Cough. Cough. Hack. Hack. Ptooey.

A-hem. Sorry.

Is it bad to cough up green stuff?

I've been a little under the weather since Saturday. I'm not a good sickie, as Catherine can well attest. It started on the way back from our trip to see the redwoods (pics to come, the B&B was awesome!). It began as a little sore throat, just a little scratchy feeling is all. I thought, 'Surely I can will this away with lots of water and juices.' Then we stopped for dinner at this BBQ place outside of San Francisco and I made the mistake of having a beer. The Pacific Northwest, and San Francisco in particular, has some of the best brews in the US, and it's really hard for me to pass up a fresh Anchor Steam on tap. But soon after having a few swallows, the scratchy thing turned into an all-out swollen, dry sand-paper feeling. I should have known that would happen. On the rest of the ride home, swallowing was like trying to jam a wad of tissue down my throat. I went to sleep that night hoping I would wake up and it would all be gone. But it proved to be only the beginning.

The next couple of days I tried to pretend things were getting better. We went into San Francisco on Saturday to see Andy and Brin and I was good and stayed clear of any alcohol or other dehydrating substances. But it did me no good. I still felt bad on Sunday and stayed at home and stewed over my condition while Catherine had more fun with Andy and Brin in town. A side note here: Catherine got to ride on Andy's new Kawasaki motorcycle while I got to drive the BMW. A win-win situation for all involved.

Sunday evening I started feeling a little better. Catherine's parents treated us to an excellent dinner at Evvia where we all ate Greek salad and wonderful lamb ribs. Then we boarded our red-eye flight back to DC at 10:40. I came equipped with Afrin to spray up my nostrils just before take-off and landing. Aside from making me feel like a coke addict with a stuffed up nose, the Afrin, mixed with the Tylenol Sinus I had taken earlier, actually worked quite well. My head felt awesome. Unfortunately, with all the pseudoephedrine in my system, I still felt, well, like a coke addict, only with a runny nose. I was wired the entire trip and didn't sleep a wink. At the same time, I wasn't actually clear-headed enough to do anything else. So I stared at the bright sign at the front of the plane that said 'Airbus' while everybody snored peacefully all around me. Good times.

We landed around 6:30 am, Eastern time. I'm actually not sure what happened after that. All I know about yesterday is that somehow we got home, where I managed to stumble around my apartment and feed myself, drink lots of liquids, and make frequent trips to the bathroom. Other than that, it's all a blur. I couldn't sleep, so I pretended to do lots of other things, but none of it with much efficacy. Kudos to Catherine, who somehow made it to work yesterday and today with no problems, despite showing symptoms of the same head cold I had. I have new-found respect for the costitution of women. I take back all the remarks I have made over the years when she needed nine, ten, twelve hours of sleep to my five or six. Maybe she was just 'fueling up.'

So this afternoon I've starting to feel more like myself again. I can say that, aside from the head cold, San Francisco was awesome! We had a great time hanging out with Catherine's folks and basking in the sunny but cool northern California weather. We were disappointed to find DC still muggy and warm upon our return and we are anxiously awaiting a cooler Fall.

A few other items: Sorry Mat and Emily, that we missed your shower. We're looking forward to the wedding and other festivities to come.

And Sarah has a couple of new blogs. One is for ranting, and the other is more for poetry. Awesome! Okay Jeff . . . no more excuses . . . we need more people representing the 214!

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Travel  Health  Family 

I set my phone on vibrate last night so no east-coast phone calls would wake me up early this morning where I slept in Santa Clara, California. Turns out I didn't need to worry about that at all. The jet lag had me up, bright-eyed, at 7:15 am west-coast time, which of course was a decadent 10:15 am back in DC. I heard my phone vibrating at 7:30 and thought about answering it, but let it continue to rumble. I waited until 8:00 to return the call.

I had spent the weekend hanging out with Mitch and his girlfriend - doing the sites around DC, a tourist in my own city. Which is fine by me. I never really get tired of the monuments, the capitol, the district. It's why I moved there. I love where I live and I love showing it off to people. Normally I've shown people around by foot. This time I did it by car, which was a little nicer, since it was August and too much walking means a bad case of 'swamp butt.' There was still a lot of walking, but it was good to cut out the long bits by hopping in the car. And I now know where all the good parking spots are, which will be helpful for future tour guide excursions. Also, this was my first time to really explore Arlington Cemetery, which was interesting . . . and educational. Arlington House, which sits a top what I believe is the highest point in the cemetery, and probably the entire area, has some interesting history to it. Also, it affords some great views of Washington.

