Worse Than a Bad Relative

This was taken a couple weeks after I first started chemo and before I started to melt like the witch in the Wizard of Oz. My kitty companion nurse couldn’t answer the phone or the door but she sure could lay down some stinky farts. This recliner I'm sitting in has been both my hangout spot and my bed since the beginning.

     After my first post about dealing with the scary C word for most of this year I wasn’t sure if I wanted to pen another one. After giving it some thought I decided to go ahead and do it. Back at the beginning before my hands started to be uncooperative and I felt like a double order of dog shit and biscuits 24/7 I started a journal over this bout with lung cancer.  


This experience has monopolized my thoughts and my days since February and as much as I had no desire to stay stuck in what many perceive as a negative it sure has been a learning experience. Those opportunities I've heard and often them called myself by the acronym  A.F.G.O, aka, Another F***ing Growth Opportunity. It sure has been. I figured tossing some pictures in the mix wouldn’t hurt either. I also have a request I’ll save to the end. For better or worse here we go.

Never too far from me

    

     When I looked back a few months before my diagnosis I can see how things evolved. I felt something may have been wrong for a while since I felt so lousy and run down on a regular basis for months before I landed in the ER. I considered getting an MRI for the pain in my shoulder a couple times since that had been a constant issue. Even with insurance the outright ridiculous cost made it easier to put off. I figured I'd pinched a nerve in my arm or something because the pain, the tingling or both would disappear from time to time.  


     The MRI on 2/5/16 found a mass about the size of a billiard ball. It was in my upper left lung and pressing on my throat and spine. A PET scan a couple weeks showed how lucky I am since it was all localized and hadn't spread to my lymph nodes. Even after I told the Doctor what had been going on he said there was no way of knowing how long it had been growing. I’ve never asked the doc for a prognosis though I know from my research that the numbers for Stage lllA adenocarcinoma suck. I decided early on, “Nope, we aren’t having this shit in my house”; it would be worse than the relative who drinks all your booze then leaves a mess in your bathroom. You know sooner or later they would eventually have to leave. I planned on making this turn out the same way.

     You sure need to keep your sense of humor because cancer will definitely try to steal your dignity. The daily task is not only keeping your chin up but also trying to find some humor in whatever form it takes. We've for sure had more than an abundant share of our own laugh out loud moments. Humor is definitely a port in a storm during an experience like this. You have to keep your mind turned to the good around you though not be afraid to yell Foul! when you need to.

Yes Virginia there was a chin under under all that fur. My Mrs. had never seen my chin, it took her a bit of getting used to. I had to shave my face for the last 18 radiation treatments. The reason for that shows up below. This was taken after round 3 of chemo about halfway through radiation.

            First the hair had to go, it wore me out moving it out of the way to eat and what not.Tying it back became too uncomfortable.

Then I had to get rid of the French Connection from my chin to my ears. Shaving with a blade became too difficult when I couldn't bend back to see my neck.  Getting used to an electric razor has been interesting endeavor.

Mom and Dad came from upstate NY to visit for a weekend a few weeks after radiation ended. It was such a seriously big boost to both our spirits that words just really can't  express.  Thanks and Love to you both.

These are, as I called them, my Radiation Kids . They had to talk me down off the ceiling that last week. I was so done with getting filled with poison and being zapped by lasers at that point. I had already graduated to my Doctor Who suspenders weeks before this was taken since my belt didn't have enough holes to hold up my pants.

This is the reason for the shave. I named it my Count of Monte Cristo mask.  My Mrs. wasn't a big fan since she knew how tough the last rounds of radiation was on me. The black buttons snapped onto the table and held this sucker right against my face so I couldn't move my head while I was broiled with lasers. It's stuck in a closet waiting for an indecent burial. The candy was a surprise for sure from my Radiation Kids  and I was surprised when they told me it wasn't something they often did. I figured I must have received the World's Worst Patient Award; my lovely wife Dani will attest to that moniker.

