Why, oh why, Colts, are you so so good? Couldn't you let your equine cousins pull one out? Looks like the match of the #1 offense and the #1 defense, came out in favor of the former. It comes down to one name: Payton Manning.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Football 

Brisk fall evening. Sun has set, but there's some lingering light. Night is pressing down hard on the deep blue sky. I'm wearing my corduroy jacket. Fashionable, fall-colored scarf. Hat. It is good to be walking in cold weather, wearing cold-weather clothes, thinking cold-weather thoughts. The wind against my face. Days like this make me feel free. Strong. Like anything is possible.

The small park above Clarenden metro is mostly empty, which seems strange for 6:30 on a weekday evening. I've just written a good couple of pages at Murky and I feel clean. Void of foul spirits. Writing can be like an exorcism, or at least a very effective spring cleaning.

I pass a guy in a wheelchair waiting for the light to change. He nods at me. I smile back. It's clear that others feel the energy - the strange power of this day.

Now down the escalator, into the underground, and the warm gusts below make me loosen my scarf. The metro should not be heated, I decide. Not to this extent, anyway. But it's okay. I'm good with it.

I've got my earbuds in. Winter hat hiding my gray hair. Only the longer brown ends peek out from underneath. Certainly, I appear as the poster-boy for the young urban hipster, which is a nice illusion for a thirty-something dude with a bad back to maintain. Yes. I have command of my surroundings. I know where I am going and I will take the most direct route to get there.

Oscar on the headphones. His fingers touching those ivories like God's does. Painting bold colors in my mind. Propelling me. Gladdening me.

I wave my plastic pass, flick of the wrist, the gates open. As if to say, Enter and go where you must, young urban denizen! This station is now yours!

Over Oscar's playing, I hear the rush of an approaching train. Then another. Two trains entering the station at the same time. Metro has sent them both to me for my choosing. The city is working with me today. I pick up my pace. I shall follow my nose to the right train. No need to read signs. Because this is my turf and I am certain of my direction. It is instinctual.

The doors, waiting for me to board, close gently behind me. They welcome me to this crowded car. A little too crowded, I think. Especially for an evening city-bound train. But I quickly dismiss the thought. Grab the rail above me. A little winded, but still good.

Be careful of moments like these.

I remove my earbuds. Take out a book from my pack. The next station is called: Virginia Square. And what follows is the faint sound of my ego popping. Leave it to a city that gives you everything to just as quickly taketh away and put you back in your place.

Here's the good thing about boarding the wrong metro train: nobody needs to know. Just roll with it. Get off at the next stop. Assertively - like nothing's wrong. You fully intended to get off here: Ah, yes! Virginia Square/GMU. Here's my stop everybody. Excuse me! Now walk with the flow of traffic. Casually, nonchalantly. Make your way over to the other platform. Easy.

The stations may vary, but the technique is essentially the same. Trust me, I've done this more times then I'd like to admit. It's one of the downsides of being a daydreamer.


link to this | comments (5) | File:  DC  Ho_Hum  Writing 

I see your IE 7 and raise it one Firefox2.

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

After several betas, IE 7 is now official and will be pushed in a big way next month. I'm still a Firefox guy, but I have to admit IE 7 isn't half bad. Refreshingly clutter free. Go get yourself a copy and check your Web sites if you got 'em!

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

In 2000, a friend of mine made me a mixed tape. It was filled with great music, but the sad part is that I can't tell you what most of it was. Not because it would be wrong, or because I'd 'have to kill you' or anything like that, but because I honestly don't know. However, I can tell you now that two of my favorite songs on the tape were by Soul Coughing: Screenwriter's Blues and Circles. I know this now - the names and artist of these songs - in part because the keyboardist and sampler of Soul Coughing, Mark De Gli Antoni, wound up playing my keyboard in Mat and Emily's wedding last year. But I didn't know this information at the time he was actually playing my keyboard, nor did I know it during the six years I would periodically pick up and listen to this mixed tape. No, I only made this fortunate discovery about a week ago, and it proves my theory that, if it wants to, serendipity will find you - in spite of yourself.

But . . . I don't understand. How is it that you listened to something for six years and never knew the name of the songs nor the name of the band that played them? This is a very good question. And I completely understand your confusion. The short answer is this - and I'm letting you in on a secret here: I can sometimes be a bit of a flake. (If by 'sometimes' you mean 'frequently' and by 'bit of a' you mean 'huge.') The long answer is a little more complicated . . .