My next favorite place after Washington DC, is Northern California, so it's a pleasant change of scenery to be here now. Actually, this time of year, Northern California wins, hands down. You always know what to expect from the weather here: mostly sunny, cool foggy mornings, moderate days, cool to cold evenings. You can get away with shorts during the day, and jeans and sweaters at night. Awesome. After a hot summer in DC, this seems like paradise.

Catherine and I drove down to Palo Alto this morning to have breakfast at a place called 'The Creamery,' which is your standard diner fare with some southwestern specialties. I got the breakfust quesadilla's, and no, that wasn't a spelling error. It was printed that way on the menu. We lounged around Palo Alto for most of the morning before driving back to San Carlos. My favorite part was pretending we were dot-com millionaires driving around in Catherine's dad's BMW Z4 with the top down. I held my hand over my DC Nationals hat, partly so it wouldn't blow away, and partly to cover up the team emblem, which might have blown our 'cover.'

Tomorrow we're all heading up north of San Francisco to Redwood Country. Just after we drive our vehicle through a giant redwood tree sometime around 5:00 or 6:00 pm tomorrow, we'll be rolling into a small B&B called The Myers Inn. Friday will involve more driving and taking in the great weather and scenery. We'll be back in the San Francisco area for the weekend so we can do some tooling around in the city before heading back home for what will hopefully be the end of humid, 95-degree days and the beginning of Fall in DC.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  DC  Family  Friends  Travel 

I can't believe any 'man of God' would make statements like Robertson has made recently. I think he's lost it.

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Catherine left for California tonight. I'm feeling lonely. I wish I had booked the same itinerary as her, but I'm not leaving until next week. The problem is that I had no idea on May 24th (which is when we had to book these tickets in order to take advantage of the special Independence Air price-slashing) what my schedule would look like right now. Maybe I would need to be here part of the week for a project. What project? I have no idea. Just one of the random things I consider when making travel arrangements. One of the rules of making travel arrangements is that I must always regret the dates and times of said travel arrangements. This is crucial for my well-being. Oh well. As it turns out, my friend Mitch is going to be in DC this weekend with his girlfriend and they're going to stay with me. It'll be fun to catch up with him and it will be nice to have the company. Then, next week, I too will be in the cool air of San Francisco. It'll be interesting to be there, because I've been reading a lot of beat-era literature lately, which of course is where it all went down. Reading it and being there should bring me into some kind of cosmic alignment with the literary moons.

So I cleaned up the apartment tonight. Dusted. Swiffered. To swiffer: there's a modern verb that wasn't around 10 years ago. I found piles of coupons - mostly receipts I get from shopping at CVS. Whenever I shop at CVS, I get some kind of coupon on my receipt. These guys are geniuses, these damn CVS people, because they can appear all gracious and charitable, giving their customers money back, but they know the reality is that most of these coupons will never get used by idiots like me. Instead, they'll sit like mine do on a bookshelf waiting, hoping to be used sometime before they expire. I've got a couple of good ones right now including a $3 'Extra Bucks' which I can apply on any purchase I make. But I just keep forgetting to take them with me. I've tried putting them in my wallet even, but they just wind up expiring in there, instead of on my bookshelf. I might as well just throw these things away when I get them - it would do me just as much good. But I don't throw them away because that would make me feel guilty. Instead, I save them in their designated spot until they expire. Then I throw them away. This is the necessary cycle of things.

