EAT THE PAIN . . .
I am so, so, so tired right now.
What an invigorating and exhausting past five days I have had. Words cannot express the incredibly high highs I've hit, or the devastatingly crushing lows I've bottomed onto. I ate some of the most satisfying meals ever, as well as scrounged among the measliest pickings. I have felt cleansed and refreshed and loved, as well as dirty and sweaty and hopeless. And despite a few luxurious and cherished naps here and there, I've remained sleepless, tossing and turning, waking every hour on the hour for no apparent reason.
Dr.S says I'm fine. My cholesterol level is wonderfully low. My thyroid is as yet under control. There is no explanation for my nights of non-rest or the weight loss or the shakiness or the dizziness or the persistent thirst. Whatever ...
But in the midst of some of the uncertainty I struggle through, there is still humor: I stupidly ran up a steep mountain yesterday during the NHF retreat's team relay/faux-adventure race. For one thing, I really didn't think it would be that steep. I mean, it's a Christian retreat center, for crying out loud. Why would they want to crush your body? For another thing, I thought my team actually had a chance to win the faux adventure race. (Never mind that four of the six teams had gotten a head start on our team, a la "The Amazing Race.") So, I kind of got dizzy on my way up, and I thought I was going to break an ankle on the loose rocks on the way down. But I ran up that damn mountain and I'm paying for it today. Walking down a flight of stairs is particularly painful. Thighs of steel, my ass. I would even say that I need a massage, but I think it would hurt too much to have someone else press on my thigh muscles.
What was it DYC said again? The first shall be last and the last shall be first? Yeah, note to self: next time, WALK. Or better yet, send someone else up the damn mountain.
Sunday, August 29
Thursday, August 26
SIMPLY THE BEST . . .
The best things about being outside on a beautiful day ...
- spray-on sunscreen
- an easy stroll
- aerobic activity, refreshing sweat, toned calves
- learning to do something new outdoors, and feeling new muscles afterwards
- a cold beer
The best things about biking ...
- the Camelbak Siren
- learning to stand up while going over bumps (no sore butt today!)
- seeing cool streaks of dried mud on KitchenAid
- feeling the easing of muscles as you downshift gears going up a hill
- coasting and feeling cool breeze whistle through the holes in your helmet
- getting off KitchenAid and having my noodle thigh muscles tremble and wobble
- taking off the damn padded shorts
The best things about exercise ...
- lingering your way through a hot shower
- napping after the shower
The best things about praise team at NHF ...
- praying for each other, even when you can't pray for yourself
- learning new styles, new rhythms, new volumes, new lyrics
- being driven to the point of honesty and openness
- the jungle drum beat that JC whips out on certain songs
- the Captain strutting out a new riff -- it's HOT!
- leaving practice and having a great song run through your head for days afterwards
***
UPDATE . . .
Omma is home and Cheech is officially on his own. Sigh.
No call from Dr.S today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe good news. Maybe no news. Maybe bad news. Not my will, but Yours.
Weight holding steady, at least for one day. Exhaustion, sleeplessness, constant thirst and shakiness still stand. Mysterious.
The best things about being outside on a beautiful day ...
- spray-on sunscreen
- an easy stroll
- aerobic activity, refreshing sweat, toned calves
- learning to do something new outdoors, and feeling new muscles afterwards
- a cold beer
The best things about biking ...
- the Camelbak Siren
- learning to stand up while going over bumps (no sore butt today!)
- seeing cool streaks of dried mud on KitchenAid
- feeling the easing of muscles as you downshift gears going up a hill
- coasting and feeling cool breeze whistle through the holes in your helmet
- getting off KitchenAid and having my noodle thigh muscles tremble and wobble
- taking off the damn padded shorts
The best things about exercise ...
- lingering your way through a hot shower
- napping after the shower
The best things about praise team at NHF ...
- praying for each other, even when you can't pray for yourself
- learning new styles, new rhythms, new volumes, new lyrics
- being driven to the point of honesty and openness
- the jungle drum beat that JC whips out on certain songs
- the Captain strutting out a new riff -- it's HOT!
- leaving practice and having a great song run through your head for days afterwards
***
UPDATE . . .
Omma is home and Cheech is officially on his own. Sigh.
No call from Dr.S today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe good news. Maybe no news. Maybe bad news. Not my will, but Yours.
Weight holding steady, at least for one day. Exhaustion, sleeplessness, constant thirst and shakiness still stand. Mysterious.
Tuesday, August 24
DOI . . .
I always end up reading fitness magazines at night, while I'm laying in bed. The articles and inspirational stories and healthy recipes make me want to get up out of bed at midnight and exercise and cook up a healthful meal. Then, since I don't, I lie awake for several minutes in the dark thinking, "I should eat better. I should run more. I should do more strength training. I should do yoga more than just once a week. I should center my core. I should drink more water. I should eat more fruit. I should buy a blender to make fruit smoothies. I should eat dinner at home more. I should use fresh, not dried, herbs. I should stretch longer." Of course, the smart thing would be to think "I should read fitness magazines in the daytime, so I can actually do something with this health advice." But no. That would be too easy.
I always end up reading fitness magazines at night, while I'm laying in bed. The articles and inspirational stories and healthy recipes make me want to get up out of bed at midnight and exercise and cook up a healthful meal. Then, since I don't, I lie awake for several minutes in the dark thinking, "I should eat better. I should run more. I should do more strength training. I should do yoga more than just once a week. I should center my core. I should drink more water. I should eat more fruit. I should buy a blender to make fruit smoothies. I should eat dinner at home more. I should use fresh, not dried, herbs. I should stretch longer." Of course, the smart thing would be to think "I should read fitness magazines in the daytime, so I can actually do something with this health advice." But no. That would be too easy.
WHAT THE . . .
At the end of this week's "Amazing Race 5," the twins, Kami and Karli (SOOOO annoying but not as evil as Colin) are told that although they are the last team to arrive at the Pit Stop, they may stay in the Race because this round was a non-elimination round. As punishment for arriving last, however, the twins must relinquish all of their money. When asked how they will survive in Dubai without any money, the twins answer: "We'll lie. That's the only way to survive."
How utterly sad.
At the end of this week's "Amazing Race 5," the twins, Kami and Karli (SOOOO annoying but not as evil as Colin) are told that although they are the last team to arrive at the Pit Stop, they may stay in the Race because this round was a non-elimination round. As punishment for arriving last, however, the twins must relinquish all of their money. When asked how they will survive in Dubai without any money, the twins answer: "We'll lie. That's the only way to survive."
How utterly sad.
HISTORY SUCKS . . .
I'm watching a documentary about North Korea on The History Channel. (I'm a nerd. I love The History Channel.) I never knew ...
... Kim Il-Sung was the son of devout Christians. Ironic, really, for a man who claimed to be God himself ...
... Kim Jong-Il ordered the bombing of a South Korean airliner because he was pissed that South Korea was awarded the 1988 Summer Olympic Games, and the International Olympic Committee would not consent to hold some competitions in the North ...
... little nursery school children are taught, to this day, to sing songs with lyrics such as "If you feel enough hatred, you can shoot the Yankees in the chest" and "Shoot them between the eyes, between the eyes, shoot the Yankees between the eyes" ...
... 2,000,000 Koreans died in the three years of the Korean War. Yes, I said TWO MILLION KOREANS ...
... at the start of North Korea's economic crash and ensuing famine, the government told its own people, via newspaper and television commercials, to eat grass, that grass was good for them, that they could make rice cakes out of grass, all while eating the internationally donated food themselves ...
... the government turned its people into such scavengers that neighbors turned on each other for every great and small infractions, and when someone died of starvation -- sigh -- the dead were occasionally eaten ...
... it is a crime in North Korea to mention God ... one defector calls South Korea and the United States "God's paradises, where His name may be spoken freely" ...
And this I knew: the Korean War is not yet over. An armistice does not a peace treaty make.
It's totally fascinating to watch North Korean defectors interviewed, telling the stories of their lives in the North, reporting the cult of personality created and sustained by the "holy" Kims, drawing pictures of their days in jail, presenting their identification cards required to travel even to the next town or village, conveying the absolute hypocrisy and madness and brutality of the reigning regime. One former prison guard says it never occurred to him that beating his wards to death was wrong; he didn't think twice about it because he was instructed that prisoners are not humans. One woman tells how she was jailed and raped for humming a South Korean song heard in a North Korean movie. One man tells how Kim Jong-Il has a Hair Styling Consultant whose sole job is to make sure that Kim looks his best (I personally think the Consultant needs to be fired). Each defector uses the same words: "scared," "brutal," "pain," "hungry," "inhuman," "harsh."
And I think about my father ... and pray "but for the grace of God ..."
***
. . . BUT SO DOES SENSELESS WEEPING . . .
Yes, it's true.
I'm also watching "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" again. Soldier secretly returns from Iraq to help the crew remodel his house, and surprise his wife and kids. Sniffle, sniffle.
I love this stuff.
***
BACK TO THE REAL WORLD . . .