About 2 months after radiation and chemo ended and I finally started to put back on some of the weight I lost.

This is what a gallon of Magic Mouthwash(real name for it) looks like. This stuff is pretty much a life saver if you can't swallow without a lot of pain. Take it from me, don't think more is better, it is not. I made that mistake only once and was numb all the way to my stomach. What a thoroughly strange feeling.

     

     There are a couple of things left I feel the need to mention and one comes in the form of a request. If you have a persistent feeling something doesn't seem quite right about you go to the damn doctor that's what they're for. You are your best advocate. If you have questions, ask. Write your questions down prior to any doctor visits or tests. It makes those questions easier to keep track of since it is quite easy to get distracted by all the machinations you're put through during the process. The doctors and nurses will get tired of questions. Tough, there are much worse things then being the World's Worst Patient if it keeps you alive. If something doesn't seem right or changes in midstream verify what is going on. Everyone may be nice and appear helpful though incompetence too can have a smiling face.The Magic Mouthwash above was suggested by another former cancer patient and we had to ask for it since it wasn't suggested as an option. When you're being told you need to eat but everything tastes like black pepper or dirt nothing is very appetizing. If it also hurts like hell to swallow, food becomes another thing to fight through so make yourself more comfortable. This stuff is liquid gold and comes in different mixtures for different conditions.

     One of the things I've had to force myself to get accustomed to is I can't just bounce around the stores at this juncture. Out of necessity I've become one of those cart people that get in your way at the grocery store. Even now I'm pretty sure I can drive a car better than I can one of those. I now have somewhat of a deeper appreciation for what it's like to get around on wheels at least part time. Tooling around a store on one of these jokers is often not a lot of fun since they are generally not maintained worth a crap. Often found rickety is the phrase I would use. Still there are moments when it can be fun; like after you knock over an entire rack of shirts at Walmart. 

As a final request please be mindful of those folks in the carts since I could be one of them. The toes you save may be your own. 

Thanks for stopping by. Comments and shares are appreciated.

From the desk of  Greg Davis, thanks.

Rasslin' With Death

     When my wife and I saw the promo for Wrestling with Death for the first time, our reactions were polar opposites. This show is essentially about a funeral director and his family who live in the small Arkansas town of Osceola. They run a funeral home during the day and put on wrestling shows on the weekend. No, that’s not a typo. I laughed so hard I gave myself a coughing fit; I knew this was going to be epic something to the nth degree. My dear wife just looked at me and shook her head. 

This program contains scenes of real corpses

and actual mortuary preparation practices.

This disclaimer appeared before the show started

The following conversation ensued:

     “We have to DVR this.”

     “What! You won’t even watch Duck Dynasty!’

      “Yeah, well that’s dumb as shit.”

      “And this isn’t? What the hell is rasslin’? That’s not even a word.”

      “”After almost 5 years with me you should be used to made up words.”

      “I am ,but that word? It just won’t come out of my mouth. No, na na na, no.  I can’t .”

      “I don’t know really where the word came from. It’s just another made up word like the goofy crap in the Urban Dictionary.”

      “ I don’t care, it’s not a word and I’m not saying it and I’m not watching that either.”

     “Okay, fair enough, but you have watch it at least once just for the dumb entertainment value of it.”

     To her credit she did sit and suffer through half of one episode with me and announced that for any further viewings I was on my own. I am of the opinion that all reality TV is really just the video version of artificial flavoring; things are not really what they seem. What this little bit of nonsense flashing across my TV screen did do was bring back some fond old memories.

     Watching the wrestling clips in the promos reminded me of the ring at the wrestling shows I went to as a kid. Seeing the turnbuckles crafted from duct tape, the small arena, and the obvious age of the ring itself blasted me back to a time when i sat in the stands at a similar venue. 
     

     My friend’s Dad worked for the local newspaper as sports editor and he was able to get free general admission passes to the wrestling shows at the little multi-purpose auditorium at Ocean Beach Park in New London. What a great experience for a couple of goofy adolescents; the crazy cast of regulars that attended every show were as entertaining as the wrestlers in the ring. 