Speaking of memory, or lack thereof, earlier this evening I was reading through an old notebook of mine. I opened it up to the first page and it was dated August 19th, 1996. Exactly nine years ago to the day. How's that for some crazy shit? There must indeed be some kind of cosmic lunar alignment already going on with me. So what was I doing nine years ago to this day, you wonder? I was attending bartending school in Arlington, Virginia, strangely enough, in a valiant effort to shake off the hubris of my college education and get down to the heady, welcome reality of everyday life. Do you ever look back at certain periods of your life and wonder if they were a dream? Or wonder if you were perhaps an entirely different person? If it wasn't for this physical evidence, for these scribblings with pen on paper, I could see myself completely forgetting this particular episode of my life, or at least perceiving it differently in my head. Yeah, I guess the real benefit to having things in writing is not that it helps you remember the things that happened in your life, but it helps you recall the details of those things, helps shed light on what was going through your mind when those events transpired. It's the perceptions that somehow get lost in our brains: what we were thinking at the time. But having it in writing makes it so much more real. I was listening to 'science Friday' today on NPR and there was a professor of cognitive science talking about something he termed 'snapshot memory' and how sometimes memories that remain very vivid in your mind can actually be completely altered from how they originally occurred. We think we know what happened. However, through some subtle suggestion, our recollection can be altered. The professor went on to talk about how the legal system puts so much weight on eye-witness testimony, but how this sort of testimony can actually be the least reliable. Of course, this is my recollection of what the professor said and is therefore useless. He may not have said this at all. Either way, I'll have him know that I don't need him or any other fancy-talking academic to make me paranoid about my perception of reality. I get that completely on my own, thank you very much.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Ho_Hum  Chewing 

The Jones has recorded a demo. You can check out the recordings on the Web site or on our MySpace page.

Thanks, Eric, for a great recording!

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Music 

Last night I went to the National Press Club to see John Irving read from his new book, "Until I Find You." It was really cool seeing John Irving live and in person, but the evening was not without it's oddities.

I've been a fan of Irving's since my early teens. Back then, I was definitely drawn to his knack for weaving strange sexual threads into his plots, which were themselves plenty strange to begin with. A mother killed by a foul ball. A boy conceived by a paralyzed soldier with an indefatigable erection. And, of course, at the heart of it all there always seemed to be a boy who had a close relationship to his mother, a distant or absent father, and who was fated to achieve something great. This was good fuel for my 16-year old brain. This was material I could sink my teeth into. And I did, reading every novel of Irving's up to "A Son of the Circus," which was published in 1994.

I have to admit that when Irving came out to the podium, I felt a momentary feeling of shock followed by an irresistible urge to applaud. I think I even heard some people in the audience gasp when they saw him. It's that knee-jerk reaction you feel when seeing somebody famous up-close whose work has had a profound effect on you. There's a certain amazement that comes over you for a few moments. This was evinced best by the two ridiculous women who introduced him and flittered and fluttered around like schoolgirls at the prom fawning over the quarterback. I felt embarrassed for them and I think their nervous introduction helped ground the rest of the people in the room.

Irving reads eloquently, the way you would imagine his prose should be read. His delivery is quiet and precise, and you can detect a faint New England accent on more than a few syllables. His voice has a slight roughness to it, like a fine-grain sandpaper, perhaps a 500- or 600-grit. You wouldn't use it for heavy projects, like removing layers of paint from wood, but you might use it to smooth a blemish off an antique table. He's not what you expect a writer to look like, either. He's typical wrestler: short with a wide, but solid, frame. At 55, he's still somebody with whom you'd think twice about picking a fight.

Now, while I thoroughly enjoyed the event, there were a couple of things about it that seemed somewhat 'off.' First of all, Irving prefaced and concluded his reading with a surprisingly thorough synopsis of the book. This was entertaining in it's own way; however, he told so much about the story through these bookend remarks that if I had just purchased the 800-page hardback at $25 I might have been slightly pissed off. Irving's preface and epilogue to his reading, complete with thematic explanations and character outlines, could have been sent directly to the publishers of Cliff's Notes or Reader's Digest. I thought it was funny that a writer known for his long-windedness had actually abbreviated his novel into an author's version of the 'elevator pitch.'

Another odd thing: the selection Irving chose to read had an over-abundance of the word 'penis' in it. Most people reading this blog know me and know I'm not a prude, but having John Irving drop the 'p-bomb' at least two-dozen times in the course of the evening became a tad uncomfortable, even for me. This had less to do with the word itself as it did with the delivery of the word, which was read with the same eloquent, proper tone as the rest of the selection, much the way a doctor might read from a medical textbook about some odd discoloration or birthmark on the very same organ. It definitely had a shrinking effect, not unlike a cold shower.