If I could say that I hate anyone in this world -- I mean, REALLY hate -- I would have to say that the leadership of North Korean qualifies. The things they do to their own people, the things they do to keep themselves fat and happy and nuclear-armed, the things they tell people and reveal only when they want to reveal, the things they perpetrate upon the innocent and blind, the things they force women and small children and the elderly to suffer, the things they do to upset the precarious balance of this communal world, the things they do to suppress economic, social, financial, religious, academic, sexual freedom ... they make my stomach turn. They make me want to tear my hair out in mourning every time I see the emaciated face of a peasant and wonder if that is my aunt or my cousin or a member of my half-family. They make me want to go over there and drop-kick some sense into them, and no, I don't think I would feel any remorse if I had to use brute force and massive weaponry in the process. None at all. They make me want to smuggle in food and gas and oil and vegetables and computers and books and Bibles, even at the risk of dying myself. They make me want to ... I don't know. I am rendered speechless.
I'm watching a documentary about North Korea on The History Channel. (I'm a nerd. I love The History Channel.) I never knew ...
... Kim Il-Sung was the son of devout Christians. Ironic, really, for a man who claimed to be God himself ...
... Kim Jong-Il ordered the bombing of a South Korean airliner because he was pissed that South Korea was awarded the 1988 Summer Olympic Games, and the International Olympic Committee would not consent to hold some competitions in the North ...
... little nursery school children are taught, to this day, to sing songs with lyrics such as "If you feel enough hatred, you can shoot the Yankees in the chest" and "Shoot them between the eyes, between the eyes, shoot the Yankees between the eyes" ...
... 2,000,000 Koreans died in the three years of the Korean War. Yes, I said TWO MILLION KOREANS ...
... at the start of North Korea's economic crash and ensuing famine, the government told its own people, via newspaper and television commercials, to eat grass, that grass was good for them, that they could make rice cakes out of grass, all while eating the internationally donated food themselves ...
... the government turned its people into such scavengers that neighbors turned on each other for every great and small infractions, and when someone died of starvation -- sigh -- the dead were occasionally eaten ...
... it is a crime in North Korea to mention God ... one defector calls South Korea and the United States "God's paradises, where His name may be spoken freely" ...
And this I knew: the Korean War is not yet over. An armistice does not a peace treaty make.
It's totally fascinating to watch North Korean defectors interviewed, telling the stories of their lives in the North, reporting the cult of personality created and sustained by the "holy" Kims, drawing pictures of their days in jail, presenting their identification cards required to travel even to the next town or village, conveying the absolute hypocrisy and madness and brutality of the reigning regime. One former prison guard says it never occurred to him that beating his wards to death was wrong; he didn't think twice about it because he was instructed that prisoners are not humans. One woman tells how she was jailed and raped for humming a South Korean song heard in a North Korean movie. One man tells how Kim Jong-Il has a Hair Styling Consultant whose sole job is to make sure that Kim looks his best (I personally think the Consultant needs to be fired). Each defector uses the same words: "scared," "brutal," "pain," "hungry," "inhuman," "harsh."
And I think about my father ... and pray "but for the grace of God ..."
***
. . . BUT SO DOES SENSELESS WEEPING . . .
Yes, it's true.
I'm also watching "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" again. Soldier secretly returns from Iraq to help the crew remodel his house, and surprise his wife and kids. Sniffle, sniffle.
I love this stuff.
***
BACK TO THE REAL WORLD . . .
If I could say that I hate anyone in this world -- I mean, REALLY hate -- I would have to say that the leadership of North Korean qualifies. The things they do to their own people, the things they do to keep themselves fat and happy and nuclear-armed, the things they tell people and reveal only when they want to reveal, the things they perpetrate upon the innocent and blind, the things they force women and small children and the elderly to suffer, the things they do to upset the precarious balance of this communal world, the things they do to suppress economic, social, financial, religious, academic, sexual freedom ... they make my stomach turn. They make me want to tear my hair out in mourning every time I see the emaciated face of a peasant and wonder if that is my aunt or my cousin or a member of my half-family. They make me want to go over there and drop-kick some sense into them, and no, I don't think I would feel any remorse if I had to use brute force and massive weaponry in the process. None at all. They make me want to smuggle in food and gas and oil and vegetables and computers and books and Bibles, even at the risk of dying myself. They make me want to ... I don't know. I am rendered speechless.
TRAFFIC IN THE SKY . . .
There's traffic in the sky
and it doesn't seem to be getting much better.
There's kids playing games on the pavement,
drawing waves on the pavement,
shadows of the planes on the pavement.
It's enough to make me cry,
but that don't seem like it would make it feel better.
Maybe it's a dream and if I scream,
it will burst at the seams.
This whole place will fall to pieces
and then they'd say ...
Well, how could we have known?
I'll tell them it's not so hard to tell.
If you keep on adding stones,
soon the water will be lost in the well.
Puzzle pieces in the ground
but no one ever seems to be digging.
Instead they're looking up towards the heavens
with their eyes on the heavens.
There are shadows on the way to the heavens.
It's enough to make me cry,
but that don't seem like it would make it feel better.
The answers could be found;
we could learn from digging down.
But no one ever seems to be digging.
Instead they'll say ...
Well, how could we have known?
I'll tell them it's not so hard to tell.
If you keep on adding stones,
soon the water will be lost in the well.
Words of wisdom all around
but no one ever seems to listen.
They're talking about their planes on paper,
building up from the pavement.
There are shadows from the scrapers on the pavement.
It's enough to make me sigh,
but that don't seem like it would make it feel better.
The words are still around,
but the words are only sounds,
and no one ever seems to listen.
Instead they'll say ...
Well, how could we have known?
I'll tell them it's not so hard to tell.
If you keep on adding stones,
soon the water will be lost in the well.
-- "Traffic in the Sky,"
Jack Johnson
and it doesn't seem to be getting much better.
There's kids playing games on the pavement,
drawing waves on the pavement,
shadows of the planes on the pavement.
It's enough to make me cry,
but that don't seem like it would make it feel better.
Maybe it's a dream and if I scream,
it will burst at the seams.
This whole place will fall to pieces
and then they'd say ...
Well, how could we have known?
I'll tell them it's not so hard to tell.
If you keep on adding stones,
soon the water will be lost in the well.
Puzzle pieces in the ground
but no one ever seems to be digging.
Instead they're looking up towards the heavens
with their eyes on the heavens.
There are shadows on the way to the heavens.
It's enough to make me cry,
but that don't seem like it would make it feel better.
The answers could be found;
we could learn from digging down.
But no one ever seems to be digging.
Instead they'll say ...
Well, how could we have known?
I'll tell them it's not so hard to tell.
If you keep on adding stones,
soon the water will be lost in the well.
Words of wisdom all around
but no one ever seems to listen.
They're talking about their planes on paper,
building up from the pavement.
There are shadows from the scrapers on the pavement.
It's enough to make me sigh,
but that don't seem like it would make it feel better.
The words are still around,
but the words are only sounds,
and no one ever seems to listen.
Instead they'll say ...
Well, how could we have known?
I'll tell them it's not so hard to tell.
If you keep on adding stones,
soon the water will be lost in the well.
Jack Johnson
Monday, August 23
SUMMERTIME . . .
There's something about this time of the year -- the downward swoop of summer, the onrush of autumn, my favorite season, the changing scent of the air, the coolness of the evening that isn't quite chilly, the increasing smokiness in the atmosphere -- that makes me turn back to those who tug at my heart strings: John Mayer, Dave Matthews, Jack Johnson, Fiona Apple, Sarah McLachlan, after a summer of classic rock and R&B and hip-hop .... Each of these artists stir memories, smells, feelings, breezes, smiles, tears, precious precious moments I wish I could hold in my hand and gaze upon without end, without blinking. This sort of heavy-heartedness, I embrace completely, surrounding myself with it in the car, in a dimly-lit living room, even in bed at night, for there is a strange comfort to be found in recalling the best of times and the musical accompaniment thereof, even while mourning their passing ...
There's something about this time of the year -- the downward swoop of summer, the onrush of autumn, my favorite season, the changing scent of the air, the coolness of the evening that isn't quite chilly, the increasing smokiness in the atmosphere -- that makes me turn back to those who tug at my heart strings: John Mayer, Dave Matthews, Jack Johnson, Fiona Apple, Sarah McLachlan, after a summer of classic rock and R&B and hip-hop .... Each of these artists stir memories, smells, feelings, breezes, smiles, tears, precious precious moments I wish I could hold in my hand and gaze upon without end, without blinking. This sort of heavy-heartedness, I embrace completely, surrounding myself with it in the car, in a dimly-lit living room, even in bed at night, for there is a strange comfort to be found in recalling the best of times and the musical accompaniment thereof, even while mourning their passing ...
Sunday, August 22
WHAT IT IS . . .
The zap and the scent ... see me see ... the gaze is heavy ... the weight of realization ... staticky ... a sideways glance and smirkiness ... ton of bricks ... big pink elephant, gotta call it what it is ... a sideways glance the other way ... me too ... common ground stepped upon ... hear me under my breath ... a snort and a chuckle ... share it ... this could drag on forever ... let it.
***
NEVER SEE THE DAY . . .
This morning, I sat with my breakfast and coffee and watched the women's Olympic marathon. I mean, I WATCHED it. I watched a bunch of women run. A really long time. Actually, I had to hop in the shower around the third mile, but I still watched the entire first two-and-a-half miles of women simply running. They ran and ran and ran. Some women fell down at a water station, tripping all over each other. They threw their water cups to the side, considerately trying to avoid hitting another competitor. Women are nice like that. Then they ran and ran and ran some more. Some random folks along the sidelines ran with them (I always find that so stupid. It makes me want to heckle them.) And they ran and ran and ran. At least until I had to turn the television off.
What an interesting morning.