People who listen to a lot of music can generally be placed into two types: those who are organized with their collections, and those who aren't. Unfortunately, I fall into the latter. My collection of music is spread out over my apartment in several different locations. There is no formal classification system, by artist, title, genre or otherwise. None of that shit, brother. I don't believe in it. I am decidedly anti-organizational when it comes to music. To me, music is far too emotional to place into some sort of rational taxonomy. There is only a general sense that CDs of such-and-such a type will almost certainly be (more or less) precisely right here, unless, of course, they are exactly over there, or - if it's a leap year - they might be underneath this thing here or - wait, wait, scratch all of that, I know where they are - in the car. And CDs of this other type - well, they're probably on top of this thing over here, but if not, they're most certainly way up there somewhere, unless they're in the batch that I put over here last month. To say there's absolutely no order is not quite right, because I do have a very good sense of where they might be. It's just that I have absolutely no sense of where they certainly are. To make matters worse, a lot of the CDs I purchased from college until about three years ago no longer have their jewel cases. I threw them away during a frenzy of life-compacting I went through about five years back, where I decided I would keep all my CDs in leather-bound folios. I have since decided I'm not a fan of this approach, which kind of sucks because all those jewel cases are now gone, along with their back insert. (I did keep the front inserts, though. I'm not a complete monster.)

The lesson for you audiophiles - people like Mat or my college roommate Frank, people who really do alphabetize their music collection - is this: do not lend me your music, at least not in CD form, unless you are honestly trying to get rid of it.

But digital music files have changed everything. I now know exactly where most of my music is at all times: On my hard drive. Or my iPod. Simple. Things lacking physical form are much easier to keep track of. And the beautiful part is that music is even stored alphabetically for me, with no additional effort on my part. Now, when I purchase something, I rip it in iTunes, sync my iPod, and carefully and deliberately put the CD in a precise location in my apartment that makes perfect sense at that particular moment in time. Then I never think about it again. I might look at the insert once, but sometimes I don't even do that. (I know this is probably a sin on par with adultery to many of you, and all I can say is I'm sorry. I've got nothing in my defense except a general laziness and ambivalence when it comes to thumbing through those little brochure-like inserts.) What matters is the music. But here's the problem: because I don't often look at the CD insert, and because I always play my iPod and iTunes while engaged in other activities, and in 'shuffle' mode, I rarely know what song I'm listening to. Oh, I have a general sense of the artist's name, and maybe what album it is, but the song title, or what order it is in on the CD is completely lost on me. So in conversation I can't even refer to a song like I used to, as 'track 3' or 'the last track,' because I never listen to an album in the same order twice. Or if I do, it's not necessarily the same order that is printed on the album cover. Sure, I could simply pay attention to the track name when it comes up, but come on man, what do you want from me?

So wait a minute, what does this have to do with the mixed tape and the Soul Coughing keyboardist? Again, good question.

See, when my friend made me this mixed tape, I promptly lost the case, as well as the insert upon which she had probably written the name and artists for all the songs ( I say probably because I'm not even entirely certain she did this.) Then, a short time later, I promptly lost the friend herself. Not 'lost' like 'where did she go?' but more in a metaphysical sense, I guess. This left me with a brilliant mixed tape, which I played frequently in my office when I wanted to hear something 'different,' but on which most of the songs remained anonymous to me. Because of my personality and music-listening tendencies (as outlined above) this was only a minor nuisance to me, instead of the incredible annoyance it might have been to others. What was more of a nuisance to me was that the song which I now know to be 'Circles,' a song I really, really liked, was cut off mid-way because the tape ran out. Apparently, it had just been a 'filler' piece. Why, oh why, did she make this particular song a filler piece? What cruel joke was this? The song was so fun and groovy, and when it would cut off abruptly like that, it always left me a little on edge. But it tended to throw enough anguish and mystery into my otherwise routine day job, that I guess I kinda liked it. I would anticipate the cut-off, would feel it coming, and then it would happen: Silence followed by the horrible 'click' of the tape deck stopping. And I would feel a momentary sense of anxiety and panic, a sense that all is unfair and unjust in the world. But then the feeling would subside and somebody would send me an email concerning some mind-numbing task, and everything was back to normal. It was a momentary segue into the dramatic before dull reality would sink back in.