The evening wasn't all strange. My favorite part came after Irving finished his reading and talked some about the writing process itself. Some things he said that I found interesting:

• He has no choice in his subject matter. It just is.
• While his characters aren't always autobiographical in so much as they are based on real people, he thinks there is something autobiographical in the fact that he keeps inventing them.
• He writes all his novels from end to beginning. He must know the end and the beginning before he can begin. He approaches each chapter in the same way: end, beginning, fill in the middle. I thought this was fascinating if for no other reason than it is so different from the way I approach any writing project.
• It took him 7 years to write his latest book, and a couple of years were just spent outlining ideas and discovering the story before he even put pen to paper.
• I learned that a 'Rose of Jericho' tattoo was a rose with a vagina hidden somewhere in it.

As I said, I haven't read anything by Irving in a long time. I'm not completely sure why. It's wrong to say I 'outgrew' him. He is a master of language and, simply put, you can't 'outgrow' him. I guess the only thing to say is that my taste has changed. I blame it on the Internet! (I'm only partly kidding.) I think the main thing is that Irving's prose has become a little too polished for me. It makes me feel less like I'm reading an edgy novel by a modern author and more like I'm reading something from a time that is not my own.

Update:

John Irving appeared on the Daily Show today, August 17th. Starting sometime tomorrow, you should be able to see it here for at least the next week or two. After that, it may get relegated to the archives.

Update 12.05.2006

In case you're curious what a Rose of Jericho tattoo looks like, it's probably something like this:



A reader forwarded me this great pic. (Thanks F!)

link to this | comments (5) | File:  rose_of_jericho  Reviews  Books 

It's a state of mind, really. I call it 'The Fold.' Every day I hope to find it. Most days I do not. Sometimes music works. Sometimes reading helps. But sometimes nothing. And those are horrible moments. Today I'm piping in music. A direct feed to my brain. Today it's Poe.

. . . see a perfect forest through so many splintered trees . . .

What is The Fold? you ask. Let's see. How to explain. Imagine a blanket enveloping you. Imagine complete focus. Imagine seeing beyond sight. Imagine hearing beyond sound. Imagine, for just a second, forgetting that the world exists at all, but still being part or particle of that world. Imagine forgetting about your body, but still being able to use it. Imagine concepts like 'cold,' 'hot,' 'happy,' 'sad,' as being just that: concepts. And not distractions. That is The Fold.

. . . come here, no I won't say please, one look at the ghost before I make it leave . . .

Can I tell you a secret? There are crazy people in my building. And I don't mean crazy like, "Aw that shit is crazy, fool." I don't mean crazy as in "crazy-cool." I mean ear-lying-on-the-floor-in-a-bloody-pulp, shotgun-hiding-in-the-watchtower, soiled-panties-on-the-head kind of crazy. Having those kind of folks disrupting my evenings and mornings with their insane blabber and drool makes me feel less like a 'condo association president' and more like a kindergarten teacher, or perhaps a psycho-ward guard. I'm telling you, Ken Kesey's got nothing on me, man.

. . . I'm haunted . . .

Yes, The Fold is alluding me. But it's more than the people in my building. Did I mention I'm an obsessive hypochondriac? Oh, yes. If it can happen to a body, it's happened to mine several times in my mind. Watching episodes of ER or Gray's Anatomy makes me break out in cold sweats. Forget about it. And the past week has been a hypochondriac's worst nightmare, an oncological bad trip. First, a good friend was diagnosed with colon cancer. Then, Peter Jennings died of lung cancer, and then Dana Reeve (Christopher Reeve's wife) was diagnosed with lung cancer, despite the fact that she didn't smoke. Of course, with the high-profile cases, the media has really latched on to the whole subject of lung cancer. Ironic since journalists keep a good portion of the tobacco industry in business.

. . . lost, and the shadows keep on changing . . .

