has been replaced by catheter-based procedures. Compared with surgical techniques, catheter ablation has comparable success rates, lower mortality and complication rates, and improved cost-effectiveness. Moreover, newer catheter mapping systems now allow shorter procedure times. Surgical ablation, however, may be necessary in patients in whom catheter ablation has failed. Because this patient had a symptomatic tachyarrhythmia, he underwent electrophysiologic mapping followed by transvenous catheter ablation. He has remained asymptomatic since this procedure.

Patients with infrequent or minimally symptomatic arrhythmias may be treated pharmacologically. The aim of pharmacologic therapy is to alter the electrophysiologic properties, such as the refractoriness or conduction velocity of the AV node or the accessory bypass tracts.

cranky

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give him a fair trial, then hang him

I sat in a doctor’s waiting room today, and had the distinct pleasure of being so incredibly bored that I read a local newspaper. It was like chewing aspirin. An article was on page 4, upper left, occupying two columns for a third of a page. I read it. Glanced at the inset picture as it was identified in the text. Reviewed the article one more time quickly in disbelief. Then just shook my head.

The story is this: It is winter here, somebody put a load of clothes in the dryer, turned it on, and left. Dryer exhaust existed through a vent on the back porch. The firemen came, gained entry through the basement, saw nothing was wrong, and left.

So why did this story rate so many column inches and an inset picture? What was the picture of, anyway?

And now, the rest of the story … it seems that the occupant was recently charged, as the article termed, “with raping children.” That was the only identification and discussion of the charges – “with raping children.” Seems a rather indelicate way of terming his criminal charges. Further, since the charges became public, some local put a sign in the suspect’s front yard identifying the house as being occupied by a “child molester.” The neighbor that called the fire company was concerned, perhaps rightfully, that the house was on fire through arson. She was wrong, but perhaps heartfelt.

I have deep feelings about our judicial system and how it handles criminals and, in particular, those that touch children. I am, as a result, very comfortable with the idea of vigilante justice. I also understand the Constitution and criminal procedure.

I blissfully know nothing of local happenings. I knew nothing of the allegations. Regardless, this guy or his wife put in a load of clothes to dry, and went out. As a result, his name, her name, their address, his picture, some flippant reference to his charges, the sign incident – all get recounted in the paper to, I guess, remind everyone of what is going on.

I have no sympathy for him if he is guilty. I rather enjoy daydreaming of his future as the cellblock wife. But why this article? I found the handling of the faux incident to be an exceptionally poor editorial decision.

Tie him to the stake. Stuff a rag in his mouth. Surround him with dry kindling. Toss liberally an accelerant. Hold the match until the trial concludes.

I read the entire paper. What a waste of tree.

I feel myself being drawn into following politics a bit. Makes me feel dirty. There’s a concerted effort to “humanize” Mrs. Bill Clinton? What does that mean, exactly? She is human – people just don’t like the type of human that she is. Cold, lying, bitchy, tight, sleazy – and those are her supporters. Her detractors go for the pant-suit references. I have to throw up – brb.

John Edwards has a love child in the oven? So funny. I bet his fervent support of abortion-on-demand just hit a crescendo. John: They don’t, um, do DNA testing on aborted kids – I mean, fetuses, ah, wait, ah, what’s that phrase? “A mass of cells” – they don’t, right? So much for supporting wife dying of cancer, Slim. Oh yeah, procedure and evidentiary findings and all that. Sorry. Oh, fuck it! Where’s the matches? John-boy? C’mere, son …

I read on some site the headline that an MSNBC host laughed at a Republican presidential candidate. The talking heads are fools – and just for clarity, I am referring to the television hosts.

Polls are coming out by the bucketful. Seems Obama leads Iowa among likely caucus voters and Edwards leads among likely voters. Hunh? On common thing – Clinton is not leading in any of them. Guess those pantsuits linger in memory. Oh, god, gotta go. brb.

I had pizza and chili. Yeah. Just yuk. I was hungry, cut me break.

I loved reading Pravda. They are so deeply asshat-ish. The headline reads, “USA spends hundreds of billions to control Russia, Iraq and Afghanistan.” Here is every number in context from the article:

“The U.S. Senate approved the allocation of 401.8 million dollars from the budget in the financial year 2008. The funds will be used to implement assistance programs to the republics of the former USSR. In addition, the USA plans to spend 294.5 million dollars for the countries of Eastern Europe and the Baltic states (Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania).

“ … the allocation of not less than eight million dollars for the humanitarian and civil assistance to Caucasian republics of Russia’s south: Chechnya, Ingushetia, Dagestan and North Ossetia …

“$500,000 to the U.S. Forest Service to implement a program to protect forests and animals in Russia’s Far East.

“555 billion spending bill Tuesday combining funding for 14 Cabinet departments with $70 billion for U.S. military operations in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

“USA spends hundreds of billions to control Russia, Iraq and Afghanistan”? You people can’t read your own words. I don’t even see half a billion. You just ain’t that important, Russia. Or maybe you are jealous because your budget is so pathetic?

Alright, enough cranky …

hippocrates gets dissed

In my never-ending search for truth and wisdom, I decided that as an Internet Medical Doctor, I should take some Continuing Medical Education credits. Since I have absolutely no medical training whatsoever, I decided to start at the beginning, kinda like opening the Bible at Genesis. I decided to start with the Works by Hippocrates. He’s that Oath guy, so if people swear an oath towards or about him, I figured he must be somebody.

He was a pretty important guy, so it seems. They called him the Father of Medicine, and he lived from about 460 BC to 370 BC. Ninety years is impressive for a time before flushing toilets and Dyson vacuums.

Turns out he wrote a lot, and his works are collected into something called the Hippocratic Corpus. I figure strolling through his writings should be worth a handful of CMEs.

I picked one called, Aphorisms. It is presented in Roman-numeral section and then numbered paragraphs within each section. Let’s stroll …

I.21. Those things which require to be evacuated should be evacuated, wherever they most tend, by the proper outlets. (“Evacuated … by the proper outlets.” Man, starts right in with the anal bit. Just remarkable. How did I know that was coming?)

II.11. It is easier to fill up with drink than with food. (This sounds like a proverb. “There is no ‘I’ in teamwork.” “‘Gullible’ is not in the dictionary.” “Orville Redenbacher’s brother is a colonel in the Air Force.”)

II.21. Drinking strong wine cures hunger. (“I’m hungry!’ “Shut up! Get blasted – you won’t think about it as much!”)

II.24. [Concerning acute disease] The fourth day is indicative of the seventh; the eighth is the commencement of the second week; and hence, the eleventh being the fourth of the second week, is also indicative; and again, the seventeenth is indicative, as being the fourth from the fourteenth, and the seventh from the eleventh. (Where’s my slide rule? I know I left it around here somewhere …)

II.48. In every movement of the body, whenever one begins to endure pain, it will be relieved by rest. (“Doc, it hurts when I move.” “Then stop moving.” Brilliant!)

III.10. Autumn is a bad season for persons in consumption. (Back in his day, Consumption/Tuberculosis was characterized by coughing up blood, fever, and was almost always fatal. Seems to me, Hippo, the time of year isn’t dispositive.)

V.3. A convulsion, or hiccup, supervening on a copious discharge of blood is bad. (Good rule. Got it. Thank you.)

V.34. When a pregnant woman has a violent diarrhoea, there is danger of her miscarrying. (“Dear Diary, about two months ago I got pregnant with Spyro’s child. Last week, I began to feel a quivering in my toes that worked its way the entire distance of my legs. I thought it would result in a real howitzer of an orgasm. Alas, to my dismay, the result was explosive flatulence. Now, the flatulence has given way to violent diarrhoea. What could be next? Methinks I am not well. I must stop eating hummus as very often.”)

V.72. Persons disposed to jaundice are not very subject to flatulence. (Um, OK. “Johnny, I haven’t heard you fart lately, and you look a little yellow under the gills. I think your liver is failing. I could be wrong.”)