      There were a couple of little old ladies at every match that always sat near ring side; one always had a cane that she would wave at the bad guys then bang the hell out of the ring apron with it. The two of them would stand up, yell and shake their fists at the bad guys as they got the better of the fan favorites. More than one bad guy felt the wrath of that cane. Gorilla Monsoon had really a big fan that was there every time Gorilla was on the card. I mean REALLY BIG, like close to 500 pounds kind of big.  He was always perched in the middle of the bench in one section along the top row of the roll-out wooden bleachers. His bulk caused that section to sag like an old swaybacked nag. All through Gorilla’s match you could hear this deep voice yelling, “Heyyyy Gorilla, kick him in the peen.”

     One of the regular wrestlers on the card, Joe Esposito, ran an Italian restaurant when he wasn’t wrestling.  My buddy’s Dad took us there a couple of times for pizza before the matches and we were in heaven. This place was the typical Italian restaurant; the red and white checked table cloths with the Chianti bottle candle holder centerpiece dripping with hardened wax from previous diners gave the place an atmosphere that radiated good food and comfort. The effect was enhanced by the walls that were plastered with black and white photos of pro wrestlers; there were both good guys and heels and most of them were autographed.  It was like a living wrestling history lesson; there were pictures of old timers that we never got to see in person and had only read about in magazine. Outside the ring it was obvious wrestling was a brotherhood like most sports. That idea was further cemented at the end of each show we attended as we watched both good guys and bad guys pile in the same car together and drive off to a local hotel or the next event. 

     Being at a small venue during the years before Vince McMahon made Hulk Hogan a household name gave the two of us access that today wouldn’t be possible. That small auditorium had the concession stand to the left of the main entrance; the entire area was maybe 30' x 60' with 3 sets of panic bar equipped double doors at each end. Directly across from the concessions was the hall leading to the locker rooms. All athletes there for any sports event had to exit that hallway, make their way through the concession area, then through a set of the doors leading to the main auditorium floor. On a few separate occasions we staked out the locker room area and were rewarded for our patience.  


     One night we were lucky enough to get what seemed like almost an hour talking to Captain Lou Albano; I say what seemed like an hour with a memory filled by the skewed sense of time a teenager has. My friend and I were both impressed that Lou actually took the time to talk to a couple of bug-eyed young wrestling fans like we were adults. My sense of time probably stretched out that whole conversation, none of which I can remember, though I walked away with a sense that Lou was a good guy; all the bad guy stuff he ever did in the ring was to sell tickets.If my friend and I ever had a discussion of wrestling at any point during the next few years that night would always end up being part of the mix. I can't speak for my buddy Mike but I can say I always had a warm place inside for Captain Lou. Another memorable evening was the time we were able to spend time talking with Buddy Wolff on the night he was wrestling Pedro Morales for the championship in the main event. He was one of the big name regional bad guys at the time and again we were left with knowing the line between good guys and bad guys in wrestling is pretty much only defined in the ring. 


     The only time I ever saw Vince McMahon  he brought his own particular brand of sunshine with him; as he strode through the door he announced, “All you god damn kids get the hell out of my way”, and then shouldered through people in his path as he headed for the auditorium. What a peach, though the word I usually use to describe him rhymes with stick. Funny thing is he still shows everyone that same sparkling personality today. His car then was the only cool thing about him. A Chevy concept was what I later learned were his wheels for the night It looked something like the picture directly below.

     Every time I watch the Princess Bride I’m reminded of the night Andre the Giant walked by me on the way to the ring; at 14 I was already 6’ tall and I barely reached his armpit, the man was immense.  When he climbed in the ring it looked like a mattress in a cheap motel as it sagged with his weight; those old ring ropes were tight as piano wires.