And yes, I smoke. I mean, I have smoked. Off and on. Since college. But, currently - I mean this week - I am refraining. But it's not just that. Every day there is some new study talking about how so-and-so can increase your chances of such-and-such or decrease your chances of this-and-that. Do you think I've thought about anything else aside from my own mortality for the past week? Not a chance. In fact, there have been bouts of these sorts of thought patterns since 25. Since my hair started graying. Oh, and what is this tightness in my chest? This heavy beating in my heart? This mole looks funny! I've never felt that before. It's no way to live, I tell you: this anxiety creeping over me like a chill.

. . . dear world, I'm pleased to meet you . . .

I used to find The Fold when I swam. My arms and legs would keep propelling me through the water. The pain, the tightness in my muscles, the coldness of the water, all sensations external and internal - they'd all just drop away. No kidding. And all that would be left would be the current lap. Then the next. Then the next. It's so peaceful that sort of immediacy, that sort of 'here and now.' The rhythm of each stroke. The sound of each splash. Approach the wall. Turn. Do it again. Physical endurance and strength is only part of swimming. The rest is mental. The rest is finding The Fold.

. . . now I have taken control . . .

So I'm looking for it. I'm searching for cool oblivion. I'm longing for a state that brings me outside myself, but closer to my dreams. Drugs? you ask. Eh. Too easy. And when they're over you're hit hard by a consuming reality, which is depressing and makes you want to go back. And that just makes the whole thing cyclical and . . . boring, like the very thoughts you're trying to escape. Alcohol? you wonder. Same thing. And it leaves you listless. Meditation perhaps? Too west-coast touchy-feely, too neo-hippie. I might as well stop bathing and grow my beard out again. God! you exclaim. Hmmm . . . perhaps, but God tends to distance himself from the gritty, earthy thoughts I'm trying to get at. You've got to convince him it's for a good cause, and there's no reasoning with The Divine Power.

No this is going to take something else. This is going to take a wicked sort of curiosity, a relentless interrogation. This is going to take regression, a swim in the river Lethe, a forgetting of things I've known, a seeing of old things in new ways. This is going to take a trip back to the womb.

link to this | comments (8) | File:  Chewing  Writing 

A tiger, a hyena, an orangutan, a zebra, and a teenage boy are stranded at sea on a lifeboat. Sounds like the setup to a joke, doesn't it? It may in fact be one, with the punch line having something to do with 'stripes.' But it's also the premise of Life of Pi by Yann Martel, which I finished reading a couple of weeks ago. The book left me with a renewed faith in the power of narrative to convey big ideas. On the surface, as you can imagine, this is an adventure story about one boy's survival at sea, and a riveting one at that. But below the surface, like the rich and varied sea-life that swim beneath the lifeboat in Martel's novel, you'll find a wealth of ideas. At it's core, this book is a philosophical meditation on the nature of storytelling itself, and how we derive meaning from narrative. It touches on themes regarding the presence (or absence) of God, man's free will, the nature of reality, the nature of language, and our ability to, as the author himself puts it, 'choose the better' story.

I passed by this novel in the bookstore several times before finally picking it up. And even after I brought it home, it was a couple of months before I actually began reading it. I think there were two reasons for my hesitance, despite the fact that I had heard great things about it: First, I felt like there would be some kind of mathematical or scientific undercurrent in the novel, probably because of the presence of the word 'Pi' in the title. While the word 'Pi,' which is the abbreviated name of the main character in the book, does have some thematic meaning in the book, that meaning is not purely mathematical or scientific in nature. It's more philosophical, really. My other concern, which was based on the book jacket, was that it would be one long allegory, which struck me as unappealing. While readers may find elements of allegory in the novel, it is not the underlying style of the book, which was a relief to me. Incidentally, in relation to the concerns over allegory, I also wondered if the story would be an extended parable. Though in the Author's Note it is promised that the story "will make you believe in God," I don't know that it actually teaches a moral or religious lesson. It certainly struggles with religious meaning, but doesn't seem to pass any judgments - the main character practices Hinduism, Christianity and Islam with equal fervor.

After reading over the paragraph above, I'm realizing that if you have any of the same concerns that I had before reading the novel, my explanations probably won't allay them at all. Still, you shouldn't let these things deter you from reading this novel. If you get nothing else out of Life of Pi, you're sure to find it a thoroughly entertaining action-adventure page-turner. At the same time, if you're the type of person with a thirst for Literature (with a capital 'L') you don't have to feel guilty about enjoying this book because you'll find plenty of deeper meaning and significance, even if it's different from the meaning I've managed to find in it.