VI.9. Broad exanthemata are not very itchy. (“Not very”? Rather loose language for a doc, eh? If it’s a rash and it was itchy when it was little, you can be damn sure it will be itchy when it spreads. “Itch” isn’t proportioned to a condition, like you only get so much “itch” per condition. The broader the condition, Hippo, the more it frickin itches.)

VI.13. Sneezing coming on, in the case of a person afflicted with hiccup, removes the hiccup. (Yes, and if you read a few posts below, sticking your fingers in his ass will also “remove the hiccup.” Surprised you didn’t come up with that.)

VI.17. It is a good thing in ophthalmy for the patient to be seized with diarrhoea. (Let’s see … “ophthalmy” is an inflammation of the membranes or coats of the eye or of the eyeball. “I can’t see nothing, doc. My eyes are all inflamed. Big time.” “Yes, they are, Spartacus, I can see that. How’s your butt?” “Hunh?” “I said, ‘how’s your butt?’” “Um, OK, I guess. I could lose a pound or two. You know it is.” “I think we need to aid in the evacuation through the proper outlets.” “Doc, it’s my eyes. My eyes are weirding out on me.” “I know, Sparty. Trust me on this one. We’ll ream you out a good one, give you a tonic to induce violent diarrhoea, and in a few days you’ll be good as new! You aren’t pregnant, are you?”)

VI.28. Eunuchs do not take the gout, nor become bald. (Now here is news you can use! The heck with that Propecia or the Gessippi Whoever with the Beverly Hills salon that hugs all his customers while he charges them $500 for the same product you can now get for $19.99 but wait order now and we’ll give you a second bottle for free who has time for all that nonsense look I don’t own the company in fact I don’t know anything about them they just agreed to give my 20% of gross if I would do this commercial so I am and stop staring at that zit above my right eyebrow I am fully aware the pancake didn’t cover it completely just buy the product you bovine freak. You want to stop hair loss or jumpstart re-stimulation or re-growth? Easy – cut your nuts off! And as an added bonus, if you chop the mud flap off within the next 15 minutes, we’ll guaranty that you’ll never get gout! “Honey, where’s the hedge clippers?”)

VI.46. Such persons as become hump-backed from asthma or cough before puberty, die. (And if it happens after puberty, people will just spend a lifetime being pointing at you and hiding their children from your view. Man, how hard do you have to cough to create a hump on your back?)

VI.53. Delirium attended with laughter is less dangerous than delirium attended with a serious mood. (“How is he, doctor?” “He’ll be fine, Ma’am. Just keep him laughing. Whatever you do, keep him laughing.”)

VII.4. A chill supervening on a sweat is not good. (I know. This happens every time I drink myself into oblivion and evacuate through all the proper outlets. I always hear this voice, “This is not good.” Voice sounds familiar. I think it is me.)

VII.14. Stupor or delirium from a blow on the head is bad. (OK. How long did it take to figure this one out? Did you use live subjects?)

VII.34. When bubbles settle on the surface of the urine, they indicate disease of the kidneys, and that the complaint will be protracted. (I always make bubbles. It’s fun!)

VII.43. A woman does not become ambidexterous. (Whew! Is the next line, “burn the witch!”?)

VII.55. When the liver is filled with water and bursts into the epiploon, in this case the belly is filled with water and the patient dies. (I think you got a little off track here, Hippo. It seems to me that the patient died because of the burst liver. I really do think the water in the stomach is secondary. You may want to look over your data again.)

Interesting guy.

So I figure since “real” docs take the Hippocratic Oath, maybe I should read it. Good rule: Always start with the original text when doing research. Then, silly me and somewhat to be shock and awe, I wanted to find the modern version, and found instead a bunch of “modern” versions. I have three of them following the original.

Here is the original version (yes, translations differ, but that is your problem, not mine).

“I SWEAR by Apollo (wasn’t he a god or sumptin?) the physician, and Aesculapius, and Health, and All-heal, and all the gods and goddesses (smile. Pagan!), that, according to my ability and judgment, I will keep this Oath and this stipulation- to reckon him who taught me this Art equally dear to me as my parents (mentor = daddy. Interesting concept. Sounds like a blood oath, Kemo Sabe.), to share my substance with him (are you selling Amway?), and relieve his necessities if required (mentor = sex daddy?); to look upon his offspring in the same footing as my own brothers, and to teach them this art, if they shall wish to learn it, without fee or stipulation (getting whored out just to learn a trade. Wow.); and that by precept, lecture, and every other mode of instruction, I will impart a knowledge of the Art to my own sons, and those of my teachers, and to disciples bound by a stipulation and oath according to the law of medicine, but to none others (was there a secret handshake? I picture Fred Flintstone with his big blue hat while at the Loyal Order of Water Buffalos Lodge). I will follow that system of regimen which, according to my ability and judgment, I consider for the benefit of my patients, and abstain from whatever is deleterious and mischievous (OK). I will give no deadly medicine to any one if asked (OK), nor suggest any such counsel; and in like manner I will not give to a woman a pessary to produce abortion (WHAT?!? You will NOT induce an abortion? Um, wait a minute … roughly 45MM abortions since 1972 in the US and the original text of the Oath includes a prohibition? Oh, it is to laugh.). With purity and with holiness I will pass my life and practice my Art. I will not cut persons laboring under the stone, but will leave this to be done by men who are practitioners of this work (Ewww! What pray tell is behind this crack? Cutting the tendons so they cannot escape?). Into whatever houses I enter, I will go into them for the benefit of the sick, and will abstain from every voluntary act of mischief and corruption; and, further from the seduction of females or males (and since docs were all guys, here’s a little gay reference.), of freemen and slaves (don’t go banging the patient – good rule). Whatever, in connection with my professional practice or not, in connection with it, I see or hear, in the life of men, which ought not to be spoken of abroad, I will not divulge, as reckoning that all such should be kept secret. While I continue to keep this Oath unviolated, may it be granted to me to enjoy life and the practice of the art, respected by all men, in all times! But should I trespass and violate this Oath, may the reverse be my lot! (whew, it ends like a spell. Eerie!)”

Well, old Hippo didn’t support abortion, did he? He’d get on all fours and let his teacher bang him doggy-style, but wouldn’t do his patients. Gotta draw lines somewhere, I guess. Interesting world.

Let’s see how the Oath was updated. Here’s the first modern version:

“I SWEAR in the presence of the Almighty (down to one god) and before my family, my teachers and my peers that according to my ability and judgment I will keep this Oath and Stipulation.

“TO RECKON all who have taught me this art equally dear to me as my parents (but you’re not going to sleep with them, right?) and in the same spirit and dedication to impart a knowledge of the art of medicine to others. I will continue with diligence to keep abreast of advances in medicine. I will treat without exception all who seek my ministrations (all?), so long as (funny, didn’t take long for the “but” to come in)the treatment of others is not compromised thereby (well, cowpoke, there is only so much of “you,” so in order to not compromise this fee-paying patient over here …), and I will seek the counsel of particularly skilled physicians where indicated for the benefit of my patient (the origins of the referral system).

“I WILL FOLLOW that method of treatment which according to my ability and judgment, I consider for the benefit of my patient and abstain from whatever is harmful or mischievous (tip of the hat to Hippo). I will neither prescribe nor administer a lethal dose of medicine to any patient (… any patient …) even if asked nor counsel any such thing nor perform the utmost respect for every human life from fertilization (oh my, methinks a prohibition against abortion has reared its head) to natural death and reject abortion that deliberately takes a unique human life (Oh! I should have read ahead, eh? “Reject abortion” coupled with previous reference of “life = fertilization” seems very clear. How interesting. I wonder how fully this position lies with Aristotle’s delayed ensoulment.).