This pattern continued, off and on, for years. No idea that the song was called 'Circles' (though I could probably have ascertained this from the chorus) and no idea that the band was called Soul Coughing. I was blissfully ignorant. It's almost embarrassing to admit it now.

So when Mat asked me if he could borrow my keyboard for his wedding so that his friend, who happened to be the keyboardist from Soul Coughing, could play it, I was like, 'Sure!' I had a vague sense of who Soul Coughing was. I knew I'd probably heard their music before. But I couldn't really name a song. And again, as you can probably tell by now, this didn't really bother me all that much. I met Mark at the wedding, he played my keyboard, it was all good, as has been described, and that was that.

Fast forward to last week. I was checking out Mat's playlist on last.fm and noticed the song 'Circles' by Soul Coughing. I remembered this was his friend Mark's band and that he was the guy who had played my keyboard at Mat's wedding. Also, the name 'Cirlces' sounded familiar. I thought, let me check this out . . .

And here we are today. Let me just say that it's been an incredible journey and that enlightenment is an amazing thing. It's simultaneously freeing and numbing, like a Novocain high. If I knew during Mat's wedding what I know now, I would have been far more excited about Mark playing my keyboard. But it's okay. It's just peachy, in fact. Knowledge tends to happen at it's own pace, and I'm okay with that. In the end, it's good to know that, eventually, things will come full circle.

link to this | comments (10) | File:  Music  Friends  Serendipity 

I was just about to switch over to The Daily Show, and this happened. It's morbidly fascinating to watch a team self-destruct like that.

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

This weekend was chock-full of goodness. It was nice to get out and do things because it jarred my mind out of the back-obsessed rut it's been in. I feel renewed. And I dare say even a bit positive. Something about the changing seasons, I think. Fall is here in a big way, brothers and sisters, and I'm feeling the dead leaves of my soul dropping away. The great molt. Strip down to nothing and prepare to rebuild. Amen.

So I'll start with Friday night. I stopped by The Big Hunt for the DC Blogger Happy Hour. This was my second such event. It's an intriguing social experiment - gathering together a group of people who have online personas for some real-life conversation. My demographic is a bit under-represented in this group. For one thing, I'm married, and for another, I'm male. This time, I learned that there are such thing as 'lurkers.' These are people (mainly guys) who do not blog themselves, but who avidly read and comment on various DC blogs (authored mainly by women.) This new element sort of makes these events something akin to, oh what's the word I'm looking for - you know, a place where people go to shop for meat. I forget . . . Still, good fun, and good people. The Big Hunt has Tuppers Hop Pocket on draft, which brings warm and fuzzy feelings to my brain. It's a nice counter-balance to the wings which usually cause me to break out in a sweat and wince in pain. But even that is good fun for a masochist. Strangely, I spent a good part of the evening chatting with a group of Farkers, who were having their own happy hour, and I met a cool couple - hi M and W!

Saturday, C and I tasted of Georgetown with new friends from Monréal M and AJ, and it was good. I won't name all the restaurants that were there, but I will say that we smacked our lips a great deal with all the yummy treats we devoured. Highlights included the roast beef sandwiches from Morton's Steak House, the crepes from Café Bonaparte, and of course, the crab cakes from Clyde's, which we ate on the lawn of Grace Episcopal Church while watching The Blues Alley All-stars perform. The band was a pleasant surprise. Very good - particularly the lead sax and the singer. I didn't catch their names because, well, I'm not a journalist. But I do have a clip. (Unfortunately, I just realized I didn't get the sax player actually, uh, playing his sax. He's singing backup here. Also, if you get camera motion sickness easily, you may want to pop a Dramamine before watching this.)

Finally, during the festival, C and I discovered that while you may never forget how to ride a bike, it does take some 're-acquainting.'

Saturday night we saw The Departed, which I'll just say is wicked good, and leave it at that. Go see this movie. You'll be glad you did.