Oh, the book really gets going in part two, but pay close attention to part one anyway, as all that stuff comes back in part three.

Life of Pi (Amazon)

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Reviews 

I never found porn in the woods, but I found it in the street once.

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When I was young, probably about 8 or 9, a good friend of my dad's died from brain cancer. I remember that it had a profound effect on my dad because this man was my dad's age, probably in his mid- to late-thirties. The man also had two young boys, not unlike my dad (my brother had probably not arrived yet, but was soon on the way). At the time, the age of 35 seemed really old to me. Logically, I could understand that this was a relatively 'young' age to die of something like cancer, particularly because my dad said it was so, but naturally I had no real sense of this, and it still seemed a long way off.

This past Tuesday night, we received a call from a friend. It was pretty late, after ten, and the person who called us was not somebody we normally would have received a call from, especially that late. When you receive an unexpected call late at night from somebody you don't normally receive calls from, your first instinct is to be concerned. Unfortunately, there was cause to be concerned. We found out from him that a good friend of ours, Lance, had been diagnosed with stage-four colon cancer, which had spread to his liver, and he had been given only a year to live. Lance is 34.

I think now I can understand a bit of what my dad must have felt when his friend was diagnosed with a terminal, untreatable cancer, coming face to face with the reality that there are just certain things that can happen with regard to our mortality that are completely unexpected and beyond our control, and there is nothing we can do to prevent them. That flavor of gospel truth ain't the kind we like to hear, and it can either freeze a person with fear of the unknown, or make them a bit loopy - crazy from the shear absurdity of it all. In Lance's case, there was no family history of colon cancer, so a routine colonoscopy wasn't even something a doctor would have done for another 5-10 years, if that. He had had some strange gastro-intestinal problems going on, but he knew he was lactose intolerant, so he always attributed those to that condition. Until Monday, when he went in for a colonoscopy and wound up in the operating room to have a section of his colon removed, along with 6 lymph nodes.

When we arrived at the hospital, we met Catherine in the parking lot. She had driven straight from work. The walk from the parking lot to the room was one of the longest walks of my life. I can't speak for everybody, but I know I was very anxious about what the scene would be like in Lance's hospital room.

That's why there was a certain bit of relief felt by everybody when we finally saw Lance. On the one hand, he looked like a patient who had just had a portion of his colon removed would be expected to look. He had IV tubes leading into his arm and a tube coming out of his nose. The IV tubes fed him with saline, vitamins, and occasionally morphine. The tube from his nose rid his stomach of fluid and it made funny noise, like a tea-kettle whistle. But aside from these various plastic fluid channels, Lance looked remarkably well. Nothing like I was expecting. Certainly nothing like what I would expect a 'cancer patient' to look like. His color was very good and he was alert. In fact, as we stayed and talked with him and his girlfriend, we came to realize he was his same old self, cracking jokes, being quick-witted. I think we all felt a responsibility to try to keep the conversation light and humorous, but it was Lance that kept us all, including himself, in stitches, metaphorically and literally. He had to keep a pillow pressed to his stomach because it hurt him to laugh.

If there is anybody that has the ability to fight a life-threatening disease, it's Lance. More and more I think people are made the way they are for a reason, and if it was in 'the cards' that Lance was to get colon cancer, then it also worked out that he was given the constitution and positive energy to fight it and win. Lance doesn't have a negative bone in his body. Not only does he have a great sense of humor and a wonderfully positive outlook on life, but he is an ex-military man. So he knows how to fight. Oh, and I almost forgot: his name is LANCE! I mean, come on! Who better to fight cancer than somebody named Lance? To make things even better, he has a very strong support structure in his girlfriend and his sister. Both are excellent cards to have in an otherwise bad hand. Lance's girlfriend had a grandmother who had colon cancer and so she has experience with possible treatments. And if I understood correctly, I think she even has had formal education in a related field. She had already spoken to a doctor at Johns Hopkins who made it seem like there was some hope for Lance's condition, especially since he was young and healthy, which means they could fight it aggressively. Lance is going to meet with that doctor tomorrow to find out more.