“WITH PURITY, HOLINESS AND BENEFICENCE I will pass my life and practice my art. Except for the prudent correction of an imminent danger, I will neither treat any patient nor carry out any research on any human being without the valid informed consent of the subject or the appropriate legal protector thereof, understanding that research must have as its purpose the furtherance of the health of that individual. Into whatever patient setting I enter, I will go for the benefit of the sick and will abstain from every voluntary act of mischief or corruption and further from the seduction of any patient. (There’s that “seduction” bit again! Must’ve been a real problem. Something just dawned on me – in all the usages, it is the doc seducing the patient. Always that form. So if she (or he!) starts it … weird demarcation. Why not just prohibit sexual relations with patients?)

“WHATEVER IN CONNECTION with my professional practice or not in connection with it I may see or hear in the lives of my patients which ought not be spoken abroad, I will not divulge, reckoning that all such should be kept secret.

“WHILE I CONTINUE to keep this Oath unviolated may it be granted to me to enjoy life and the practice of the art and science of medicine with the blessing of the Almighty and respected by my peers and society, but should I trespass and violate this Oath, may the reverse by my lot.”

Alright, substantially intact. Added a few bits about human research and informed consent. Good issues. Let’s see another “modern” version. Methinks the Indians are discussing leaving the reservation.

“I swear to (now down to zero gods) fulfill, to the best of my ability and judgment, this covenant:

“I will respect the hard-won scientific gains of those physicians in whose steps I walk, and gladly share such knowledge as is mine with those who are to follow. (A little soft around the edges, but still very Fred-like.)

“I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures [that] are required, avoiding those twin traps of overtreatment and therapeutic nihilism. (But sometimes the exact appropriate amount of treatment is nihilistic. How do you handle that?)

“I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife or the chemist's drug. (Oh man. How many docs do you know that skipped this paragraph?)

“I will not be ashamed to say "I know not," (ditto) nor will I fail to call in my colleagues when the skills of another are needed for a patient's recovery (share the wealth).

“I will respect the privacy of my patients, for their problems are not disclosed to me that the world may know. Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life (in theory); this awesome responsibility must be faced (application) with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God. (Capital G? But you axed Him in the opening. Odd.)

“I will remember that I do not treat a fever chart, a cancerous growth, but a sick human being, whose illness may affect the person's family and economic stability. My responsibility includes these related problems, if I am to care adequately for the sick. (No comment.)

“I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure.

“I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.

“If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help.”

That was an interesting shift in the treatment of abortion – from clear to cryptic. Still present, in some carnival mirror sort of way. Notice what is missing entirely? Docs can now nail their patients – male and female – regardless of who initiates it!

Last and, yes, least I found the AMA approved version. The reservation is now devoid of human inhabitants.

“You do solemnly swear, each by whatever he or she holds most sacred (Hunh? “whatever”? Good lord, talk about politically correct): That you will be loyal to the Profession of Medicine and just and generous (read, “make referrals early and often”) to its members. That you will lead your lives and practice your art in uprightness and honor.

“That into whatsoever house you shall enter, it shall be for the good of the sick to the utmost of your power, your holding yourselves far aloof from wrong, from corruption, from the tempting of others to vice. (Is this code for boning patients?)

“That you will exercise your art solely for the cure of your patients, and will give no drug, perform no operation, for a criminal purpose, even if solicited, far less suggest it. (Cure = good; criminal = bad. Silent on preventing abortion. Silent on assisted suicide. But neither “cure” do they?)

“That whatsoever you shall see or hear of the lives of men or women which is not fitting to be spoken, you will keep inviolably secret.

“These things do you swear. Let each bow the head in sign of acquiescence. And now, if you will be true to this, your oath, may prosperity and good repute be ever yours; the opposite, if you shall prove yourselves forsworn.”

The AMA sucks. Remarkable how much they changed from Hippo’s first writing. Why do they even continue to use the name?

happy thanksgiving from the palestinian authority

I frequent life is israel several times a week. The link is to a specific post, but just click his header for the main page.

What I find amazing is the bald-face lying of the Arab community. "What? Us? We are peace-loving, PBUH, yadda yadda, yadda." They are actively at war. Period, end of story. Any liberal simpleton that tries to suggest otherwise is not merely an enabler, they are a co-conspirator. There is no desire within the Arab community to resolve anything in Palestine. Letting them rot keeps them angry - and the anger is directed towards Israel. Just think what the several HUNDRED millions dollars Yes-Sir Are-U-Fat possessed in his personal coffers could have "solved" if he hadn't stole it.

These people will continue to fight until they are killed one by one. Everyone knows they are fighting, but are unwilling to resolve it. Just look at the garbage Israel took because they built a wall. Stupid.

Want to see these clowns at war? Check out the video. Notice the truck driving by - there is open knowledge of these actions. The "I don't masturbate because Allah told me so" crowd is setting up rocket launchers to toss missiles into Israel. At least Sinn Fein had the decency to use the cover of night (mostly).

when can i masturabte?

There are just some things that you just cannot make up. I cut nothing below – full and complete. You have all the links.

J.W. from Canada writes, “As-Salamu `alaykum. I got married four months back. I am a Muslim and try to follow Islam to the best of my ability. During the time of my wife's period (which is usually seven days) I get sexually aroused a lot (she’s had like THREE periods, pal. Get a fricking grip – oh yeah, that’s what you are going to ask. Sorry, got ahead of myself.). I would like to know if, during this time, it is permissible for me to masturbate (smile)? If not, is there any other option?” (There’s the neighbor’s sheep, a mud hole, a rotting tree by a creek bed, your sister.)

Counselor Ahmad Kutty responds:

Wa `alaykum As-Salamu wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuh. (Same to you, pal.)

In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.

All praise and thanks are due to Allah, and peace and blessings be upon His Messenger. (Yeah, yeah, yeah, cut to the chase.)

Dear brother in Islam, thank you so much for your concerns about your religion and Allah’s law even in what concerns your sexual life with your wife. (Gotcha. You get paid by the word, buddy? Talk!)

As for your question, it should be clear that masturbation is generally considered forbidden (except for the quite amazing exceptions noted at the end of this post) in Islam since it is deemed to fall under the category of sexual satisfaction outside the framework of marriage (don’t tell me that you’re about to say everything has to be with her, are you? Everything?). However, mutual masturbation between the man and his wife (here we go – so I can’t yank my pud, but she can? Where do I sign up? PBUH) is not haram; rather, it is permissible because it is a part of the enjoyment which Allah has allowed (nice guy, that Allah). Allah Almighty says: “Those who guard their chastity (i.e., private parts from illegal sexual acts). (why is there a period to the left and a capital E to the right? Your God seems to be a grammar retard.) Except from their wives or (the captives and slaves) (gotta love the fact subsumed in evidence, eh? It is perfectly fine to have captives and slaves. You people are bizarre.) that their right hands (I’m left handed; when I use my right hand it feels like someone else is doing it – is that ok?) possess,—for them, they are free from blame.” (Al-Mu’minun: 5-6)

In response to your question, Sheikh Ahmad Kutty, a senior lecturer and Islamic scholar at the Islamic Institute of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, states (oh, the above was like scripture, and now we get the sermon? I’m into it.):

“We are not allowed to engage in sexual intercourse with our wives during their menstrual period (why not? Give me a good reason. Name ONE. That’s why somebody invented soap and water.). However, there is no taboo on gaining sexual satisfaction from them through other ways (tell me more!). The Prophet (peace and blessings be upon him) (double that if he is going to elaborate on “other ways”) was once asked, “What is allowed for a husband from his wife during menstruation?” (Somebody asked him this? Where's that humungo thighed Mrs. Clinton & her Fabulous Question Planters when you need them? This dude is walking around like a fricking prophet and people asked him about banging their wives? You people hate Jews, but, c'mon, they had a bit more decorum with Jesus, right?) He replied, “Everything except sexual intercourse.” (I LOVE this guy – “everything”) Just as there is no taboo on intimate touching, fondling, caressing, et cetera, there is no prohibition on spouses masturbating each other, et cetera. (I think “et cetera” is Muslim for “yadda yadda yadda.” That Mohammed said that?!? That is so funny. The dude is walking around like he’s the Christ and talking about jacking off. So hip! Did he wear headphones and sunglasses? So, we already learned that she can take the yoyo for a walk. You mean I can just say, “This side’s bloody, flip it over”? That’s cool with you? So provided a slave isn’t available, I can just crank her up the ass and you have no problem with that? You people spent too much time in the desert with camels. Trust me on this one. I bet the etymology of “animal husbandry” is a bit further east than Greece or Rome.”)