Sunday was Jenny Lewis and Watson Twins at the 9:30 Club, which I went to see with Laundro. We arrived late and had to stand in the back, which was okay because both of us were tall enough to still get a pretty good view of the band. The only down side was that, well, Jenny is kind of short. So I spent a good part of the show on my tip-toes trying to catch a glimpse of her legs in the high-cut, shiny gold dress she was wearing. But admitting that implies I only like Jenny for her looks, which is not the case at all. I'm also a fan of her voice, and as for the sounds last night - the band was tight, and Jenny and the Twins' voices were remarkable. 9:30's mix sounded a bit lopsided at first, a bit heavy on the backup guitar and drums, but they managed to get it balanced out as the show went on.

After the show, we went back to my apartment where E and C were hanging out with Z, who had come in from New York for the Green Festival. We chatted about many things, including - surprisingly - tongues and licking. Then the three drove back to B-More and C and I watched the Broncos beat up on the Raiders. We had Tivo'd the game, so we got to skip most of the third quarter, which was scoreless and boring.

So there it is. And so it was. It feels good to start this week with a new soul.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Music  DC 

Interesting that Big-D is moving into the #4 spot in the US "metropolitan areas," bumping out Philadelphia. (link via sarah) In the battle over largest Texas cities, I've always rooted for Houston, since that's where I grew up. And actually, if you just compare Houston to Dallas, the former wins, hands down. But for some reason, Dallas always gets to include Fort Worth in its area census numbers. I think Houston should start counting Galveston to balance things out.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Dallas 

So . . . how about them Broncos Monday night? It was so great to watch them play at home at Invesco field in that cold rain. Football always seems to be more fun to watch when it's played in the cold . . . or the rain. And it's even better in the snow. It's kind of like beer and pizza. The two just go hand in hand. Then again, for me, life itself seems more fun when played in the cold and wet (and with plenty of beer and pizza), so maybe I'm a bad judge in this regard.

Anyway, after three quarters of a tied game against Baltimore, Plummer finally got in gear and started completing some passes and, after a second great field goal from Jason Elam, made a game-securing touchdown pass to Rod Smith to bring the game to it's 13-3 conclusion. Sorry Baltimore. I know you're one of my local teams and I should be rooting for you and all, but I will always pick the Broncos over the Ravens. It's just that simple, Hon.

As in many cities, the quarterback situation in Denver is a controversial one. Despite the fact that Plummer has just come off one of his best seasons, in which he helped lead the Broncos to the AFC Championship and went some 12 or 13 games without an interception (I don't remember the exact number, but it was impressive), he's getting off to a rough start this season and word is that Coach Shanahan is itching to put in somebody else, possibly rookie Jay Cutler. But Shanahan is too smart for that. He's got to know it's a little soon for Cutler. Still, this might be the last season we see Plummer wearing a Broncos jersey and I, for one, think that's a shame.

Fans are extra fickle when it comes to quarterbacks. In Denver, this behavior seems to be compounded because of a phenomenon known as "The Elway Factor" - people are always going to make the comparison of any quarterback to the mile-high legend John Elway. But people forget that in the early years of Elway's career, the fans of Denver would call him "El-wood" after a bad game (like the three Superbowl losses of the eighties.) Now, Plummer is not Elway; this is for sure. But I do think Plummer is a "great" quarterback. In addition to having the skill and talent, which Plummer clearly does, he has that fighting attitude of always wanting to be in the game. He doesn't over think. He acts. And it allows him to pull out victories.

So I'm going to bring this back to the surgeon post from yesterday now. And after this, I'm going to stop this riff of health-related crap, because it's depressing the hell out of me and it can't be doing much for you either. But here it is: I think great surgeons should have those same qualities as great quarterbacks. Most of all, they should always want to be in the game. My last surgeon was this way. Usually very quiet, cool, and reserved to the point of rudeness, he was animated and cracking jokes the morning I went under. He was ready for the game. Over the several years that I saw him for my first disc issue, he never tried to force me into surgery, but he always maintained that it was the best course of action and that he could fix the issue. Optimism: he had it. Of course, nobody wants surgery, so I exhausted other avenues first, but it never did get better, and when I finally did the operation out of necessity, which was about 4 years after my initial consult with him, I was glad I did.

So that's why my gut feeling now is, let's get on with it. Let's cut to the chase, so to speak. I've already been through this. I've tried the conservative route and it doesn't work.