***
HIS LIFE . . .
One of the reasons I like my pastor so much is because he's just one of us. He's goofy, he cheats at Scrabble, he wolfs down food and he's late for appointments. But the fact remains that he's still my pastor, so of course I assume that he's still always weightier, more serious, and at least a touch holier than me and the rest of us. Sometimes I wonder if, in the privacy of his own home, he doesn't just sit around in his boxers not having showered all day, eat cereal dry right out of the box, and pick his nose. I mean, he must, right?
The zap and the scent ... see me see ... the gaze is heavy ... the weight of realization ... staticky ... a sideways glance and smirkiness ... ton of bricks ... big pink elephant, gotta call it what it is ... a sideways glance the other way ... me too ... common ground stepped upon ... hear me under my breath ... a snort and a chuckle ... share it ... this could drag on forever ... let it.
***
NEVER SEE THE DAY . . .
This morning, I sat with my breakfast and coffee and watched the women's Olympic marathon. I mean, I WATCHED it. I watched a bunch of women run. A really long time. Actually, I had to hop in the shower around the third mile, but I still watched the entire first two-and-a-half miles of women simply running. They ran and ran and ran. Some women fell down at a water station, tripping all over each other. They threw their water cups to the side, considerately trying to avoid hitting another competitor. Women are nice like that. Then they ran and ran and ran some more. Some random folks along the sidelines ran with them (I always find that so stupid. It makes me want to heckle them.) And they ran and ran and ran. At least until I had to turn the television off.
What an interesting morning.
***
HIS LIFE . . .
One of the reasons I like my pastor so much is because he's just one of us. He's goofy, he cheats at Scrabble, he wolfs down food and he's late for appointments. But the fact remains that he's still my pastor, so of course I assume that he's still always weightier, more serious, and at least a touch holier than me and the rest of us. Sometimes I wonder if, in the privacy of his own home, he doesn't just sit around in his boxers not having showered all day, eat cereal dry right out of the box, and pick his nose. I mean, he must, right?
NOT HUNGRY . . .
I'm never eating a meal late at night before I sleep again.
After some deeply unsatisfying pasta, I dreamt that I worked for the National Security Agency. I and my coworkers operated out of a nondescript office building in Connecticut, and set ourselves forth as office supply wholesalers. We wrote an anti-terrorist newsletter on the side. Al Qaeda somehow saw past our cover and discovered our true identities. Then, instead of coming to get us, they decided to target my father. I dreamt that I called my dad at work and told him not to leave work until I came to get him, but of course he wouldn't listen and told me he'd be leaving at the same time and would see me at home for dinner. I couldn't tell him that he'd probably be killed walking from work to his car. So I had to spend the entire day at my "office supply wholesaler" office fretting about how I would keep my father from getting shot to death by terrorists.
The even more awful thing was that unlike other nightmares, in which my conscious is somehow awake and able to reassure me that it's just a dream (albeit a bad one), this dream came with no such assurances -- my conscious and subconscious were one in the hellish world. I really thought my dream was real. And when my alarm clock rang this morning, I thought that was the dream. Weird.
***
OBSERVATION DU JOUR . . .
The women Olympic marathon runners sure run fast.
I'm never eating a meal late at night before I sleep again.
After some deeply unsatisfying pasta, I dreamt that I worked for the National Security Agency. I and my coworkers operated out of a nondescript office building in Connecticut, and set ourselves forth as office supply wholesalers. We wrote an anti-terrorist newsletter on the side. Al Qaeda somehow saw past our cover and discovered our true identities. Then, instead of coming to get us, they decided to target my father. I dreamt that I called my dad at work and told him not to leave work until I came to get him, but of course he wouldn't listen and told me he'd be leaving at the same time and would see me at home for dinner. I couldn't tell him that he'd probably be killed walking from work to his car. So I had to spend the entire day at my "office supply wholesaler" office fretting about how I would keep my father from getting shot to death by terrorists.
The even more awful thing was that unlike other nightmares, in which my conscious is somehow awake and able to reassure me that it's just a dream (albeit a bad one), this dream came with no such assurances -- my conscious and subconscious were one in the hellish world. I really thought my dream was real. And when my alarm clock rang this morning, I thought that was the dream. Weird.
***
OBSERVATION DU JOUR . . .
The women Olympic marathon runners sure run fast.
Friday, August 20
POST-SCRIPT . . .
I keep forgetting to tell you ... I am currently reading a book (I know, I know, I haven't gotten through half of "Truman" yet, but I'm getting there!) entitled Body of Secrets: Anatomy of the Ultra-Secret National Security Agency From the Cold War Through the Dawn of a New Century," by James Bamford (also author of "The Puzzle Palace," which is next on my list, naturally).
People like me should not be reading books like this, because I believe everything I read. There are spies among us? I believe it. My government listens in on my telephone conversations? I believe it. Agents sit holed up in windowless cement rooms unencrypting international communications, at this very moment? I believe it. The United States spies on its allies? I believe it. Agents sit in hovering aircraft watching wars unfold and tape recording every moment? I believe it. Agents can't tell people what they do for a living and their only friends are other NSA employees who also can't tell people what they do for a living? I believe it. The United States and the Soviet Union came THIS CLOSE to World War III dozens of times? I believe it. The American government was going to unleash terror on its own people and blame it on Fidel Castro? I believe it.
I believe it, and I LOVE it. That sounds like a terrible thing to say, but it's not really. I thrill to the thought that technology is so advanced and so beyond my ken, that events occur or don't occur, and tragedies are averted, and world civilization lives on in tight equilibrium, thanks to those who are intelligent and learned enough to keep us going, in secret. I thrill to the idea that these agents have the world's very life in their hands, and they commit their lives to anonymous and dangerous and intense service, never being thanked or acknowledged or recognized. I am amazed that the nations of this world spy on each other, and in so doing, maintain a fragile peace driven mostly by deterrence. I chuckle nervously at how countries go around flicking each other in the forehead, back and forth and back and forth, and we are only just learning about all the behind-the-scenes maneuvering that prevents the flicking from turning into nuclear bombing. I marvel at those who dedicated years to breaking codes, winning wars, obtaining intelligence. I spit upon those who turn on their countries for financial gain. And of course, I question my role as a citizen of this world, where nothing can be taken at face value, where our reality is probably largely fabricated, and where asking questions creates even more questions.
I LOVE this book.
I keep forgetting to tell you ... I am currently reading a book (I know, I know, I haven't gotten through half of "Truman" yet, but I'm getting there!) entitled Body of Secrets: Anatomy of the Ultra-Secret National Security Agency From the Cold War Through the Dawn of a New Century," by James Bamford (also author of "The Puzzle Palace," which is next on my list, naturally).
People like me should not be reading books like this, because I believe everything I read. There are spies among us? I believe it. My government listens in on my telephone conversations? I believe it. Agents sit holed up in windowless cement rooms unencrypting international communications, at this very moment? I believe it. The United States spies on its allies? I believe it. Agents sit in hovering aircraft watching wars unfold and tape recording every moment? I believe it. Agents can't tell people what they do for a living and their only friends are other NSA employees who also can't tell people what they do for a living? I believe it. The United States and the Soviet Union came THIS CLOSE to World War III dozens of times? I believe it. The American government was going to unleash terror on its own people and blame it on Fidel Castro? I believe it.
I believe it, and I LOVE it. That sounds like a terrible thing to say, but it's not really. I thrill to the thought that technology is so advanced and so beyond my ken, that events occur or don't occur, and tragedies are averted, and world civilization lives on in tight equilibrium, thanks to those who are intelligent and learned enough to keep us going, in secret. I thrill to the idea that these agents have the world's very life in their hands, and they commit their lives to anonymous and dangerous and intense service, never being thanked or acknowledged or recognized. I am amazed that the nations of this world spy on each other, and in so doing, maintain a fragile peace driven mostly by deterrence. I chuckle nervously at how countries go around flicking each other in the forehead, back and forth and back and forth, and we are only just learning about all the behind-the-scenes maneuvering that prevents the flicking from turning into nuclear bombing. I marvel at those who dedicated years to breaking codes, winning wars, obtaining intelligence. I spit upon those who turn on their countries for financial gain. And of course, I question my role as a citizen of this world, where nothing can be taken at face value, where our reality is probably largely fabricated, and where asking questions creates even more questions.
I LOVE this book.
COUNTDOWN . . .
T minus twenty hours and thirty minutes until Cheech's plane to Phoenix takes him far far away from me.
Will he survive without kimchi and kalbi and tofu jigae? Will he survive without Omma and Appa (and me) nagging him all the time? Will he survive without the changing leaves as autumn comes, and the view of varied landscapes? Will he survive as gets thrown back into the life of a student, but not just any student -- one who is now being trained for a vocation and a lifestyle? Will he make friends who are good for him and to him? Will he find a church and attend regularly, to receive sustenance when his brain and body are weary? Will he study hard and do well and achieve his potential? Will he be safe as he travels back and forth?
Sigh. Not in my hands, but in Yours.
***
DOOFUS . . .
I didn't know there was major humanitarian crisis in Sudan. I'm such a jerk.
***
ACK! . . .
I just received the application package for a four-year fellowship in the city. I have to write an essay. Sheesh. I haven't written an essay since I was applying to law schools. And it has to be limited to 500 words. Sheesh. Don't these people know my penchant for verbosity? Sigh.
***
NO SHAME . . .