Although you are not allowed to masturbate yourself, your wife can masturbate you without incurring any sin (You’re repeating yourself. On purpose? For emphasis? OK, ok. I’ll talk to her and said you said so. "Um, jerk me off, PBUH." That's all, right? I say that and we're cool?). So satisfy yourself through halal (lawful) (I thought "halal" was deep fried and served in a pita. Learn something new everyday.) ways; we have sufficiency in what Allah has made halal for us so that we do not need to turn to that which is considered as haram (unlawful).” (I thought "haram" was a bunch of chicks - or as you call them, "captives." Let’s summarize, she can yank it, I can flip her over, I could do a slave, I could kidnap somebody so I have a “captive.” I didn’t see any prohibition on her blowing me – I mean, “everything” is a pretty broad term. I can toe fuck her? Just can’t bang her. Got it. What an amazing religion to discuss such real issues. And you think we are too loose? Tell me, when I clip my toenails, right to left or left to right?)

Excepted, with slight modifications, from: www.muslims.ca

You can also read:

Islamic Ruling on Masturbation. Can I? Short answer: Yes (hunh? I thought you just said, no.), but only if you aren’t married (ah! So stay single and the sheep are safe.), if you think you really need to bang some married girl (so even if I am married, I can do it if that woman over there is driving me to the point of distraction. What an incredible religion you people have.), or if you are releasing sexual tension rather than achieving sexual desire (now, talk about wordsmithing. Tension not desire. Well, I get really tense sometimes – does that work? Hey, I’m tense, I took my Viagra and she’s late from work - yank yank yank. And that’s OK? Listen to me, boys, create a flow chart of your rules. See the spirals and feedbacks? There’s no flow (menstruation aside). Your rules are creating asshats. Settle down. Relax. Masturbate. Don’t be so uptight.).

My Husband Does Not Satisfy Me in Bed: Can I Masturbate? Short answer: No. So what if we Muslim men have short dicks and no sense of foreplay. Deal with it. (Figures. Always the guys with small dicks writing rules telling women to “deal with it.” How about this, bub – pull your own pud, I can’t find it! The coke bottle and tweezers must be in the slave’s room.)

If you are still in need of more information, don't hesitate to contact us. Do keep in touch. May Allah guide us all to the straight path! (Yeah, ok.)

Allah Almighty knows best. (I am speechless.)

killing you softly with my words

A favorite word of mine through the years has been, “non-sequitur.” I suspect the hyphen is not correct because it is taken directly from Latin (so “non” is a word rather than a prefix) meaning, “it does not follow.”

Although it is a favorite word (or two-word combination) of mine, I cannot ever remember uttering it in context. Seems to me to be not quite fitting of coal trash to have such a robust lexicon. When I think of such things, I recall leaving the courthouse one day (I had a hearing of some kind in a neighboring county). I walked past a group of lawyers that did not give me, a lawyer from away, even a nod. One was saying to the group, “… not sure, I mean, he couldn’t even propound an appropriate inquiry!” Wasn’t a reference to my courtroom work (I’m a good propounderistarianer), but I thought as I walked by, “… douchebag. They don't give out nickels for big words anymore.”

I use my share of long words, but as one of my graduate students wrote on a course eval, “You use a lot of big words, but you use them all correctly. It’s refreshing.” And, to me, therein lies the issue. Words communicate. The simpler the word, the more likely your message will be communicated. Sometimes longer words are needed – just be sure to know what they mean before you use them.

Little shit drives me nuts: “We are doing this to insure we get it right the first time.” Insure, as to financially underwrite? “That” is limiting; “which” is not. But, to me, misuse at this level is just lazy, and it’s OK to be lazy. We all are in some areas of our lives including, big time, me. However, when people go out of their way to use words they do not understand just to use a big word, then you know they are not trying to communicate, but to impress.

“Impress: to press (a thing) into or on something.” Isn’t that what Charmin is for?

Could we say, in light of the above, that one who uses big words for the very sake of their length and that flushing sound one hears typically from behind a closed interior door in a residential environment is, empirically, the antithesis of a non sequitur? Methinks, without measureable trepidation of the prospect of contradiction, that such is an accurate manner in which to describe the state of affairs. In short, if you do not know the difference between “didactic” and “pedantic” then do not use either.

Naw, not being a dick, just tired of pseudo-intellectuals.

Alright, enough pompous bullshit. Soapbox to the right; me to the left.

Here’s a good story: “In 1386, the tribunal of Falaise sentenced a sow to be mangled and maimed in the head and forelegs, and then to be hanged, for having torn the face and arms of a child and thus caused its death. … As if to make the travesty of justice complete, the sow was dressed in man's clothes and executed on the public square near the city-hall at an expense to the state of ten sous and ten deniers, besides a pair of gloves to the hangman.” – E.P. Evans, The Criminal Prosecution and Capital Punishment of Animals, 1906 This site is full of good stories.

Good rule from my twin: if it wasn’t food a hundred years ago, it isn’t food now.

This sounds good:

Autumn Roasted Vegetable Salad

Ingredients

1 (8 oz.) yam, peeled and diced to 1-inch
1 (6 oz.) granny smith apple, peeled, cored and diced to 1-inch
1 (6 oz.) red onion, diced to 1-inch
2 tbsp. olive oil, split
salt and pepper to taste
2 tsp. balsamic vinegar
1 tsp. Dijon mustard
1/2 cup sliced California Ripe Olives
2 cups mixed baby greens
1/4 cup of chopped toasted cashews

Directions

In a large mixing bowl, toss yam, apple and red onion with 1 tablespoon of oil. Season with salt and pepper and scatter on one or two roasting pans in an even layer. Bake in a 450˚F oven for 20 minutes until golden. Remove from heat and allow to cool for 10 minutes. While cooling, whisk remaining oil, vinegar and mustard into mixing bowl. Toss in California Ripe Olives, baby greens and cooled vegetables. Top with cashews and serve. Serves 4. Courtesy of The California Olive Industry.

If you get off on articles that begin, “Almost one billion people throughout tropical and sub-tropical latitudes are infected with hookworms. In the countries affected, hookworm infection is often the major contributor to irondeficiency anemia, a direct consequence of the parasite’s bloodfeeding activities” then you can read the rest here - The bandit, a New DNA Transposon from a Hookworm - Possible Horizontal Genetic Transfer between Host and Parasite. The article is focused on DNA analysis. I can’t bring myself to show a pic of the things, but go for it if you like.

I started reading some articles on why lethal injection is “inhumane,” and then got sidetracked to other issues. Data from Amnesty International: In 2006, 91 per cent of all known executions took place in six countries: China, Iran, Pakistan, Iraq, Sudan and the USA. Based on public reports available, Amnesty International estimated that at least 1,010 people were executed in China during the year, although these figures are only the tip of the iceberg. Credible sources suggest that between 7,500 to 8,000 people were executed in 2006. The official statistics remain a state secret, making monitoring and analysis problematic.

Iran executed 177 people, Pakistan 82, and Iraq and Sudan each at least 65. There were 53 executions in 12 states in the USA.

Um, we set the internal toaster oven to "bake" for 53 people and you’re on our case? Shoo, fly, go away! Shoo!! Seems to me you’ve got more than enough work to do with China. Better go pout at the UN, eh? Further, if the 7:1 to 8:1 holds for China, you gotta know, brother, that is also good for Iran and the Sudan.

And don’t you just the love the opening crack – “91 per cent” in six countries. They are using a base of 1,591 executions. Wouldn’t “88 per cent in five countries” sound better? Narrow the culprits to just FIVE! Ah, but that would leave the US off the list.