Before we arrived I wondered how it would be talking about 'it' with Lance. I know my family never liked to use the word 'cancer' when my grandfather developed a tumor in his lung and I wondered if Lance would be the same way. He wasn't. He was very up-front with all of us about his prognosis. When the doctors came in to talk to him, we asked him if he wanted us to leave.

"No. Absolutely not. You are my friends." That was his reply.

The first doctor that came to see him was the surgeon. He was very nice and answered every question in a factual way. He described what he saw when he operated. He was not an oncologist, so he did not discuss treatments. The second doctor, who we nicknamed 'Dr. Death' seemed to be auditioning to be a doctor on Days of Our Lives. He had a flare for the dramatic. He was not an oncologist, either, so really should not have been discussing treatment options at all, or even giving a prognosis. But that did not stop him from doing just that. He insisted on providing a grim outlook for Lance's condition. He would stare at Lance for an uncomfortably long period of time and say nothing, but his face said it all: it is hopeless. As Lance said after he left, 'Why don't you just stick a fork in my ass.' We didn't like Dr. Death.

For all of us visiting Lance, I think the entire afternoon and evening can be characterized as one extended 'blond moment.' And no one in particular had it worse than the others. Emily forgot she could use the HOV lane. Mat forgot to put the cap back on when we stopped to refuel. At one point, I referred to 'four of us', when there were only 'three of us' in the car. Oh, and I wound up divulging a surprise that really should have been kept secret. Okay, you know what? I take back what I said: I think I had it worse than the rest of us!

On the way back from the hospital, our forgetfulness changed to downright loopy-ness. At one point on the road, our cars ventured through a patch of foul-smelling air. I thought it was skunk, but Emily wondered if it was pot. I began to take her suspicions more seriously when we stopped for dinner. I had firmly decided what I was going to eat and yet when the waiter came to take our order, I had no recollection of what it was. At this point, we were all a bit delirious. Perhaps there was something in the air. Of course, I think more than anything it had to do with the fact that we'd just seen our 34-year-old friend in the hospital, whose otherwise healthy-looking body had recently been found riddled with malignant tumors, and for whom the term 'life-span' had suddenly taken on a surprising new meaning.

It's sad. It's tragic. It's absurd. And it is certainly not fair. It smacks of a harsh reality, and yet it seems fictional, unreal, like an episode of ER. And I think what we all felt that night was that if we didn't laugh, we would surely cry and so it was much better for all of us, especially Lance, to choose the former, for now.

If you don't know Lance, you wish you did. He's a truly great guy. Always willing to help. Always positive. Always fun to talk to and hang out with. We've only known him for a little over a year, but already we consider him a very good friend. Whatever your beliefs, whatever your 'higher power,' if you're reading this, maybe you could do what you do during times like these for Lance: Say a prayer. Burn some incense. Eat a hot dog.

And maybe our collective actions will make a difference.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Friends  Health 

Several people have asked me what's the latest on my Mercedes issue. The long and short of it is: there have been some positive developments over the last several weeks, but in the end, I'm still not really certain whether or not I am 'on record' at the DC DMV as having such an automobile.

I made several attempts to contact the nice supervisor lady at the DMV, Ms. Moore. When I was at the DMV, she had told me that she needed to wait on a fax from the place where the microfilm is stored so they could look at the original title. She had taken my number and had said she would call me when the fax came in. That was on a Wednesday, June 22nd. I didn't hear from her that day or the next, but luckily I had been smart enough to get her direct extension. Ha! Always, quick on the toes, eh? I was damn proud of myself for that one. But alas, I was foiled - outsmarted. The extension number turned out to be completely worthless. Every time I called, it either rang non-stop with nobody picking it up, or it went straight to voicemail, but then told me that the voicemail box was full.