On permanent loop on the mp3 player inside my head:
I will dance, I will sing
to be mad for my King!
Nothing, Lord, is hindering this passion in my soul.
I will dance, I will sing
to be mad for my King!
Nothing, Lord, is hindering this passion in my soul!
And I'll become even more undignified than this!
Some may say it's foolishness,
But I'll become even more undignified than this!
Leave my pride by my side.
La la la la la la, HEY!
All for You, my Lord!
T minus twenty hours and thirty minutes until Cheech's plane to Phoenix takes him far far away from me.
Will he survive without kimchi and kalbi and tofu jigae? Will he survive without Omma and Appa (and me) nagging him all the time? Will he survive without the changing leaves as autumn comes, and the view of varied landscapes? Will he survive as gets thrown back into the life of a student, but not just any student -- one who is now being trained for a vocation and a lifestyle? Will he make friends who are good for him and to him? Will he find a church and attend regularly, to receive sustenance when his brain and body are weary? Will he study hard and do well and achieve his potential? Will he be safe as he travels back and forth?
Sigh. Not in my hands, but in Yours.
***
DOOFUS . . .
I didn't know there was major humanitarian crisis in Sudan. I'm such a jerk.
***
ACK! . . .
I just received the application package for a four-year fellowship in the city. I have to write an essay. Sheesh. I haven't written an essay since I was applying to law schools. And it has to be limited to 500 words. Sheesh. Don't these people know my penchant for verbosity? Sigh.
***
NO SHAME . . .
On permanent loop on the mp3 player inside my head:
to be mad for my King!
Nothing, Lord, is hindering this passion in my soul.
I will dance, I will sing
to be mad for my King!
Nothing, Lord, is hindering this passion in my soul!
And I'll become even more undignified than this!
Some may say it's foolishness,
But I'll become even more undignified than this!
Leave my pride by my side.
La la la la la la, HEY!
All for You, my Lord!
Thursday, August 19
GRATINGLY CHARMING . . .
So I was watching the end of a tight race for the gold medal in the women's all-around gymnastics competition on television. And of course, like a dolt, I simultaneously pulled Bob onto my lap, opened my Internet browser and read, as my home page came up on the screen, that Carly Patterson had won the gold medal, the first American woman's all-around gold medal in twenty years (remember Mary Lou Retton?). Sigh. I'm a dolt.
And then I read an article about Svetlana "Pissy-Pants" Khorkina, deprived of gold and relegated to silver in her last Olympic all-around competition. What a b*tch.
And then I watched Carly sing along to "The Star-Spangled Banner" (which, incidentally, is about a FLAG and that is just crazy to me. Would not "America the Beautiful" or "God Bless America" be more appropriate as a national anthem?), and realized: neither she nor other American winners really know the words to our national anthem. Me, I go to enough baseball games to know all the words. But I don't HAVE to -- my face isn't plastered by a zoom lens on every NBC channel during a medal ceremony. Carly et al., it's "and the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air." At one point, Carly even looked into the television camera trained on her face, as if to bashfully acknowledge that she was fudging her lip-synching. Sigh.
(Michael Phelps is standing on the gold medal podium now. He's not even trying. His lips are completely sealed together. That's a shame because if I had just won a gold medal for my country, I'd be shouting my anthem loud and proud, but I think I prefer he not sing it than that he sing it incorrectly. On television.)
And THEN. I listened to Carly's post-medal-ceremony interview. Not only is she monotone, but she (1) is extremely high-pitched, and (2) inserted "like" every third word. Alright, she's only sixteen, and it was strangely charming to see a pumped up little robot like her be a real teenager. But the high-pitched thing drives me nuts. COACHES, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let your athletes experience puberty! It's just better that way!
Okey-dokey. Enough Greek dramedy for tonight. Tomorrow is another time-delayed day.
(But wait! Bob Costas is interviewing Carly now! It's like a car wreck: I simply have to look and cringe.)
So I was watching the end of a tight race for the gold medal in the women's all-around gymnastics competition on television. And of course, like a dolt, I simultaneously pulled Bob onto my lap, opened my Internet browser and read, as my home page came up on the screen, that Carly Patterson had won the gold medal, the first American woman's all-around gold medal in twenty years (remember Mary Lou Retton?). Sigh. I'm a dolt.
And then I read an article about Svetlana "Pissy-Pants" Khorkina, deprived of gold and relegated to silver in her last Olympic all-around competition. What a b*tch.
And then I watched Carly sing along to "The Star-Spangled Banner" (which, incidentally, is about a FLAG and that is just crazy to me. Would not "America the Beautiful" or "God Bless America" be more appropriate as a national anthem?), and realized: neither she nor other American winners really know the words to our national anthem. Me, I go to enough baseball games to know all the words. But I don't HAVE to -- my face isn't plastered by a zoom lens on every NBC channel during a medal ceremony. Carly et al., it's "and the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air." At one point, Carly even looked into the television camera trained on her face, as if to bashfully acknowledge that she was fudging her lip-synching. Sigh.
(Michael Phelps is standing on the gold medal podium now. He's not even trying. His lips are completely sealed together. That's a shame because if I had just won a gold medal for my country, I'd be shouting my anthem loud and proud, but I think I prefer he not sing it than that he sing it incorrectly. On television.)
And THEN. I listened to Carly's post-medal-ceremony interview. Not only is she monotone, but she (1) is extremely high-pitched, and (2) inserted "like" every third word. Alright, she's only sixteen, and it was strangely charming to see a pumped up little robot like her be a real teenager. But the high-pitched thing drives me nuts. COACHES, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let your athletes experience puberty! It's just better that way!
Okey-dokey. Enough Greek dramedy for tonight. Tomorrow is another time-delayed day.
(But wait! Bob Costas is interviewing Carly now! It's like a car wreck: I simply have to look and cringe.)
Wednesday, August 18
HE GROWS UP AND HE GROWS UP . . .
The Little Cheechster is leaving for Phoenix on Saturday. (Saturday morning at 4:15am to be precise, not that I'm already sleepy at the prospect.) WHAT THE!?!??!?!
When did he outgrow his perfectly round bowl cut? When did he lose his fangs and remove his dorky and supremely shiny braces? When did he grow taller than me? When did he achieve and do everything he has achieved and done? When did I say he was allowed to leave my 30-mile radius and fly four and a half hours across the country to some Godforsaken barren desert land that doesn't even have normal trees? Oh, for crying out loud. No one listens to me anyway.
But it's not all about me. I know that. Cheech heads out to begin his career as a potential pediatric surgeon. I can't imagine anyone better suited for the job. All you pediatric surgeons out there better watch out because Cheech just might put you out of a job (provided he studies hard and doesn't waste anymore brain cells). I just wish he would do his prep work closer to home ...
***
HARDY HAR-HAR . . .
Mens' gymnastics just cracks me up. Like when they do their floor routine: they do their crazy flips across the diagonal line of the box, but since they never land perfectly in the opposite corner, they do this dorky wide step with their arms stretched overhead and wide. SO DORKY. Don't get me wrong. These guys get serious air. They are seriously buff. I bet their training is seriously hard and gut-wrenching. And I know they have worked their entire lives to get here, to achieve the pinnacle of their sport.
But I still giggle and imitate them dorkily at work, at church, at my friends' houses, in my parents' basement, anywhere where someone will giggle with me ...
(N.B.: what is up with the weirdly high-pitched and squeaky voices of male gymnasts? Is it a growth-stunted-wasn't-allowed-to-experience-full-puberty-because-of-serious-physical-training thing? It's soooo creepy.)
***
SAP-O-RAMA . . .
I knew what happened in the mens' individual gymnastics competition seven hours ago.
But of course, I still teared up when Paul Hamm, the American individual competitor, won the all-around by 0.012 points, the first gold individual medal for an American male gymnast.
I stopped tearing, however, when I saw the anguish on the Korean gymnast's face -- he who had been in first place until Paul Hamm stepped up to be the last man on the high bar. Sigh. Who do I root for? Dang ...
***
SNIFF, SNIFF . . .
My family had our last dinner as a whole family unit tonight, at least until Thanksgiving, or maybe even Christmas. What a weird concept. My parents will have a truly empty nest ... my hope is that they maximize this opportunity and continue going on their little dates and drives. I hope they don't wallow, what with Cheech so far away and me out of the house for good. (Lord knows I do enough wallowing of my own ...)
The Little Cheechster is leaving for Phoenix on Saturday. (Saturday morning at 4:15am to be precise, not that I'm already sleepy at the prospect.) WHAT THE!?!??!?!
When did he outgrow his perfectly round bowl cut? When did he lose his fangs and remove his dorky and supremely shiny braces? When did he grow taller than me? When did he achieve and do everything he has achieved and done? When did I say he was allowed to leave my 30-mile radius and fly four and a half hours across the country to some Godforsaken barren desert land that doesn't even have normal trees? Oh, for crying out loud. No one listens to me anyway.
But it's not all about me. I know that. Cheech heads out to begin his career as a potential pediatric surgeon. I can't imagine anyone better suited for the job. All you pediatric surgeons out there better watch out because Cheech just might put you out of a job (provided he studies hard and doesn't waste anymore brain cells). I just wish he would do his prep work closer to home ...
***
HARDY HAR-HAR . . .