How’s this for another twist? In point 11 not quite half way down: China reports executing about the same number of people in 2006 that the United States has executed for the past 30 years. That is Amnesty’s data, but not the way they want us to view it.

Here’s another set of data, different source, same year: China, at least 5,000 (approximately 8,000 according to Liu Renwen, Professor of the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences); Iran, at least 215; Pakistan, 82; Iraq, at least 65; Sudan, at least 65; and United States, 53.

China’s number essential the same – a guess as to the total. Iran creeps up over 20%, and joins Iraq and the Sudan with the qualifier, “at least.” Seems the US role is shrinking by the article.

Want an observation? Where is Russia in all this? Ah, they have a moratorium on the death penalty. Why? Last paragraph of the link – Russia committed itself to scrapping the death penalty in 1997, when it signed a protocol to the European Convention on Human Rights. Money. Follow the money. It is routed in trade with the EU. Remember Russia in the 1990's? They were in economic freefall.

Butt hay, who needs the death penalty when you can murder your undesirables? But, Clyde! How can you say that! It, it, it’s so cold! Blow me – here’s the data:

Russia murders per 100,000 population: 201 (#5 on the hit parade)
US murders per 100,000 population: 42 (#24)
Weighted average for the world: 100

Gee, maybe there’s something to the theory.

Where did I get started on this tangent? Oh yeah, the “inhumane” nature of lethal injection. Here’s the scientific article saying it’s bad. Read it all, then come back and read this:

I grabbed this at random from Dead Man Eating:

SOUTH DAKOTA LAST MEAL
ELIJAH PAGE
July 11, 2007

Last Meal: Page had a final meal request of steak with A-1 sauce, jalapeno poppers with cream sauce, onion rings, and a salad with cherry tomatoes, ham chunks, shredded cheese, bacon bits, and blue cheese and ranch dressing. He wanted lemon iced tea and coffee to drink and ice cream for dessert.

The skinny: Page, 25, was executed for the torturing and killing a 19-year-old man following a robbery.

It was South Dakota's first execution in 60 years.

More skinny: Page and two other young men were convicted of killing a 19-year old "friend," near the town of Spearfish in the rural west of South Dakota.

The victim was kidnapped at gunpoint, then tortured for almost 3 hours before his death. He was forced to drink acid, repeatedly kicked and beaten, stabbed in the head and torso, and forced to remove his clothing in an icy creek.

His body was not found until a month later.

Upon his arrest in Texas, Page admitted his involvement in the murder. Page later pled guilty, received a death sentence, and waived appeals.

Accomplice Briley Piper, age 19, also pled guilty and was sentenced to death. Accomplice Darrell Hoadley, age 20, is serving a sentence of life without parole.

Last words and such: Asked if he had any last words, Page replied, "No." Asked if he understood the question Page responded, "Yes, no last words."

I really hope he enjoyed his jalapeño poppers. I wish I knew what flavor ice cream he asked for.

I also hope the execution procedure was a complete fuck-up, totally in line with the scientific article linked above.

Yes, the death penalty is retributive. Ain’t got nothing to do with general deterrence. It does, however, help the recidivism rate, eh?

watering holes

I like to wander in and through data sometimes. It’s like a digital skinny-dipping session.

To show you how much my mind is going, I couldn’t come up with “skinny dipping,” although it was a very common term growing up in the country. Lots of people did it, or so they claimed. I never did. Too vivid an imagination, I guess. I always envisioned everything turning into some teenage orgy all asses and elbows and neighbors with flashlights and pregnancies and repentance and girls going to nun factories and boys to boot camp (none of which happened); or night sea creatures no bigger than four- or five-foot eels or water moccasins snatching innocent feet, wrapping around legs, performing colonoscopies, boys crying for help, girls giggling, dead bodies found the following day, sleepless nights, and prolonged silences followed by memorizing books from Tibet, shaving all body hair, and moving to LA to sell flowers at the airport (none of which, to my knowledge, happened). No, nothing good could come from skinny dipping.

To grasp the term within my present mind again (and all the horrors of yesteryear), I googled “swimming nude night.” There it was up top. But also lurking at about 3d, I learned that Hibiscus Coast Sun Club has such fun events as nude volleyball, nude swimming, and nude pizza.

Nude pizza. D’ja’ever get hot cheese or sauce on a body part? Why for a split second would I expose my ankle spanker to hot food? Makes no sense. And think about it – we’re all sitting around here naked, “hey, nice tits,” “yeah, you said that ten times already,” sex has got to crop into it somewhere. So how do we build up sexual tension? With pizza? Tomato sauce? WTF, that’s gross! Although I can just hear the naturalists – “It isn’t sex, you pervert, it’s all about freedom” – freedom, my ass, Nat-boy, you’re either gay or pounding as many women as you can (for real or through your right hand alone in your bed at night).

Oh, I get it! Maybe the pizza is like a designed “turn off” thingey. Like a decompression chamber. You fear getting bobo scalded with hot cheese, she drips sauce and looks like instant menstruation. I get it. OK, makes sense.

So I back the URL away from the calendar of events to the HBSC homepage. I’ve got this picture in my head of teenage-years venues: lakes with beaches, moonlight shimmering on rippling water, dark woods with defined paths. Man, was I wrong. This pic is not a joke. Just go to the link above.

WTF? Your “nude swimming” nights are in rather close quarters, eh Nat-boy? So Nat-girl rips one and everyone giggles? You with your quick wit and care-to-wind attitude add, “Somebody had pizza!”

Go to the “About Us” page. It reads, in part, “There are bush walks and glow worms at night.” I think its code. Perverts. Put your pants on. No, animals are not nude – they got body hair. You don’t. Get dressed. Your mother know you’re doing this? That’s her over there? Oh, gross. “Ma’am, excuse me, you should be ashamed of yourself … OMG! Lady! You’re an octogenarian – matching nipple and clit rings?!? I’m gonna throw up.”

How’d I get on this topic? Let me backtrack in my mind … ah, somehow or another I was City-Data.com for Lutherville-Timonium, MD. I found it to be an odd name and was curious. Must be a merger of two towns, but, c’mon, no one could come up with a better name than stitching together the old ones like some Bride of Frankenstein?

So anyway, the map was a bit misleading on scale. Seemed to be further away from Baltimore than it actually is. Quite close, actually. Towson right there. Lots of higher ed. Older population. Maybe a nice bedroom community. Then to my initial shock and horror, I see this entry:

Likely homosexual households (counted as self-reported same-sex unmarried-partner households). Lesbian couples: 0.4% of all households; Gay men: 0.2% of all households.

I was struck because the first thing I thought of was Nazis and Communists and lions and tigers and bears, oh no! The word “likely” really threw me. Felt like “round up the usual suspects.” Had I wandered onto some secret webpage being used by deep-cover algore types who preach tolerance and inclusion by day but target for torture and assassination social nonconformists by night? I had to test my theory. First, in Lutherville-Timonium, MD, having twice as many dykes as stick-boys just didn’t ring true; also, collectively 0.6% on a population of 15,814 is 95 “alternative people.” Ninety-five sounds made up – afterall, being the paranoid social defect that I am, it is not lost upon me that Interstate 95 is amazingly close to the target area. Maybe Lu-Tim is just flying under the RADAR of the Social Deviance Police. Let’s go to a place we know is replete with gay men and see if the SDP has it in its sights …

San Francisco: Lesbians, 0.7%; Gay men, 2.0%. Now that’s funny! I knew more gay men in SF than the 2.0%, and I never even went to the bath houses! Well, except that one time … to pick up a friend … I don’t mean “pick up” like that … gee, it’s not like I’m gay or anything like that … he needed a ride, a-hole, that’s all … IN MY CAR! A RIDE IN MY CAR! … well, yeah, I stayed for a while … NO! I did NOT lay down in a little room with a jar of Vaseline next to me! … well, yeah, I saw the glory holes – NO! I did not! This conversation is OVER!

corpses

I was thinking about the sun as I sat outside with my dogs. Its surface is about 11 million degrees. We’re about 93 million miles away (mean distance because, duh, we are an elliptical orbit). Absolute zero is about 459 degrees F. Electromagnetic waves toss energy under our tropopause. Gravity holds us through the curvature of space in this pocket. All that stuff – heat loss traveling through space, the troposphere holding what gets here, gravity making sure we maintain a livable distance – all lead to a narrow band of temperatures that means my dogs don’t fry like two really large corndogs. I hoped they enjoyed chasing butterflies and pissing on my yard.

