Archive for August, 2011|Monthly archive page

Doctors Strangely, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Needle

In Uncategorized on August 27, 2011 at 12:35 am

It’s late August and Deirdre and I are finishing off our first week without benefit of child.  We delivered Harry to Chapel Hill last Friday, and have been adjusting to his absence.  So far we have managed to tame our pent-up wildness and keep our inhibitions in check, though we have indulged ourselves in a bit of fecklessness by dining after 6:00, watching what we want on TV and sometimes playing tuneful, rather than merely percussive music.  It will only be a few weeks before we go so full goose bozo that we have to be herded along with other zanies into the  Zoo for Unattached Parents.  It is a special mission run by the Sounds of Silence Foundation out of Neverland, New Jersey.

Hurricane Irene is bearing down on Hatteras and the east cost.  I mention this only because it gives me a chance to demonstrate my bona fides as a querulous, crotchety old guy.  Frankly, I ain’t never been right since the National Weather Service and associated neo-Nazi government groups decided to start giving men’s names to alternate hurricanes.  Somehow Hurricane Ivan or Hurricane Hugo just never  eemed seemly to me.  It ain’t manly.  This pernicious, emasculating practice lacks the scent of Old Spice and witch hazel and the reek of a sweaty jockstrap.  At the very least, shouldn’t a virile, Conan-variety cyclone be called a “Himicane?”

Unless I dreamed or imagined it (which is a real possibility), the past few weeks seeped the news that the Grannies at Abercrombie have offered to pay the cast of “Jersey Shore” to quit wearing their clothes on TV.  I long ago suspected that professionals could take a cue from athletes and TV game show hosts and earn a few bucks with advertising in the workplace.  For Barry Scheck to argue before the Supreme Court with a “Wardrobe Provided by Brooks Brothers” on his shoulders would be a profitable deal for all concerned.  I was never presumptuous enough to think I might earn a buck from any high end clothier, but though I might be able to glom pesos from Old Navy or J. C. Penny.

This Abercrombie business has got my juices flowing, however.  Honestly,  could it really be considered blackmail were I to threaten Armani that unless I started receiving a monthly stipend, I would start wearing their clothes?  And why stop at clothes, when there are providers of other goods and services out there that have some concern about their product image?  And if I could enlist the help of friends, well I venture a guess that withing a few months we would have to build our own bank to hold all the money we would be making.

Think about it:  how much money might McNeil-PPC, Inc. be willing to pay Fatz to avoid having “Courtesy of Rogaine” tattooed on the back of his head.  And think of the fortune Fatz could earn from the makers of men’s facial care products.  Miracle Ear should be willing to pay the Nancemeister major gelt to keep its products out of its ears.  Roggo and happens to be a clothes horse. Flip the basic idea, though, and guess how much Wrangler would pay Roggo to not appear in public in bib overalls.   Corona Phil. The model for “the most interesting man in the world” in the Dos Equis ads, could actually do quite well with a comp form Corona, father like how casinos comp High-rollers.  The Colonel could, I am sure, earn a tidy living from Kanye West, Jay-Z and L’il Dweeb in exchange for  his neglecting to cruise Main Street with the windows of his bland Chevy open, offending the ears of all within a hundred yard radius with that audio excrement known as Hip-hop or Gangsta’ Rap.  The kindly bedmakers at Tempur-Pedic should be willing to shell out seriously filthy lucre to avoid a “60 Minutes” into their advertising claims raised by viral videos of Der Lebo and Frankie A trying to get a good night’s rest on their mattresses.  (Recently, at the beach, channel changer, I clicked off a news report a talking head introduced by saying, “Millions of Americans loose sleep because of
insomnia…!”  As for TB, at first glance he presents a problem.  On the one hand, he is a nice guy – too nice to have any traits or quirks that could be useful in this “protection racket” I have described.  On the other hand, he is a heck of a salesman. If a major problem with this scheme is that we lack the energy or inclination toexploit it fully, then the solution is that we hire TB as our pitchman on commission.  Then, all we need do is sit back, kick up our heels with a cool brewski at hand and watch the profits start rolling in.

Oh, by the way,, it dawns on me that I have neglected to mention myself.  You can probably see this one coming from a mile away.  Golfing apparel and equipment!  I ought to be able to earn Tiger-like royalties from un-endorsements of Nike, Calloway, The Shark Collection….you name it.  Hell, I bet even the makers of Big Fat Cat Bertha Knock-off Drivers would pay to insure that their productwould never be seen in my hands.