So, on the following Tuesday I called the main DMV line and spoke to somebody who said her name was 'Ms. Jackson.' I thought about asking her if that's what I should call her if I was 'nasty,' but thought better of it. Instead, I told her my predicament from the beginning - how I had spoken to Ms. Moore and how she was going to order a facsimile of my original title. Ms. Jackson put me on hold and went to go speak with Ms. Moore. Ms. Jackson came back and said Ms. Moore had no recollection of me or my situation, but she (Ms. Jackson) would help me. Oh thank you, I thought. Here was my angel come to save me from my plight. She told me the facsimile had not been ordered, but she could do that for me and call me back when it came in. I had been fooled by that one once before and it still smarted, but after weighing my options, I calmly considered that I had no other choice. Besides, Ms. Jackson seemed nice. Surely she wouldn't do that to me. I asked her how long she thought it might take and she said about 30 minutes. I looked at my watch. It was 3:30 pm. "Sure, that would be swell!" I said enthusiastically. "Thank you for your help." I hung up and wished I had somebody to place a bet with on whether or not I would actually get a call in 30 minutes, if at all. Vegas would have put this at about 50-to-1 odds, I think.

Two days later, I surmised that I had been correct in my estimation. I had not heard back from 'Ms. Jackson,' and I wasn't going to call again, so on the advice of a couple of people I know, I decided to call my city councilmember's office. I dialed the number from Jack Evan's Web site, and was pleasantly surprised by the human voice on the other end of the line that answered. The greeting was a simple and delightfully informal 'Hello?' No machine. No officious sounding tone. It was like I was calling up my best friend and he was just saying 'Yo, what's up?' I asked to speak to the person in charge of issues involving the DMV. The person on the other end of the line said he was that person. He sounded busy, but not brush-offish. Just matter-of-fact and perhaps - could it be - willing to help! Wow! This was too good to be true. I explained to him my story. He was silent during it and I had to pause a couple of times to make sure he was still there. I could hear him typing, so I assumed he was. He asked me a few follow-up questions, took my information and asked for my contact information including (gasp) email. Would I actually get to correspond with people like modern folk do? This was getting scary. I stifled a giddy cry of joy, not sure how he would take it. He said he would contact somebody at the DMV and ask them to follow-up on this. I thanked him for his time and hung up the phone feeling something odd, something I hadn't felt thus far: optimism.

Five minutes later I was copied on an email from the Director of Communications at Jack Evan's office to a woman somewhere in the DC government. (Since she and the guy from Jack Evan's office were nice and helpful, I want to try to keep their names out of the Google index for this post.) Awesome! It was official - in writing. The woman responded within a day saying she would follow up with Ms. Moore and Ms. Jackson at the DMV and get back to me. She wrote back a couple of days later and said that the only Ms. Moore in the department was not familiar with my case, and there was no Ms. Jackson. I was only partially surprised by this knowledge. She apologized for the apparent lack of communication on their part and asked if I could re-tell my story for her. So I did, but this time it was in writing, which was nice. She responded to my email and said she would investigate the matter and get back to me.

About 15 days later, I hadn't heard anything, but I did receive a form letter from 'Adjudication Services' saying: "A hearing examiner considered your written explanation and evidence and applicable District of Columbia traffic law and dismissed the ticket described below." Aside from this being an entirely confusing and awkwardly written sentence, this was great news! My ticket had been dismissed! But how? And by whom? Seeing as I never wrote them a 'written explanation,' I assumed this had been instigated by the person I'd been emailing at the DC government, but I hadn't heard from her. So I sent her an email telling her about the letter I received and inquiring whether there was any update on the status of 'my' Mercedes. She said she'd been out of the office and that she was still waiting to hear from the 'examination officer.' I sent a quick email back, thanking her for her continued help.

And that's where it stands, I suppose I could contact the DMV and have them run a report and see if I still am on record as owning this 2002 Mercedes, but since there is nothing I'd be able to do with the knowledge one way or the other, I'm just going to sit tight and trust that it's all getting worked out. The main lesson I've learned here is: you do have some power in DC - it's called your councilmember's office. I guess I've also learned a secondary lesson: that patience is, indeed, a virtue when resolving these kinds of things.

Stay tuned for Part Trois, wherein I will enter a dream state, leaving this Mercedes-barren reality I've been living all my life, and will finally be reunited with my long lost 2002 Mercedes (and my inner Mercedes-owner sensibility), choking back tears of joy and falling to my knees to kiss its golden trim before the dream dissolves and I find myself being licked by some strange, bedraggled mutt roaming the streets.

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