Had Stouffer’s Mac & Cheese tonight. One of those big frozen ones that is dubbed “family size.” I think “impacted colon” and “enough sodium to stroke out three otherwise healthy adults” are more accurate labels. If I wasn’t about to go hypo I would have thrown up the first bite and thrown away both the remaining portion and the bowl that held it. Just the thought of it processing through my intestines is enough to make my hands shake. Good thing I work at home – tomorrow morning’s movement will rival the worst of the Baroque period, something akin to Peter Paul Rubens on bad mushrooms.

Have you ever been to one of those living museums? Where people dress up and make brooms? I often wonder if there is someone there that everyone stays away from because he is “too into it.” Like he’s a Nazi about the people that use Charmin, insisting that only leaves and newspaper (post-Gutenberg) could be used to wipe your ass. If you hung along long enough, I bet you could smell him in a crowd. See how he walked funny from perpetual Pimple Ass.

One thing I enjoy about visiting old settlements is how low the doors are. I am 5’10” (or used to be – 5’9” now?). I would have been a giant. I could have walked around and … well, I would never have walked around. My childhood disease would not have been cured. I would have been a footnote in one of those families – 17 kids, 8 died before maturity, 1 of which died in infancy.

I sat in a restaurant in Chicago this past Wednesday night. My coworker stayed at some dumb hotel that messed up their shuttle so he was late. I waited an hour, but that was fine. For a while, I sat on a bench just inside the door. It was interesting to watch people come and go. This woman walked out of the eating area. A man was several feet behind her. She left the restaurant, and did not hold the door open for him. There was a vestibule, and she blew through those doors as well. They went to the same SUV, and she got behind the wheel. He was whipped; she was just a bitch. All sorts of people ignored old people approaching the doors. Not everyone, of course, but just an incredible amount of people was absorbed in their own worlds. Does not play well with others: Check. Needs to be more aware of those around him: Check. Needs to be less of an asshole: Check.

I shaved for the first time today in almost two weeks. Took my first shower since Thursday. Did I say that out loud? Damn.

Did you ever wonder who was the first person to think about frying an egg and eating it? I suspect one fell on a rock in some god-forsaken furnace of a locale. Sounds logical. But then who thought about using uncooked egg whites and oil to make mayonnaise? And then to take that white slime and put it on bread with decaying animal flesh? And people wonder why they have loose stools – go figure. The colon is just saying, “I’m not even going to bother firming this stuff up, just – get – it – out – of – me – now!”

I’ll be driving to Virginia this week. I hope the weather is a few degrees warmer than it is here. We have frosts just north of us. I wore sweatpants and sweatshirt today. Undershirt for the first time in months. Last time I went, I had two dozen raw oysters for dinner. Will probably do the same this time. I actually dislike eating in restaurants. I am much more comfortable with my pots and pans, my spice rack, and groceries that I bought. I was out once and ordered some soup that would up having dead pig in it – couldn’t believe it. Talk about truth in advertising. It was a personal dinner, not business. I vaguely remember being yelled at for making my point to the waitress that not everyone eats corpses. Even more vague to me was when I was reminded that I ordered the same thing at the same restaurant and made the same complaint. I have learned, I do believe, to just eat what I order and always smile. It is so hard for me to learn manners.

I need to do some things …

immutable social stratum

my twin and i were discussing the layers of society this morning. my position is that one never leaves the layer from whence one came to find comfort and true happiness in another layer. i don't mean leaving poverty behind and not being happy because the fridge is stocked. i mean the people with whom you deal. i can walk into any bar and talk at length with people. farmers and factory workers and coal miners are my roots.

regardless of the money and ease of life that has come and gone in my time, i still view life through my earliest lens. i see liberals as intellectually vacant. i believe that bill clinton is a slut, hillary is a dyke, and web hubbel is chelsea's real dad. i oftentimes point and laugh when harm comes to assholes. i have no patience for self-serving dickheads. my favorite joke is premised upon having sex with a nun (maybe you've heard it - the punchline is, "yeah, maybe we should bury her"). getting into a fist fight is not desired, but is understandable. i think the best way to deal with terrorists is to torture every last one of them in public places, handing out video cameras and laptops for you-tube uploads before the festivities begin. i love my dogs. i own a gun with hollow-points to kill-first-and-ask-questions-later (much later) of anyone dumb enough to enter my home with the intent to commit a crime therein. i think there is little more beautiful than a recently weeded vegetable garden. a field or patch of wildflowers has it all over designed "flower gardens." purple is a great color because it fucking is - how would i know why? if you want to make it, i think you need yellow, but i find it easier to just buy a set that has a purple crayon already in it.

you want to know why people lose money in the stock market? because they buy stuff they do not understand. they look at numbers. numbers? companies sell products - that is what to look at. energy stocks have dividends - built-in return or cushion against lose. the industry got deregulated. that created an opportunity to sell energy - that's the product after all - across territory not possible before. so the value changed from owning exclusive rights to territory to being able to produce product at the lowest cost per kilowatt. duh! so duke energy did well and socaled bit it. it isn't financial analysis with trends and charts and martini-laden tips. it is explaining why to buy something - a gas grill or common stock - over a few beers at a bar with someone you don't know. you better make sense.

it is that common sense that is driven into coal miners, because without you die. i maintain that as you rise through the social strata of life, common sense because more and more optional. in fairness, it is a structural thing - one has highly refined tools for what one needs to survive. if common sense in monetary matters is less important than in nodding politely and choosing a socialist view of the world, then the former merely recedes. it is not a condemnation. but it is ironic that the lack of common sense often leads people to venture into areas outside their knowledge base, and often to their detriment.

so the argument comes full circle. your social stratum defines your survival tools. when you deal with people all of the time that have survival tools that conflict with yours, the novelty wears off after a while and discomfort settles in. you find comfort again only in your stratum.

what some cold, hard truth? i married outside my stratum. she is a class above me. that is why it has been a train wreck. i did her a great disservice. she saw "lawyer" and thought one thing; i knew "coal trash" and stayed quiet. oh well. the pain of that recognition has greatly scarred over. it is the end game now. i hope she gets her dignity back soon enough.

so these two guys get stranded on a desert island with a nun ...

my twin shared with me a beautiful story. it is a perfect illustration of the complete lack of ability of one stratum to understand another.

The Little Match-Seller
By Hans Christian Andersen (1846)

It was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the old year, and the snow was falling fast. In the cold and the darkness, a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, roamed through the streets. It is true she had on a pair of slippers when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were very large, so large, indeed, that they had belonged to her mother, and the poor little creature had lost them in running across the street to avoid two carriages that were rolling along at a terrible rate. One of the slippers she could not find, and a boy seized upon the other and ran away with it, saying that he could use it as a cradle, when he had children of his own. So the little girl went on with her little naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried a number of matches, and had a bundle of them in her hands. No one had bought anything of her the whole day, nor had anyone given her even a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along; poor little child, she looked the picture of misery. The snowflakes fell on her long, fair hair, which hung in curls on her shoulders, but she regarded them not.

Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory smell of roast goose, for it was New-year’s eve—yes, she remembered that. In a corner, between two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, she sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she could not keep off the cold; and she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches, and could not take home even a penny of money. Her father would certainly beat her; besides, it was almost as cold at home as here, for they had only the roof to cover them, through which the wind howled, although the largest holes had been stopped up with straw and rags. Her little hands were almost frozen with the cold. Ah! perhaps a burning match might be some good, if she could draw it from the bundle and strike it against the wall, just to warm her fingers. She drew one out—“scratch!” how it sputtered as it burnt! It gave a warm, bright light, like a little candle, as she held her hand over it. It was really a wonderful light. It seemed to the little girl that she was sitting by a large iron stove, with polished brass feet and a brass ornament. How the fire burned! and seemed so beautifully warm that the child stretched out her feet as if to warm them, when, lo! the flame of the match went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the remains of the half-burnt match in her hand.

She rubbed another match on the wall. It burst into a flame, and where its light fell upon the wall it became as transparent as a veil, and she could see into the room. The table was covered with a snowy white table-cloth, on which stood a splendid dinner service, and a steaming roast goose, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more wonderful, the goose jumped down from the dish and waddled across the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast, to the little girl. Then the match went out, and there remained nothing but the thick, damp, cold wall before her.

She lighted another match, and then she found herself sitting under a beautiful Christmas-tree. It was larger and more beautifully decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant’s. Thousands of tapers were burning upon the green branches, and colored pictures, like those she had seen in the show-windows, looked down upon it all. The little one stretched out her hand towards them, and the match went out.

The Christmas lights rose higher and higher, till they looked to her like the stars in the sky. Then she saw a star fall, leaving behind it a bright streak of fire. “Someone is dying,” thought the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star falls, a soul was going up to God.

She again rubbed a match on the wall, and the light shone round her; in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining, yet mild and loving in her appearance. “Grandmother,” cried the little one, “O take me with you; I know you will go away when the match burns out; you will vanish like the warm stove, the roast goose, and the large, glorious Christmas-tree.” And she made haste to light the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother there. And the matches glowed with a light that was brighter than the noon-day, and her grandmother had never appeared so large or so beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms, and they both flew upwards in brightness and joy far above the earth, where there was neither cold nor hunger nor pain, for they were with God.

In the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale cheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall; she had been frozen to death on the last evening of the year; and the New-year’s sun rose and shone upon a little corpse! The child still sat, in the stiffness of death, holding the matches in her hand, one bundle of which was burnt. “She tried to warm herself,” said some. No one imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory she had entered with her grandmother, on New-year’s day

idjit 4 wrent

When I was in Philadelphia the other day, and we were having lunch, someone mentioned about the fires in Greece being suspected terrorism. I don’t read the news. I shun every news source. I actively avoid learning anything about the news. It is a shame about the fires. I hope not too many people suffered. I surprised they didn’t blame it on the Turks. There historically has been such a complex hatred between the Turks and the Greeks.

“D-dd-d-do-ddo-o-o-d-doo.” Slow down. Form lips like an “O” with straight sides. “Do-ddo-ddooo-og—ga-e. Doggie! L-l-l-o-oo-k-ee at t-th-the pret-tee dogg-gie!”, whereupon having said that successfully, I am given an ice cream cone.

My kids and the live-in started K12 today. Seems like a well-structured program, although they are not fully organized yet – missing some books and a computer, the online assembly crashed, and a whole course is missing (being the one needed to explain online learning!). Besides that, running smoothly. 2,104 students in Pennsylvania. That’s a lot. Where’s my boy’s IEP?

I am interested to watch how they do things since I am knee-deep in designing a distance-learning school. The requirements are different for post-secondaries, but there should be something to learn. I want to see how they handle student services. Any idiot can design a course and keep a student occupied, but keeping the cats herded when they are restless can be more demanding. I think I will wait a week, and then raise hell over the lack of an IEP to see what structures they have in place. I’ll bring up the GED issue after that, but I’ll wait a month. It’s like probing an enemy’s defenses to find its weakness, but in a benevolent way.

My twin told me today that if I were a parent of one of her students, she would pass me off onto another teacher. I was somewhat taken aback by that comment. I thought she would be more dedicated to doing a good job. Hmphf!

I got a brochure in the mail today from Rent Mother Nature. I am not quite sure what to make of it. The concept is that you “lease” a cow or maple tree or lobster trap, etc., and you get to receive the cheese, syrup, or lobsters produced therefrom. (NOTE: “Therefrom” is not a word, but it should be) For example, for $49.95 you lease a branch on a cocoa tree. They harvest about three pounds, process it as either baking or drinking cocoa (your choice), and they mail you your product. Three pounds for $50. That’s $16 a pound. Is that a good price? You get a whole tree for only $59.95, but it only yields about five pounds. Must be not quite two producing branches on a tree. Didn’t know that.

So here’s the lobster trap deal: The Lease program includes: / A beautifully designed & personalized (parchment-look) lease document that is sent to your recipient. / An announcement folder (inscribed with your gift message) that describes the many benefits of your gift. / An entertaining & informative progress report (& an optional photo) to keep them up-to-date on aquaculture. / The Lobsters are delivered to the recipient's door on the date they request. / Satisfaction & bountiful yields are guaranteed. / We do all the work and you get all the raves (while helping support America's fishermen).

For $200, you get the above happy shit and at least 7-1/2 pounds of lobster. For $200. $200. $100 + $100 = $200. For $200, I could – literally – drive the eight hours to Maine, find some roadside stand, buy 10 pounds, and drive home. And still have enough money left over for a case of beer.

Better yet! For $170 you can get four dozen oysters. Man.

Nice concept. Woefully yuppie. But I could rent a sheep! Now, that co--- … oh. You get the fleece. I thought you got t---, and then you could say to the sheep, “who’s your daddy?” and then, well, um ... Nevermind.

I got a yard someone could lease. I would send pics to people in NYC. $69 a season. If I sell a bunch I will mow, then rake, then shovel, and whatever I am supposed to do in the spring. Maybe I could lease my dog, and I will be contractually bound to walk it. That’s an idea. I wonder if the National Association for the Blind would sell their membership list? I betcha there are a lot of guys that would love to help support my car as I drive around. They can’t anymore, and it seems to be the least I could do (in fact, it is the least I could do – seems pretty frickin’ cold, actually). I do all the docs in Braille. I could narrate a video. $69 a season. $169 if they want me to drive with the windows down. I think we might have something here – niche markets for leases.

You in prison or otherwise out of the Yankees marketplace? Send me $10 and you can lease me to watch the game for you! I’ll send you a quick note afterward, along with some press clippings. You’ll have the pleasure of knowing that someone is watching the game live on your behalf. I’ll put your name along with the rest of the f’g idiots that sent me $10 on a sheet of paper next to me. I’ll occasional insert your name in sentences like, “Wow, {you}, did you see that play?” and “Yo, {you}, wanna a beer? Good, get me one while you’re up.”

You shake your head. I’m telling you, if you packaged that idea right, there are enough idiots in this world to make you rich. Ten to fifteen people per game, $10 a game, 162 games – that’s upwards of $24,000 a year. You can watch 5 or 6 games in a day with MLB and multiple sets. That’s over $120,000 a year. Grow it to 100 people a game, and you crack $1,000,000. A hundred people out of 300,000,000 in the US alone. I haven’t met everyone in the United States, but I have met a hundred people stupid enough to buy into this idea. Imagine if you tapped into … oh, I better stop here. This is a gold mine! I better not publish this until I investigate it further. OK. [Ctrl]-A, [del]. Whew! Almost gave away the farm!

I better go before someone reads my mind. I left my tinfoil downstairs. I thought I wouldn’t need it anymore today since the voices quieted down.

gardens and benches

Vegetable gardens are deeply meaningful to me. I am amazed at how my thoughts run as I recall gardens of my grandfather, father, and me. A peace and comfort settles within as if I have abstractly found some place safe from intruders.

We lived in Scranton when I was young. My dad grew up in the country, and we eventually moved there. Every Sunday we would visit his parents. My grandfather owned about 17 acres divided into three fields. His home was in the first field, a moderately sized yard off the road. The backyard ran deep. On the upper left was the chicken coop and, behind it, the barn; on the right, rest his garden. It still seems to me impossibly large for personal use, although he did sell sweet corn.