Mens' gymnastics just cracks me up. Like when they do their floor routine: they do their crazy flips across the diagonal line of the box, but since they never land perfectly in the opposite corner, they do this dorky wide step with their arms stretched overhead and wide. SO DORKY. Don't get me wrong. These guys get serious air. They are seriously buff. I bet their training is seriously hard and gut-wrenching. And I know they have worked their entire lives to get here, to achieve the pinnacle of their sport.
But I still giggle and imitate them dorkily at work, at church, at my friends' houses, in my parents' basement, anywhere where someone will giggle with me ...
(N.B.: what is up with the weirdly high-pitched and squeaky voices of male gymnasts? Is it a growth-stunted-wasn't-allowed-to-experience-full-puberty-because-of-serious-physical-training thing? It's soooo creepy.)
***
SAP-O-RAMA . . .
I knew what happened in the mens' individual gymnastics competition seven hours ago.
But of course, I still teared up when Paul Hamm, the American individual competitor, won the all-around by 0.012 points, the first gold individual medal for an American male gymnast.
I stopped tearing, however, when I saw the anguish on the Korean gymnast's face -- he who had been in first place until Paul Hamm stepped up to be the last man on the high bar. Sigh. Who do I root for? Dang ...
***
SNIFF, SNIFF . . .
My family had our last dinner as a whole family unit tonight, at least until Thanksgiving, or maybe even Christmas. What a weird concept. My parents will have a truly empty nest ... my hope is that they maximize this opportunity and continue going on their little dates and drives. I hope they don't wallow, what with Cheech so far away and me out of the house for good. (Lord knows I do enough wallowing of my own ...)
Monday, August 16
OLYMPICAL . . .
I am a big Olympics sloot. Even this year, with the utter lack of interest and advertising and the spectre of terrorism looming large, I am quickly sucked in. The biased reporting bugs me still, and I wish I had the ability to access foreign media, as well as the knowledge to read other languages, so I could gain a better understanding of what's going on and how other countries are feeling. But some moments stand out after two evenings of watching the competitions ...
... what's with the 'roided-up women's gymnastics team? And are they REALLY women or just bulky little girls? One who shall remain unnamed closely resembles a troll: small head, no neck, abnormally large upper body. Her arms don't hit her sides when she walks. And what's the story with the glitter, glitter, everywhere? And the BAD eyeliner job. Sheesh.
... the women's floor routine is dorky. The men aren't much better, but at least they get some serious air.
... the men's gymnastics uniforms are dorky too. But at least they have serious speed and serious strength.
... I have to say, though, that I really shouldn't make fun of the girls' gymnastics team. We saw a clip of their training routine. It was scary. They could kick my butt for real and I wouldn't have rat's ass of a chance.
... Ian Thorpe is still a cutie.
... were we supposed to know that Japan had a hard-core gymnastics team? Well, I didn't know, but consider me duly impressed.
... it's interesting to see who we root for when there is no American or Korean in the race. Watching a women's swim competition last night, we rooted loudly and proudly for the Australian ... but only because the French contender was scary-looking.
... it's laughable watching 6'2" American women volleyball players tromping on 5'8" Japanese women volleyball players. Unfair!
... I think I find the swim competitions the most exciting and most interesting. Probably because I can't swim, so I must live vicariously.
I am a big Olympics sloot. Even this year, with the utter lack of interest and advertising and the spectre of terrorism looming large, I am quickly sucked in. The biased reporting bugs me still, and I wish I had the ability to access foreign media, as well as the knowledge to read other languages, so I could gain a better understanding of what's going on and how other countries are feeling. But some moments stand out after two evenings of watching the competitions ...
... what's with the 'roided-up women's gymnastics team? And are they REALLY women or just bulky little girls? One who shall remain unnamed closely resembles a troll: small head, no neck, abnormally large upper body. Her arms don't hit her sides when she walks. And what's the story with the glitter, glitter, everywhere? And the BAD eyeliner job. Sheesh.
... the women's floor routine is dorky. The men aren't much better, but at least they get some serious air.
... the men's gymnastics uniforms are dorky too. But at least they have serious speed and serious strength.
... I have to say, though, that I really shouldn't make fun of the girls' gymnastics team. We saw a clip of their training routine. It was scary. They could kick my butt for real and I wouldn't have rat's ass of a chance.
... Ian Thorpe is still a cutie.
... were we supposed to know that Japan had a hard-core gymnastics team? Well, I didn't know, but consider me duly impressed.
... it's interesting to see who we root for when there is no American or Korean in the race. Watching a women's swim competition last night, we rooted loudly and proudly for the Australian ... but only because the French contender was scary-looking.
... it's laughable watching 6'2" American women volleyball players tromping on 5'8" Japanese women volleyball players. Unfair!
... I think I find the swim competitions the most exciting and most interesting. Probably because I can't swim, so I must live vicariously.
CAMP-ER-IFFIC . . .
Sad to say but all I really remember is eating a lot of grilled meat products.
No, no, I kid, I kid.
(But we did eat a lot of grilled meat products: Spam, hotdogs, Filipino barbecue pork, Korean barbecue pork and beef, steak and chicken tandoori.)
My borrowed tent was great, and since it did not rain, it did not leak -- praise the Lord! The best feature of this tent, aside from the little internal mesh pocket in which I could hold my little knick-knacks, were the outer flaps, which could be tied back to form little curtains. The inner mesh flaps, I kept closed in order to keep out vermin and creepy-crawlies, but with the outer curtains drawn, I could read my book about the National Security Agency (which conspiracy theorists like myself really should not be reading) and take a nap, and still feel connected to the rest of my fellow faux-campers. 'Twas my wee little refuge.
The early arrivers set up a massive tarp over the picnic table and firepit = BaseCamp. BaseCamp was great. 'Twas there that we cooked, ate, drank, mollified cranky babies and played SuperScrabble. "Unquilted" is not a word. Nor is "tif." Nor is "coam." But that doesn't stop people from trying, does it? Our conclusion is simply that we have to start playing faux-Scrabble, like our pastor. He cheats. He tried to spell "joke" as "jowk."
Soy and Jaime slept in the Taj Mahal, a/k/a The Borgata Resort and Spa. The couple occupied a four-person tent high enough for me to stand in. (No snickering permitted.) First, they laid down those foam/rubber mat that puzzle-piece together, like on the floors of children's playrooms. Then, they laid down a large Korean faux-mink blanket. It had designs of creepy-looking deer on it. Then, they placed mosquito coils around their tent and BaseCamp. Then, they sprayed area bug repellant around all of the tents and BaseCamp. Then, they returned to their car and pulled out all manner of goodies which one does not really require for faux-camping, but sure came in handy: a bottle of oil, which looked like pee; a portable propane grill in the style of the George Foreman, but bigger and better; countless retractable poles and tent stakes; small lap blankets; a beach umbrella; a large gas lantern; Korean snacks like Korean beef jerky, shrimp crackers and dried squid which would have been really great had someone remembered to bring beer; a double-seated lounge chair; jars of sliced jalapeno peppers, sour pickles, and onion relish; and ramen noodles in a cup. Note to self: travel with Soy and Jaime as often as possible.
C was not himself. Normally he is very prepared, nerdily setting out everything he needs for a trip several days in advance. But last week, his regular scheduling was thrown off course by an unexpected golf outing and the winning of several hundred dollars worth of luxurious golf gear. This severely impaired his ability to remember to bring the things he was assigned to bring. Halfway up the Bear Mountain Bridge: "Shoot! I left our share of the bottled water on the kitchen counter!" Just as we got on the Thruway: "Damnit! I didn't bring dry firewood!" In response to my question on Route 212 ("You brought corn, didn't you?"): "Oh my God. Corn." Three-quarters of the way down Route 212, we found the Hobo Deli and popped in to purchase firewood and water ... (and the bananas that I forgot to bring). But then right as we left the Hobo Deli, I ventured to ask: "You brought coffee, didn't you?", to which C replied, "SH*T. I NEED COFFEE." How fortuitous that there was a Stewart's Shop beckoning to us down the street. Of course, we had too much firewood, and the perfect amount of water, and no one ate that many bananas, nor did anyone miss the corn. But thank God for the coffee ... and C tells himself, "next time, I can't let my concentration be thrown off."
Saturday morning, my spirit was willing but my body was definitely unable. I ate a hearty breakfast: Spam and eggs and half a bagel and sludgy coffee. I had filled up my Camelbak (made for a woman's proportions, they say), double-knotted my hiking shoes, and was all set for some vigorous, mind-clearing, lung-enlivening climbing. I was going to kick Mt. Tremper's butt and take prisoners. But no. A little bit past the halfway point to our appointed destination, my knees gave out. Awful, awful, tear-inducing, gut-wrenching pain with each and every step. Every pause we took was agony because I knew that with each moment of rest, my damn knees would stiffen up and would eventually refuse to bend. Finally, we stopped for an extended break, but by then, I was inexplicably light-headed, nauseous, woozy. I looked at JKA's face and saw black spots all over her. I looked down at the ground and it spun. I looked up at the sky and couldn't see the ends of the trees. "How could this be?" I asked myself. "I run, I bike, I stretch, I am active, I eat well, I take vitamins, I ate breakfast. This is madness. I think I'm dying. What if I faint and they have to carry me down? What if I fall over the edge of the trail and they have to crawl down to retrieve my lifeless body? Madness, madness, madness." I scarfed down a s'mores granola bar -- damn, I hate those things. I swallowed a handful of almonds. I chugged from my Camelbak. I knelt on the ground because my legs wouldn't hold me up anymore. My poor compatriots, forced to turn back because of me and my failing body ... I don't know what I can do to prevent this from happening again next time. Heck, I don't know why it happened on Saturday -- I've lumbered up Cadillac Mountain in Maine on my hands and knees, acquiring all manner of scraped skin and thorn scratches and torn fingernails and never felt as crappy as I did this weekend. Maybe I needed more Spam.