On a different note, my pre-op yesterday was yesterday, so I am scheduled for another shot at ablation on September 1.  Pray for Rosemary’s
baby if you are of a mind. 


The title for this blog entry may need explaining.  Shortly after writing it, but before posting it, I received a call from the doctor’s office.  It seems they are just now, maybe today, maybe not until next week, getting around to submitting a pre-approval request for my ablation to BCBS.  Consequently, my needling is being postponed.  It will occur later.  Maybe this month.  They’ll call soon and let me know. 

You might think that I would be upset, but I am not.  Go with the flow has always been my motto.  Go with the flow, Daddio!  I would ask  everyone to stay alert.  Let me know if you hear about a bright star shining in the east.  Or maybe the Cubs will climb into contention.  Or maybe Michelle Bachman will say something that makes sense.  Now that would be a sign that I am really, truly, finally going to get ablated sometime soon.


Scribbler on the Roof

In Uncategorized on August 16, 2011 at 8:51 pm

Good evening, distinguished lovers of literature and art. We have returned from Sunset to a maelstrom of activity. As you know, the lad heads off to Chapel Hill on Friday, and is ready to dive into Carolina life with a vengeance. I just hope the sky blue pool is deep enough for him.

Sunset Beach was fine, with really good weather, except for it was hot. I mean Mt. Etna lava flow, arc-welding, lightening bolt hot. I have driven through Death Valley with the car windows open and the temp at 100 degrees at night. I have walked 50 feet outside the Dallas/Fort Worth airport with a suitcase holding two cases of Coors and pitted out from my arm-pits to my belt through a suit. What I mean to say is I know hot! So when I say it was hot at Sunset Beach early last week, I mean it was at least a trifle warmish.

Sand, sea, sun, family, sand castles, good tunes, Newcastle and Bass Ales, fine music, a frogmore stew and all sorts of bustling teens and early twenties make for a restorative few days. If we could have just stayed long enough for things to really start cooling off….

On the way home, Deirds and I tuned in  for a while to Surf radio at 94.1 on the FM and, much to my astonishment, they played some really great oldies. Normally, they alternate ghastly new crap with obscure oldies so antique that Victoria and Albert might have shagged to them (there’s a pun in there for Anglophiles), and only occasionally slip in a good song. On tuning inthe other day, however, we listened to “Lonely Drifter” by the O’Jays and “Don’t Let the Music Slip Away” by Archie Bell and the Drells. In a weird way, it was like being sung out of heaven to the “Hallelujah Chorus.”

At home these days, PBS, whose programming (such as “Live From Wolftrap”) used to be a great source of good music at reasonable hours. For years, though, “Austin City Limits” has come on after midnight. And it is followed by some strange offerings in the wee hours. With a program guide and a DVR, you can actually have some fun. I mention this because last weekend, a hero of mine appeared on “Live From Hippie Jack’s.” (You get an idea of what sort venue Jack’s might be when on camera – on PBS for gosh sakes!! – the host warns patrons to use a designated driver because the “mule” has set up a trap down the hill). Courtesy of the DVR, I got to hang a few minutes with Webb Wilder, a semi-unknown country singer whom I took Deirds to see long ago at Ziggy’s in Winston. He’s the source of my t-shirt that displays the Webb Wilder Credo: “Work Hard, Rock Hard, Eat Hard, Sleep Hard, Grow Big, Wear Glasses If You Need ‘Em!” Webb only sang three songs on the show, but one was his near-hit about the King, which to my mind closes the book on whether any more songs ever need to be written about Elvis: “If you don’t think he’s No. 1, you’re full of No. 2.”

Yours awaiting the needle in a few weeks,



In Uncategorized on August 6, 2011 at 7:45 pm

Bon giorno, mateys and muchachos!

Had an MRI last Wednesday and it shows zilch, nada, a kafkaesque being of nothingness. In other words, nothing bad is happening above my lovely collar bones. My brain is fine. I am showing no signs whatsoever of going off by Route 66 and taking a left on the other side of Mozambique and blisters are things that appear on the feet when you are baking at 375 degrees and….what was I talking about?

The docs are needling me again. Seriously, they are needling! I have another stab (bad pun) at ablation set September 1, God willing and the creeks don’t fly.

Meanwhile, we are off with Keith and Ken to Sunset Beach next week for a pre-everybody going away to college this year (Philpott and Kings) bash of what should be semi-epic proportions. If there’s anything to write about, I reckon I’ll write about it when I return.