During each summer, I would spend several days there on more than one occasion. On Sundays, beginning in mid-July, people would come to buy corn. Whatever grandkids were present were sent off to pick 13 ears for each dozen requested. He charged one dollar. Years later, as I lived in the general area again, having made the mistake of leaving my adopted home that was chosen almost solely to be as far away from everyone with shared DNA as possible, people would tell me how they would go to my grandfather’s home with their parents to buy Harry Middleton’s corn. They marveled all those decades later that it was still the best corn they ever ate. They told me stories about their Saturday and Sunday dinners. I told them that on some of those weekends, they ate corn that I had picked.

Saturdays and Sundays from about 2:00 P.M. until 5:00 P.M. were always busy. The latest arrivers always spoke with a New York or New Jersey accent. During those busy times, I would sit on a bench and wait for folks to come up the drive. The bench was always there ever since I could remember. It was painted green, well-worn to show grey underneath. It was obviously hand-made, with two planks on top, a skirt, and one plank with a “V” in the bottom to serve as the leg. On the right side of the bench, if you were coming up the drive, it was attached to a maple tree. That tree and bench was the “free zone” or “home base” when the some of us 15 grandkids played games on Sunday afternoons. I recall many times when it was time to leave and return to coal town, I would sneak outside and climb the tree to hide. My dad would feign looking for me, talk to his dad, then shine the flashlight on me. I never sat on the bench with another person even once. I got up plenty of times when others presumed to sit. I can still feel the loss of turning into the drive years later and seeing both the tree and bench gone. I cut myself oftentimes thinking of the ignoble death that wonderful bench endured: discarded as if it was no more than old wood.

My grandmother and her daughters would work for what seemed weeks to can the harvest. They made pies from the apples in the orchard, which was in the lower right corner of the second field. Throughout the winter, when all the kids and grandkids came for dinner each Sunday, the table always had stewed tomatoes, creamed corn, and potatoes – all from the garden. We usually ate a chicken or two that a few hours previous to that dinner wondered why it was being carried out of the coop by its neck and hung by its feet on the clothesline. I’m pretty sure its wondering ended soon thereafter.

During the summers I would fish for hours at the lake. I knew the friendly people that would let me use their row boat. The lake was shaped like a dog bone caricature, with the “lower lake,” where I went, joined to the “big lake” by a long narrow canal. The canal was probably manmade. I was always reluctant to go from one lake to the other because the occasional motor boat would make the same journey. Being 12 was not an age absent of fear or present with false immortality for me. Being tossed by the wake in my wooden row boat was a risk easily managed – just don’t go there – so I usually avoided the risk altogether.

I remember catching a lot of fish, but rarely bringing any to the house. I would hold the bass, perch, sunny, or bluegill that gobbled up the worm I had dug up before I walked to the lake, and always look into its eyes. I tried to understand what it was thinking as it was instinctively sucking the air for oxygen that never came. I always returned it to the waters. I thought of families and of young fish wondering where mama or daddy got the gall or the strength to swim away from them so quickly and why they seemed angry at the time they left. I returned them in the direction where I caught them, assuming they would find their family again. I had one exception, which to my shock was more common than I could rationalize. If I caught the same fish twice, I presumed it was retarded, so I would throw it as far as I could in the opposite direction from where I caught it. I figured that fish families would benefit from not having to care for a retard in their midst. I eventually developed a system of putting the retards on the stringer and taking them close to the overflow dam. My logic was that they would either leave the lake altogether or be too stupid to leave that general area. I was comfortable with the process because I chose a place with an overhanging willow. Willows always meant sustenance to me. For fish, the shade and abundant food falling from its leaves meant that my retards would live a content life, but would no longer be a burden on their families.

I was 14 when we moved to the country. My dad bought 30 acres about five miles from his parents’ home. It was the last section of a field that is about 100 acres. No other homes were in that field. As the first two years wore on, my dad remarked that he had a false memory from long ago: he said that he remembered from his younger years that this opening was planted with field corn every season, but it was clear to him now that the crop was actually rocks. Every day, I picked rocks, filling my bucket and carrying them to the spring run-off area. I haven’t seen that spot for several years, but it never felt good to look at it anyway. I don’t miss it.

My dad had a deep layer of happiness to him that enveloped a complicated core. I think he was largely tormented by his lot in life. He worked hard and was incredibly successful financially for the last 18 years of his life, but he was in a marriage that systematically destroyed him like a cancer. In some measure, I think he accepted his lot because he came from Eastern European blood on one side and coal miner blood on the other: you aren’t supposed to enjoy life, just endure it. I am in the process of a divorce, in part, to avoid a similar fate. I will not do to myself nor to my estranged spouse what I saw occur to my father and his wife. I plan on living much longer than age 71, and will not smoke and drink myself into the grave; I do not want my estranged spouse to become bitter and hardened beyond a comeback.

After several seasons, my dad found the best place for his garden. The early attempts had respectable crops, but lacked the right feel. My dad was incredibly cynical about anything liberal – from politics to liberal-arts studies. But his shifting garden space spoke to me of feng shui. If I ever said that to him, which I did not, he would have scoffed. If he ever listened to a description of it, and was honest about his feelings as to why he moved the garden, I think he would have agreed with me. It would have been, however, an unspoken agreement. Outwardly, he would have told me about water runoff during storms, depth of top soil, and how he didn’t like not being able to see the garden from his window.

The end result was that I picked more rock to clear more garden space here, there, and seemingly everywhere until he settled on the spot in the lower backyard.

Dad would start looking at seed catalogues during Christmas Week. His orders were timed to arrive in March. Some time shortly thereafter, the germination plats would come out. We lived with seedlings for several weeks. “A garden needs to be fully in the ground by Memorial Day. Only lazy people do not take the time to understand that, and then they wonder why the yield is always supplemented at the farmers’ market. If you’re going to do something,” he would say, “do it right or not at all.”

His biggest challenge each late spring was crows. They would dig up the corn seed and eat the young plants. It was a battle each year, but one I think he relished and even looked forward to fighting. He found that coating the seed in tar won the first phase. A scarecrow with pie tins on strings dangling from the arms won the second phase, but just for a while. Crows are smart. They began to ignore the noise. A plastic owl on a perch was the next battle tactic. He admitted that nothing would stop it completely. One of the truly happy times for him would come when he would stay quiet behind a nearby tree until the crows gathered in numbers too bothersome to count. Around the corner of the tree, so slight in its advance that the crows would not notice, would come the long barrels of a double-barrel shotgun. Blam! Blam! Both rounds at once shot a few feet over their heads. Sheer panic would ensue. “That’ll keep them away for a week or so,” he would say with this incredible look of victory dominating his face.

One memory that makes me wince oftentimes is the last garden of his life. The crows toasted his first planting. I did the second planting as he sat in a lawn chair and told me how, even though I was 42 and fully versed. That planting did not come up. He didn’t bother with a third try. It was the first time I recall that he gave up. He said to me several times that summer, “You planted it too deep.” I said, “I’m sorry.” I knew he was wrong but I never defended myself. I used an old corn-seed planter that I recall buying for him twenty years earlier. I loved that it was still his mainstay. It is not possible to plant seed too deep using a planter. He knew that. I’m not sure why he put the burden on me rather than the crows, but I took it like a son is supposed to.

From June until early September, there was rarely any need to ask where he was. If he was home from work, he was sitting in the garden. Always rock to pick; always weeds to clear; always plants to honor. It was a replacement love for where it lacked elsewhere in his life. His words on picking the first generation of tomato blossoms, pollinating corn by hand, and growing a cucumber inside a bottle each year as a gift still resonate.

I have had gardens over the years, but only twice have I allowed myself to love them as they deserve. I have decided that until I can allow myself to feel as I should, that I will not dishonor a garden by merely putting seeds or seedlings into the ground.

That growing season lays out there somewhere, around a bend I cannot yet see.