Twenty-five cents for five minutes. That's what you had to pay to take a hot shower. It was worth every quarter. I had thought I could go the whole weekend without showering. That's what deodorant and baby wipes and smoky barbecue and baseball caps are for. But no. After Mt. Tremper kicked MY butt, I felt I deserved some pampering, if only for fifteen minutes standing in a rustic shower wearing flip-flops and hurriedly trying to wash the suds out of my hair with really really soft water. It was scrumptious. A hot shower surely does erase all ills. Well ... it doesn't take away knee pain, but it does wonders for a demoralized spirit and greasy hair.
There's nothing like being in the great outdoors to really bring out the animal in humans. As expected, about 22% of our conversation this weekend centered around bowel movements. Almost everyone had one. A select few were constipated. One person constipated him/herself, probably as a sort of defense mechanism against public bathrooms that don't have completely enclosed stalls. Stage fright, you know. I completely understand. For me, it's all about relaxation and focus: you eat breakfast and drink some coffee, then you relax. I sat in a camp chair, holding a Noodle on my lap, easily conversing with my campmates until it was time. When you gotta go, you gotta go. The Alien was constipated, but he's only a year old and everything he eats is mushy, so I don't know what his story was. The Boy Noodle seemed slightly constipated as well. He kept producing perfectly round and hard little turds every hour on the hour. It was amazing -- he's like a little turd dispenser.
I love sleeping in sleeping bags. It's like I'm in a little zipped-up pod, my own personal mini-furnace (and that's NOT because I farted in it, although if I did, it's no one's business but my own). Saturday night was a bit chilly and damp, so I put on my fleece jacket instead of using it as a pillow, slipped on some socks, and burrowed deep inside my flannel-lined sleeping bag. I even tucked my hair into the bag with me, so that no part of me would be cold, not even my split ends. It was fantastic. I felt invisible and safe, and not even the buzz-saw snoring from the other tents could disturb me.
Weekend getaways such as camping are interesting. On the one hand, you get a small glimpse into the workings of your friends. In my case, for example, one such glimpse would reveal that my knees don't work. And surely, being forced to live in close quarters with people for an extended period of time without a couch and a television and any food other than grillable meat has the potential to tingle some nerves. But for the most part, there is comfort to be taken in the quick establishment of a routine: start the fire, cook food, eat food, clean up, go do something, come back, start the fire, cook food, eat food, relax, play Super Scrabble, sit around and shoot the breeze, sleep. And being away from the real world (I didn't know Julia Child died! I missed the Opening Ceremonies! I didn't know all those people died in Hurricane Charley!) is surreal and creates a sense that we are in a mostly happy little bubble, with no cares but for "do we have enough meat to grill?" Returning from our trip, some of us felt a bit of withdrawal. No more cooking for gobs of people, no more mass hiking, no more giggling at each other's snores, heard through the skin of our tents in the dead of night. So of course, despite our raging exhaustion, we got together to order dinner and play another round of SuperScrabble. "Tippy," we did not believe was a word, but Merriam-Webster says it is. I still don't believe it.
Hmmm. Maybe "unquilted" IS a word. Can toilet paper be unquilted? I shall have to research this some more ...
I have resolutions for my next camping trip:
1. Spend more time alone. I cannot feel rejuvenated when constantly surrounded by people, even those most dear to me.
2. Eat less meat. This is difficult because really, there's nothing like meat on a grill that just satisfies the camping soul. But we can't forget the corn next time.
3. Wear my knee brace during physical activity. Even if I look like a big geek and get dorky tan lines.
4. Bring smelling salts or an epinephrine injection (just kidding). Never again will a group turn around because of me.
5. Pack more footgear. Hiking shoes will get wet and muddy. My toes will get cold in Tevas. Wearing the same t-shirt three days in a row is fine, but wet and dirty feet ... that's just not kosher.
6. Don't wear my shoes into the tent, even if there's plenty of room. Damn hard to shake out the dirt, even if I'm not the one doing the shaking.
7. Don't bring toiletries. I'm not really going to lotion my face or my body. I'm not really going to floss. And I can wash my hair with bar soap for one day. Even if it costs me (or rather, costs M 75 cents.)
8. Memorize all the words that begin with "q" but do not require a "u." And get the quadruple word score.
9. Bring more hotdogs and Spam. This does not necessarily conflict with Resolution #2 because as we all know, hotdogs and Spam might not really be meat.
10. Bring beer.
Next stop: Maine or Camp Smith.
Sad to say but all I really remember is eating a lot of grilled meat products.
No, no, I kid, I kid.
(But we did eat a lot of grilled meat products: Spam, hotdogs, Filipino barbecue pork, Korean barbecue pork and beef, steak and chicken tandoori.)
My borrowed tent was great, and since it did not rain, it did not leak -- praise the Lord! The best feature of this tent, aside from the little internal mesh pocket in which I could hold my little knick-knacks, were the outer flaps, which could be tied back to form little curtains. The inner mesh flaps, I kept closed in order to keep out vermin and creepy-crawlies, but with the outer curtains drawn, I could read my book about the National Security Agency (which conspiracy theorists like myself really should not be reading) and take a nap, and still feel connected to the rest of my fellow faux-campers. 'Twas my wee little refuge.
The early arrivers set up a massive tarp over the picnic table and firepit = BaseCamp. BaseCamp was great. 'Twas there that we cooked, ate, drank, mollified cranky babies and played SuperScrabble. "Unquilted" is not a word. Nor is "tif." Nor is "coam." But that doesn't stop people from trying, does it? Our conclusion is simply that we have to start playing faux-Scrabble, like our pastor. He cheats. He tried to spell "joke" as "jowk."
Soy and Jaime slept in the Taj Mahal, a/k/a The Borgata Resort and Spa. The couple occupied a four-person tent high enough for me to stand in. (No snickering permitted.) First, they laid down those foam/rubber mat that puzzle-piece together, like on the floors of children's playrooms. Then, they laid down a large Korean faux-mink blanket. It had designs of creepy-looking deer on it. Then, they placed mosquito coils around their tent and BaseCamp. Then, they sprayed area bug repellant around all of the tents and BaseCamp. Then, they returned to their car and pulled out all manner of goodies which one does not really require for faux-camping, but sure came in handy: a bottle of oil, which looked like pee; a portable propane grill in the style of the George Foreman, but bigger and better; countless retractable poles and tent stakes; small lap blankets; a beach umbrella; a large gas lantern; Korean snacks like Korean beef jerky, shrimp crackers and dried squid which would have been really great had someone remembered to bring beer; a double-seated lounge chair; jars of sliced jalapeno peppers, sour pickles, and onion relish; and ramen noodles in a cup. Note to self: travel with Soy and Jaime as often as possible.
C was not himself. Normally he is very prepared, nerdily setting out everything he needs for a trip several days in advance. But last week, his regular scheduling was thrown off course by an unexpected golf outing and the winning of several hundred dollars worth of luxurious golf gear. This severely impaired his ability to remember to bring the things he was assigned to bring. Halfway up the Bear Mountain Bridge: "Shoot! I left our share of the bottled water on the kitchen counter!" Just as we got on the Thruway: "Damnit! I didn't bring dry firewood!" In response to my question on Route 212 ("You brought corn, didn't you?"): "Oh my God. Corn." Three-quarters of the way down Route 212, we found the Hobo Deli and popped in to purchase firewood and water ... (and the bananas that I forgot to bring). But then right as we left the Hobo Deli, I ventured to ask: "You brought coffee, didn't you?", to which C replied, "SH*T. I NEED COFFEE." How fortuitous that there was a Stewart's Shop beckoning to us down the street. Of course, we had too much firewood, and the perfect amount of water, and no one ate that many bananas, nor did anyone miss the corn. But thank God for the coffee ... and C tells himself, "next time, I can't let my concentration be thrown off."
Saturday morning, my spirit was willing but my body was definitely unable. I ate a hearty breakfast: Spam and eggs and half a bagel and sludgy coffee. I had filled up my Camelbak (made for a woman's proportions, they say), double-knotted my hiking shoes, and was all set for some vigorous, mind-clearing, lung-enlivening climbing. I was going to kick Mt. Tremper's butt and take prisoners. But no. A little bit past the halfway point to our appointed destination, my knees gave out. Awful, awful, tear-inducing, gut-wrenching pain with each and every step. Every pause we took was agony because I knew that with each moment of rest, my damn knees would stiffen up and would eventually refuse to bend. Finally, we stopped for an extended break, but by then, I was inexplicably light-headed, nauseous, woozy. I looked at JKA's face and saw black spots all over her. I looked down at the ground and it spun. I looked up at the sky and couldn't see the ends of the trees. "How could this be?" I asked myself. "I run, I bike, I stretch, I am active, I eat well, I take vitamins, I ate breakfast. This is madness. I think I'm dying. What if I faint and they have to carry me down? What if I fall over the edge of the trail and they have to crawl down to retrieve my lifeless body? Madness, madness, madness." I scarfed down a s'mores granola bar -- damn, I hate those things. I swallowed a handful of almonds. I chugged from my Camelbak. I knelt on the ground because my legs wouldn't hold me up anymore. My poor compatriots, forced to turn back because of me and my failing body ... I don't know what I can do to prevent this from happening again next time. Heck, I don't know why it happened on Saturday -- I've lumbered up Cadillac Mountain in Maine on my hands and knees, acquiring all manner of scraped skin and thorn scratches and torn fingernails and never felt as crappy as I did this weekend. Maybe I needed more Spam.