Dr. Smith's point is that I had a good experience last time, but that's not always the case with back surgeries. There are risks. I might not get better. I might get worse, in fact. Okay, great. That may be the case, and I definitely want to know those things and be aware of them, but I don't want my surgeon to be thinking about risks all the time. I want him to be thinking positively about fixes.

Now before you think I'm just pretending to be brave in front of the Internets, let me go ahead and put that to rest: I'm a huge baby when it comes to the propsect of somebody cutting a hole in my back and then sticking a number of instruments into that hole, including one that is extremely sharp and will be used to cut something that very near a nerve that happens to deliver sensation to my entire right leg. This does not rate high on my list of enjoyable activities. At the same time, the alternative - an indefinite period of time living with burning/stabbing nerve pain, and consuming inordinate amounts of anti-inflammatories and painkillers, does not seem all that appealing (or safe) either.

My last surgery gave me six years without sciatica. It was comforting to hear Dr. Smith make the case for no surgery earlier this week, but my personal experience is telling me that, while my current nerve pain may subside it's probably never going to go away, until I'm in my 70s and all my discs will begin to disintegrate, anyway. But by then there'll be other issues to deal with.

The main point is this: I feel like the game is going to happen, whether I want it to or not, it's just a matter of when. And when it does, I want to send in a quarterback who's going to pull out that 4th-quarter victory no matter what, who's going to keep his head in the game and not play conservative. I want to put in Elway. You dig? I haven't ruled out Dr. Smith as that guy yet. He's been mentioned in Washingtonian and comes highly regarded. However, I would like to see a little more of that fighting spirit.

Then again, maybe I'll just give in and become addicted to pain killers. Aside from the weight gain, it's not a terrible way to live, is it? Okay. That is all.

link to this | comments (9) | File:  Health  Football 

"It's really bad when I sit. Pain here," I jabbed fingers just above my right buttock, "and in my foot. Underneath, not the top." I lifted my foot and pointed to the ball and then ran my finger along the center line down to the heel. "Sometimes some numbness here, too," I added.

Dr. Smith* nodded and scribbled something on the back of a piece of paper that was in my file. He held the pen like you might hold a paint brush and made a sort of circular drawing on the page. Then he looked back up at me expectantly.

I described some more symptoms, and occasionally Dr. Smith would jot down more indecipherable marks on the back of the piece of paper. What could they mean, these strange symbols? Being a writer of English prose, I know that people who speak Latin-based languages normally scribe from top to bottom, left to right. Also, and this is perhaps more important, they tend to write words, consisting of distinct letters, normally taken from the alphabet.

Dr. Smith's notes radically resisted this tradition. He would scribble some symbols here on the left of the page, some over here on the right, some in the middle. Sometimes the symbols went diagonally across a portion of the page. He jotted things down the way you might write a phone number left on your voicemail, which you then go back and stare at, hoping you will somehow be able to discern what you've written. There was no obvious order; the symbol placement seemed arbitrary. I use the term "symbol" because the things he wrote couldn't really be described as "words." I suppose "hieroglyphs" might be a better label, but even that would imply some degree of semiotic structure. These might best be described as "doodles." Dr. Smith was doodling while he listened to me present!

At least that's the way it appeared to me, a mere mortal. As you may or may not know, surgeons have special powers of written expression which to the untrained eye manifest themselves as simple doodling. Perhaps they learn to write this way because writing the normal way puts undo stress on their fingers, which are, after all, the tools of their livelihood. Whatever the reason, this is truly a higher form of composition, with many rich layers of meaning. What's so impressive about surgeon doodles is that meaning seems to be conveyed not only through the shape of the drawing and the context of the drawing within the page, but from the weight of the marks on the paper. Heavier markings have different meanings than lighter ones. It's strange, impressive stuff, the scribblings of surgeons, and some day I hope to learn this higher form of expression, though I expect doing so would mean I'd also have to learn how to slice open the human body, which doesn't seem likely, or appealing.

After hearing me out, looking at my MRI films, and doing a brief physical exam which required that I do various things with my legs, Dr. Smith confirmed I had a disc bulge and that it was indeed the cause of my recent pain. He didn't think the disc was "ruptured," which is good. This is where the inner fluid actually breaks out of the hard outer shell. That isn't fun. Moreover, he advised me against surgery, at least at this point. While on one level, this was a relief, I was also a bit chagrined. But why? you protest. That's great news! Right, right. I know. But not exactly. There are two reasons I feel this way. One is this: I've been through all this before. It was at a different vertebrae level, but the same issue. I tried everything - for many years - because I hated the idea of surgery. (I was chicken). But finally I had no choice because of muscle weakness. It was a good success, and that issue got resolved. "Fixed." And it sort of changed my mind about the whole surgery thing. Maybe I shouldn't have resisted it so long. So, part of what's still making me feel anxious is that I think I know where this thing will ultimately end, whether it's now or in five years. And it sort of seems better to get it out of the way than to have that hanging over me.

The second reason I'm troubled over Dr. Smith's assessment has to do with football, specifically the quarterback situation in Denver. But I'll get to that tomorrow . . .

(* not his actual name)

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

Oh, it's easy. Just go 109,270,634 steps that way, take a left, then 30,486 more steps and you're there.

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

Ray Charles and Count Basie: Together at Last! I'm a big fan of musical mash-ups where great musicians who never physically played together are able to do so 'beyond the grave.' Listen to 'Good Times Roll.' Sounds pretty good.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  mash_up  Music 

"Do I have to go in head first? The last one I had, I went in feet first, and I was less freaked out."

I was in a knee-length gown, staring at the small hole of the MRI tube.

The tech, a middle-aged graying man, smiled and said, "I have something for you that will help."

"Oh, well . . . normally, I wouldn't mind taking something, but I don't really feel like being out of it the rest of the day today. Things to do, you know? I . . . "

The man didn't reply. He walked over to a counter and came back with something in his hand. I began flipping through a mental rolodex of what he might be about to give me. Some kind of injection? A pill? . . . Some smoke? The man had big round glasses and a crazy gray afro which was flattened and combed back, so that it created a sort of quasi-mullet. Part Einstein, part 70's funk. It wasn't hard for me to visualize him producing a partially-smoked spliff right there, lighting it up, and while holding in a deep breath saying in a strained voice, "It makes the time go faster, man."

Instead he showed me two ear plugs and a strange-looking pair of glasses. The glasses were strange because they had mirrors directly in front of the lenses. The idea, he explained, was to angle the mirrors in such a way so that instead of looking directly up at the wall of the MRI tube, you could view this peaceful landscape of a lake and some trees, and these pink flowers that looked like cherry blossoms. Sort of like blinders that horses wear, only with mirrors. (And no smoke.) Of course the irony was that I had to take my prescription glasses off. They had metal screws in them, and metal isn't something that's good to take into an MRI tube, what with the huge magnets and all. So, without my prescription glasses, the landscape was simply a large splotch of blue, green, and pink. Still, it proved nicer to look at then the inside of the tube.

I inserted the foamy, florescent green earplugs into each canal. Then I donned the mirrored eyewear, and 'Albert' (I'll call him Albert because of the hair) slid the table into the machine. He had given me a rubber squeeze ball, which was attached to a long rubber tube. As the table slid inside he told me I could squeeze the ball if I began to panic.

"Okay," I said. I felt the ball in my sweaty hand. Ridiculous. MRI's are probably the least harmful test you can get. No radiation. No injections (most of the time; however, it turns out I needed an injection of some 'contrast' to make the results easier to read and to help differentiate the scar tissue of my prior back surgery, from a a disc bulge - scar tissue does not circulate blood, but discs do.) Anyway, aside from the injection, which really didn't bother me, MRI's are easy as cake. And yet, they tend to freak people out. It's the enclosed space that does it. Claustrophobia. You never fully understand this condition until you find yourself waist deep in it. And it's quick to suck you the rest of the way in if you're not careful - like quicksand. I've had a total of four MRI's now - one when I was 15, another in my early twenties, and the last two in the last year. The first one was no problem. I didn't know what to expect, but I didn't expect to be scared. So I wasn't. But something happened between the age of 15 and 23. The main thing was this: I got bigger. And being in a small tube was less appealing to my larger self, and evidently less tolerable. I didn't lose it altogether during that second MRI, but I came pretty close. If they had taken my heart rate it might have read just below "pissing in my pants." The third one - back in March of this year - was the one where I went feet first, and I barely went inside the tube at all. That was by far the best. Which brings us to number four.