Twenty-five cents for five minutes. That's what you had to pay to take a hot shower. It was worth every quarter. I had thought I could go the whole weekend without showering. That's what deodorant and baby wipes and smoky barbecue and baseball caps are for. But no. After Mt. Tremper kicked MY butt, I felt I deserved some pampering, if only for fifteen minutes standing in a rustic shower wearing flip-flops and hurriedly trying to wash the suds out of my hair with really really soft water. It was scrumptious. A hot shower surely does erase all ills. Well ... it doesn't take away knee pain, but it does wonders for a demoralized spirit and greasy hair.
There's nothing like being in the great outdoors to really bring out the animal in humans. As expected, about 22% of our conversation this weekend centered around bowel movements. Almost everyone had one. A select few were constipated. One person constipated him/herself, probably as a sort of defense mechanism against public bathrooms that don't have completely enclosed stalls. Stage fright, you know. I completely understand. For me, it's all about relaxation and focus: you eat breakfast and drink some coffee, then you relax. I sat in a camp chair, holding a Noodle on my lap, easily conversing with my campmates until it was time. When you gotta go, you gotta go. The Alien was constipated, but he's only a year old and everything he eats is mushy, so I don't know what his story was. The Boy Noodle seemed slightly constipated as well. He kept producing perfectly round and hard little turds every hour on the hour. It was amazing -- he's like a little turd dispenser.
I love sleeping in sleeping bags. It's like I'm in a little zipped-up pod, my own personal mini-furnace (and that's NOT because I farted in it, although if I did, it's no one's business but my own). Saturday night was a bit chilly and damp, so I put on my fleece jacket instead of using it as a pillow, slipped on some socks, and burrowed deep inside my flannel-lined sleeping bag. I even tucked my hair into the bag with me, so that no part of me would be cold, not even my split ends. It was fantastic. I felt invisible and safe, and not even the buzz-saw snoring from the other tents could disturb me.
Weekend getaways such as camping are interesting. On the one hand, you get a small glimpse into the workings of your friends. In my case, for example, one such glimpse would reveal that my knees don't work. And surely, being forced to live in close quarters with people for an extended period of time without a couch and a television and any food other than grillable meat has the potential to tingle some nerves. But for the most part, there is comfort to be taken in the quick establishment of a routine: start the fire, cook food, eat food, clean up, go do something, come back, start the fire, cook food, eat food, relax, play Super Scrabble, sit around and shoot the breeze, sleep. And being away from the real world (I didn't know Julia Child died! I missed the Opening Ceremonies! I didn't know all those people died in Hurricane Charley!) is surreal and creates a sense that we are in a mostly happy little bubble, with no cares but for "do we have enough meat to grill?" Returning from our trip, some of us felt a bit of withdrawal. No more cooking for gobs of people, no more mass hiking, no more giggling at each other's snores, heard through the skin of our tents in the dead of night. So of course, despite our raging exhaustion, we got together to order dinner and play another round of SuperScrabble. "Tippy," we did not believe was a word, but Merriam-Webster says it is. I still don't believe it.
Hmmm. Maybe "unquilted" IS a word. Can toilet paper be unquilted? I shall have to research this some more ...
I have resolutions for my next camping trip:
1. Spend more time alone. I cannot feel rejuvenated when constantly surrounded by people, even those most dear to me.
2. Eat less meat. This is difficult because really, there's nothing like meat on a grill that just satisfies the camping soul. But we can't forget the corn next time.
3. Wear my knee brace during physical activity. Even if I look like a big geek and get dorky tan lines.
4. Bring smelling salts or an epinephrine injection (just kidding). Never again will a group turn around because of me.
5. Pack more footgear. Hiking shoes will get wet and muddy. My toes will get cold in Tevas. Wearing the same t-shirt three days in a row is fine, but wet and dirty feet ... that's just not kosher.
6. Don't wear my shoes into the tent, even if there's plenty of room. Damn hard to shake out the dirt, even if I'm not the one doing the shaking.
7. Don't bring toiletries. I'm not really going to lotion my face or my body. I'm not really going to floss. And I can wash my hair with bar soap for one day. Even if it costs me (or rather, costs M 75 cents.)
8. Memorize all the words that begin with "q" but do not require a "u." And get the quadruple word score.
9. Bring more hotdogs and Spam. This does not necessarily conflict with Resolution #2 because as we all know, hotdogs and Spam might not really be meat.
10. Bring beer.
Next stop: Maine or Camp Smith.
Wednesday, August 11
IS THIS MY DESTINY? . . .
My mom, my aunt ... then me?
The most common symptoms of hyperthyroidism are:
-- Nervousness, mood changes, weakness, and fatigue.
-- Hand tremors; a rapid, pounding, and irregular heartbeat; and shortness of breath, even when resting.
-- Excessive sweating, and warm, flushed skin that may be itchy.
-- An increased number of soft stools.
-- Fine, soft hair and hair loss.
-- Loss of appetite.
-- Weight loss.
***
IS THIS FEASIBLE? . . .
Why Invisalign®?
Invisalign® can help you get the great smile you've always wanted because it's...
-- Invisible, so no one can tell you're straightening your teeth. So now you can smile more during treatment as well as after.
-- Removable, so you can eat and drink what you want while in treatment, plus brushing and flossing are no problem.
-- Comfortable, because it has no metal to cause mouth abrasions during treatment. And no metal and wires usually means you spend less time in your doctor's office getting adjustments.
***
IS THIS ANNOYING? . . .
When your body decides: "You know what, my uterine lining is thin enough this month, so I think I won't cause my owner to bleed even though it's time to menstruate, even if my owner feels bloated and nauseous and crampy and achy anyway, and even if my owner hates not bleeding because for some reason, it's just not natural."
***
IS THIS COZY? . . .
"They" say it's supposed to rain almost the entire weekend. Perhaps rain and camping don't truly go together, but there's something cozy about the prospect of sleeping bags, fleece jackets, the steady hum of raindrops drumming on tarps and tents, warm fires, hot food, sludgy coffee, board games, beer and good friends that makes me welcome the rain with open arms.
My mom, my aunt ... then me?
The most common symptoms of hyperthyroidism are:
-- Nervousness, mood changes, weakness, and fatigue.
-- Hand tremors; a rapid, pounding, and irregular heartbeat; and shortness of breath, even when resting.
-- Excessive sweating, and warm, flushed skin that may be itchy.
-- An increased number of soft stools.
-- Fine, soft hair and hair loss.
-- Loss of appetite.
-- Weight loss.
***
IS THIS FEASIBLE? . . .
Why Invisalign®?
Invisalign® can help you get the great smile you've always wanted because it's...
-- Invisible, so no one can tell you're straightening your teeth. So now you can smile more during treatment as well as after.
-- Removable, so you can eat and drink what you want while in treatment, plus brushing and flossing are no problem.
-- Comfortable, because it has no metal to cause mouth abrasions during treatment. And no metal and wires usually means you spend less time in your doctor's office getting adjustments.
***
IS THIS ANNOYING? . . .
When your body decides: "You know what, my uterine lining is thin enough this month, so I think I won't cause my owner to bleed even though it's time to menstruate, even if my owner feels bloated and nauseous and crampy and achy anyway, and even if my owner hates not bleeding because for some reason, it's just not natural."
***
IS THIS COZY? . . .
"They" say it's supposed to rain almost the entire weekend. Perhaps rain and camping don't truly go together, but there's something cozy about the prospect of sleeping bags, fleece jackets, the steady hum of raindrops drumming on tarps and tents, warm fires, hot food, sludgy coffee, board games, beer and good friends that makes me welcome the rain with open arms.
FOR LAW NERDS . . .
An interesting article from The New York Times, at least for law nerds like me ... emphasis added.
Challenging Lawyers' Training, and Finding Some Ethics
By SAMUEL G. FREEDMAN
In the Polish city of Radom, back before World War II, Norman Rosenbaum practiced law. Then the Germans invaded and under their statutes stripped Jews of their rights and ultimately shipped them to death camps. By the time Mr. Rosenbaum emerged from Bergen-Belsen and made his way to America, he had lost faith in two former certainties: God and the law.
So perhaps it was destined that his son, Thane, would grow into a very dissident sort of lawyer. At first, he did all the things an ambitious, aspiring lawyer was supposed to do - editing the law review in law school, clerking for a federal judge, winning an associate's position with the prestigious Manhattan firm of Debevoise Plimpton. After just three years, however, he quit.
He wrote several novels and collections of short stories, most recently "The Golems of Gotham," all of them shadowed by the Holocaust. He became a professor at Fordham University Law School, teaching courses not in evidence or contracts or the usual staples but human rights, law and literature, and legal humanities.
And several months ago, the lawyer and the author in him collaborated on a jeremiad against the legal profession titled "The Myth of Moral Justice."
The book contends that from law school on through their careers, lawyers are so imbued with the concepts of serving a client in an adversarial arena ("zealous advocacy," in legal parlance) and unemotionally evaluating facts and rules ("thinking like a lawyer," as the phrase goes) that they fail to answer to any overarching sense of right and wrong.
"These ideas are very foreign to lawyers," Mr. Rosenbaum put it in a recent interview. "They haven't been trained to think in moral terms. Starting in law school, they learn the conventional paradigm in which the legal profession is detached and withdrawn. It's the cold, rigid, mechanical application of rules. The legal profession is about functioning as the reasonable, objective man, as opposed to asking what is just."
Any accredited law school must provide instruction in ethics, most often in a stand-alone course. These classes typically explore issues such as lawyer-client privilege, confidentiality, conflict of interest and obstruction of justice.
Mr. Rosenbaum, in contrast, wants to remake the very essence of the profession and its education system. Lawyers would seek reconciliation rather than conquest, and courtrooms would serve as forums for aggrieved parties cathartically to tell their stories rather than pursue monetary settlements.
With that sweeping critique, more in the style of Old Testament prophet than a contemporary reformer, Mr. Rosenbaum has accomplished what multitudes of professors long for and so rarely achieve: He has set the terms of public debate.
Reviewers in both The Washington Post and The New York Times, while disputing a number of Mr. Rosenbaum's proposals for change, recommended that "The Myth of Moral Justice" be taught in every law school in the country.
Both the American Bar Association Journal and Legal Affairs magazine devoted lengthy essays to wrestling with Mr. Rosenbaum's thesis.
And at lunchtime one Wednesday in late July, Mr. Rosenbaum appeared amid the deli delivery men 10 floors above Park Avenue at the reception desk of Pryor Cashman Sherman & Flynn. Like several other firms in New York and Washington, this one had asked Mr. Rosenbaum to address its lawyers.
However radical his position, however long his cascading brown locks, he remained part of the tribe, with an insider's acute sense of exactly where to find the vulnerable part of the lawyer's psyche.
Mr. Rosenbaum took his seat at the cherry-wood table of Pryor Cashman's conference room, a place designed for civility with its Japanese woodcuts and sound-absorbent wall fabric. Around him, in cufflinks and cravats or dress-down oxford shirts, there gathered 15 lawyers, more than a tenth of the firm's complement. The next hour and a half was not going to be billed to any client.
"We're here to ask whether there is a spiritual void in this law firm," said Selig D. Sacks, a member of the firm's executive committee, who had arranged the session. When the laughter quieted, he went on more seriously. "What does the way law is administered in this country say about us? What does it say about the way justice is dispensed?" For his part, Mr. Rosenbaum invited the assemblage "to challenge the book's claims and presumptions."
They did something more fascinating and complex than that. For the next 90 minutes, the Pryor Cashman people spoke not only as the lawyers they are but as the comparative literature professors and concert pianists they had been, and as closet idealists prodded into inquiry. Amid knowing references to Moses and Jonathan Swift, they revealed their own moral dilemmas.
Bill Levine, a partner, recalled his experience in a previous firm of having resigned the assignment of representing a pajamas manufacturer that used flammable fabric. "I was severely chastised by several partners," he added.
Richard Frazier, a partner in corporate law, remembered his unease in an earlier job representing Swiss banks against the claims of Holocaust survivors. Ira Goldstein, a senior lawyer in the corporate department, talked about his former specialty in helping "highly profitable corporations become more highly profitable" by laying off workers. He tried to take solace in asking his client to offer ample severance pay.
"But what are we going to say to the client who says, 'Let me get this straight? I'm paying you $450 an hour to have a debate over the morality of what I do?'" asked Steve Goodman, a partner and the most skeptical listener in the room. "Should I say, 'Raise my rate to $750 an hour and we can drop the morality?'"
Mr. Rosenbaum did not expect instant conversions, much less wholesale reform of the profession or legal education.
"If any individual at any time of the day asks how they stand against the moral criteria of the book," he said later, "it's a huge achievement."
He got just such an achievement from Mr. Frazier near the end of the session. "When I went to law school, I didn't intend to have 'lawyer' on my tombstone someday," he said. "Because I knew what I was leaving behind - the ethics class in my philosophy major."
An interesting article from The New York Times, at least for law nerds like me ... emphasis added.
Challenging Lawyers' Training, and Finding Some Ethics
By SAMUEL G. FREEDMAN
In the Polish city of Radom, back before World War II, Norman Rosenbaum practiced law. Then the Germans invaded and under their statutes stripped Jews of their rights and ultimately shipped them to death camps. By the time Mr. Rosenbaum emerged from Bergen-Belsen and made his way to America, he had lost faith in two former certainties: God and the law.
So perhaps it was destined that his son, Thane, would grow into a very dissident sort of lawyer. At first, he did all the things an ambitious, aspiring lawyer was supposed to do - editing the law review in law school, clerking for a federal judge, winning an associate's position with the prestigious Manhattan firm of Debevoise Plimpton. After just three years, however, he quit.
He wrote several novels and collections of short stories, most recently "The Golems of Gotham," all of them shadowed by the Holocaust. He became a professor at Fordham University Law School, teaching courses not in evidence or contracts or the usual staples but human rights, law and literature, and legal humanities.
And several months ago, the lawyer and the author in him collaborated on a jeremiad against the legal profession titled "The Myth of Moral Justice."
The book contends that from law school on through their careers, lawyers are so imbued with the concepts of serving a client in an adversarial arena ("zealous advocacy," in legal parlance) and unemotionally evaluating facts and rules ("thinking like a lawyer," as the phrase goes) that they fail to answer to any overarching sense of right and wrong.
"These ideas are very foreign to lawyers," Mr. Rosenbaum put it in a recent interview. "They haven't been trained to think in moral terms. Starting in law school, they learn the conventional paradigm in which the legal profession is detached and withdrawn. It's the cold, rigid, mechanical application of rules. The legal profession is about functioning as the reasonable, objective man, as opposed to asking what is just."
Any accredited law school must provide instruction in ethics, most often in a stand-alone course. These classes typically explore issues such as lawyer-client privilege, confidentiality, conflict of interest and obstruction of justice.
Mr. Rosenbaum, in contrast, wants to remake the very essence of the profession and its education system. Lawyers would seek reconciliation rather than conquest, and courtrooms would serve as forums for aggrieved parties cathartically to tell their stories rather than pursue monetary settlements.
With that sweeping critique, more in the style of Old Testament prophet than a contemporary reformer, Mr. Rosenbaum has accomplished what multitudes of professors long for and so rarely achieve: He has set the terms of public debate.
Reviewers in both The Washington Post and The New York Times, while disputing a number of Mr. Rosenbaum's proposals for change, recommended that "The Myth of Moral Justice" be taught in every law school in the country.
Both the American Bar Association Journal and Legal Affairs magazine devoted lengthy essays to wrestling with Mr. Rosenbaum's thesis.
And at lunchtime one Wednesday in late July, Mr. Rosenbaum appeared amid the deli delivery men 10 floors above Park Avenue at the reception desk of Pryor Cashman Sherman & Flynn. Like several other firms in New York and Washington, this one had asked Mr. Rosenbaum to address its lawyers.
However radical his position, however long his cascading brown locks, he remained part of the tribe, with an insider's acute sense of exactly where to find the vulnerable part of the lawyer's psyche.
Mr. Rosenbaum took his seat at the cherry-wood table of Pryor Cashman's conference room, a place designed for civility with its Japanese woodcuts and sound-absorbent wall fabric. Around him, in cufflinks and cravats or dress-down oxford shirts, there gathered 15 lawyers, more than a tenth of the firm's complement. The next hour and a half was not going to be billed to any client.
"We're here to ask whether there is a spiritual void in this law firm," said Selig D. Sacks, a member of the firm's executive committee, who had arranged the session. When the laughter quieted, he went on more seriously. "What does the way law is administered in this country say about us? What does it say about the way justice is dispensed?" For his part, Mr. Rosenbaum invited the assemblage "to challenge the book's claims and presumptions."
They did something more fascinating and complex than that. For the next 90 minutes, the Pryor Cashman people spoke not only as the lawyers they are but as the comparative literature professors and concert pianists they had been, and as closet idealists prodded into inquiry. Amid knowing references to Moses and Jonathan Swift, they revealed their own moral dilemmas.
Bill Levine, a partner, recalled his experience in a previous firm of having resigned the assignment of representing a pajamas manufacturer that used flammable fabric. "I was severely chastised by several partners," he added.
Richard Frazier, a partner in corporate law, remembered his unease in an earlier job representing Swiss banks against the claims of Holocaust survivors. Ira Goldstein, a senior lawyer in the corporate department, talked about his former specialty in helping "highly profitable corporations become more highly profitable" by laying off workers. He tried to take solace in asking his client to offer ample severance pay.
"But what are we going to say to the client who says, 'Let me get this straight? I'm paying you $450 an hour to have a debate over the morality of what I do?'" asked Steve Goodman, a partner and the most skeptical listener in the room. "Should I say, 'Raise my rate to $750 an hour and we can drop the morality?'"
Mr. Rosenbaum did not expect instant conversions, much less wholesale reform of the profession or legal education.
"If any individual at any time of the day asks how they stand against the moral criteria of the book," he said later, "it's a huge achievement."
He got just such an achievement from Mr. Frazier near the end of the session. "When I went to law school, I didn't intend to have 'lawyer' on my tombstone someday," he said. "Because I knew what I was leaving behind - the ethics class in my philosophy major."