Albert paused the sliding platform. "You ok?" He asked. It was nice of him to be concerned. The peaceful blotches of color at the far end of the tube were coming into stronger focus. "Fine!" I said. I wasn't exactly fine. I was holding back the urge to freak out. But the glasses were definitely helping. My heart rate was going up, I could tell, but I still felt in control. I concentrated on the blotchy photo and tried to think pleasant thoughts. I thought about jet-skiing, which I haven't done since I was 13 or 14, but I liked thinking of going fast in a wide-open space. I breathed in. Out. My body relaxed.

Then the actual scans began. This is where the earplugs proved useful. It was the first time I had been given earplugs and I thought it was a thoughtful touch. MRI machines make a huge racket, like a jack-hammer. Sometimes the noise is fast and chaotic. Sometimes it's more rhythmic, where you can actually distinguish certain beats, certain strange syncopations. But either way, they are always loud. The beats go on for the entire length of a scan, and each scan lasts about 5 or 6 minutes and during that time, there is a deafening pounding noise all around you. This might be the other reason people tend to panic. Not only are you in a small enclosed space, but by all indications, your natural instincts are telling you that the Armageddon has indeed arrived.

I found that I liked the more rhythmic scans over the chaotic ones. They were soothing because I could just close my eyes and concentrate on the beat. And I made an interesting discovery: I naturally think in triplets. Yes, the triplet is definitely my favorite rhythmic sequence. During one particularly entertaining scan, the machine knocked out a series of 3 triplets (at least that's how they sounded to me) in one tone and 3 triplets in a slightly deeper tone. So it went di-di-di-di-di-di-di-di-di-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da over and over and over again. Sounds like torture, right? But strangely, as focused on counting out the repetitions, I became more relaxed, if by 'relaxed' you mean, 'not entirely jittery.'

Towards the end of the test, the mirrors on my modified glasses were beginning to fall perpendicular to the lenses, which means that I was beginning to see more and more of my own eyeballs reflected in them. I had to look to the very top of the mirrors to see the tranquil landscape, and even then I could only see the bottom half. Luckily, they never fell completely, and breathed a relieved sigh when I heard Albert enter the room.

He slid the table out. My limbs, which I had tried to keep as still as possible were asleep. I rolled off the table and felt the familiar pain in my right leg and foot. Stabbing. Annoying. The magnets hadn't mysteriously cured me. Oh well.

"The glasses worked great!" I told him.

He nodded. "They usually do."

On the walk home, I didn't need my iPod. I was still groovin' to the beat of the tube. di-di-di-di-di-di-di-di-di-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da

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Not a huge Stephen King fan, but I used to be when I was younger. This piece on writing is funny, and right on: There is indeed a half-wild beast that lives in the thickets of each writer's imagination. It gorges on a half-cooked stew of suppositions, superstitions and half-finished stories.

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Aside from the downpour last Thursday evening, we've had some excruciatingly beautiful days here in the DC Metro area. A little cool in the mornings, and shorts-and-t-shirt temperatures in the afternoons. Unmistakably pleasant.

And all I have to say is: enough already. I can't work in this stuff. Sure, days like this are nice to walk around in, but they also lull my brain into a dazed stupor, making any sort of creative thought virtually impossible. All that seems to come out of my mouth are stupid-sounding phrases that just beg to end in an exclamation mark: "Look, a pretty bird!" or "Wow, check out that amazing sunset!" or "It is just so pretty outside!" This is no way to carry one's self. Like Shirley Manson, I'm only happy when it rains, and I don't think I can last much longer under this barrage of niceness.

So far, I've managed to maintain my sanity by piping howling wind and rain sounds throughout my apartment, sporting knee-high red galoshes (because I wouldn't be caught dead wearing yellow) and a raincoat, and occasionally immersing myself in the tub. I mean, that is sane, right? But this can only work for so long. I'm ready for the leaves to turn, man. I'm ready for the sweaters to come out, so I can throw them all in a big pile on my radiator and each time I head out cycle through the entire lot of them to find the perfect one to match the degree of coolness, or the moisture in the air. Oh, how I miss you, sweaters. October, I'm leaving it up to you: Rescue me!

PS: I was just kidding about the galoshes. I didn't want you to think I was crazy. They really are yellow.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Ho_Hum