     I don’t watch wrestling anymore and haven’t in a really long time, mainly since Vince the Stick made the soap opera outside the ring the main focus of the show. Many years ago I stopped longing for the days when venues were small and the wrestlers were approachable and not like the athletic rock stars they are made out to be today. I get the idea they have to protect themselves from the public; too many Mark David Chapman’s out there waiting to come out of the woodwork the past 40 years. I am glad I grew up at a time when celebrities and athletes were more approachable and the concern for crazies in the crowd wasn't as big an issue. The present day worries of our celebrity culture as they are plagued by paparazzi and cell phone cameras at every turn has widened that separation; we have brought that situation upon ourselves. 

This post wasn’t meant as endorsement of the show; it really is just about good memories with good friends. Seeing the wrestling segments on the show, which is obviously staged in a much smaller venue then the one I was exposed to, brought back that small town aspect of how wrestling felt back then.  The cast of characters on this show would fit right in at old Ocean Beach Park Auditorium.  

 ( These links still work since this post first appeared)

     The link below is to the trailer for the shows website on WGN Network. 

  http://wgnamerica.com/shows/wrestlingwithdeath

      On Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L4DjIJjLmkw

        It is less than 2 minutes long and is worth a couple minutes even if it's just for laughs and you are not a fan of wrestling. Reality TV is here to stay. 

                

Storm Stories

     Catching Wolf Blitzer on the Communist News Network reporting about the big storm hitting the Northeast today brought back memories of other big storms I’ve experienced in the ol’ Northeast.  I tuned in to the Weather Channel when I got home just to see what was going on.  It looks like Massachusetts and Connecticut have instituted travel bans, schools have already been closed for the next two days, the shelves at the grocery stores are empty, and the storm hasn’t even hit full force yet. Yikes! I remember similar times well; some memories were fond, others not so much, and some were downright ridiculous. I was always a Weather Channel watcher during the winter when I lived in New England, especially since I had to go out and plow that stuff.  Living in this part of Arizona we don’t get snow, though we do have crazy dust storms and flash flooding and those have their own special nightmare quality.

   Seeing the travel ban in Connecticut reminds me of the blizzard of ’78, which was the first time I ever experienced a travel ban.  The big storm hit only weeks after the Hartford Civic Center roof collapsed due to accumulated snow. I had been there for a Marshall Tucker concert a few days prior to the roof coming down; talk about something that made your butthole pucker just thinking about it. For today’s storm the authorities got out ahead of the worst of the storm with the travel ban. Back in ’78 we were already ass deep to an elephant in snow by the time the Gov said, “Hey everyone, stay home!”

     Did a travel ban stop me and my running buddies from going out and buzzing around town in my silly little Pinto wagon? Nope!  Armed with a quart of brandy and other necessary supplies we spent a good part of the first night of the ban driving around helping push people out of snowbanks.  Our typical reward being a few beers for our trouble; of course we all needed more of those for the antifreeze effect. Right. The night culminated at the park about a block from my house with the last of brandy thunked into a snow bank, a toboggan and a big hill. I made the mistake of sitting in the front on what turned out to be the last run. We hit a bump, everyone’s weight shifted forward and my knee went pop! When I tried to stand up to walk back up the hill my knee was having none of that and I proceeded to collapse in a heap. My buddies loaded me on the toboggan and fortunately the snow on the streets made the task for those drunken sled dogs only slightly less aggravating than if they were clear. No doubt anyone that happened to glance out their window wondered what that collection of knuckleheads was doing out in that mess. Damn kids!  I crawled upstairs to bed when I got home and passed out. I was reminded of my previous evening’s debauchery when I collapsed on the floor after I got out of bed the next morning. A trip to the ER revealed torn cartilage and resulted in a few months of rehab. It had to be the damn snow’s fault didn’t it?

    In the mid 80’s I was living in Richmond when we were hit with 3 good sized snowstorms back to back around the first of the year. If any area was totally unprepared to handle snow of that magnitude it was Richmond.  My street was never plowed during the storms and we were essentially housebound for a few days. I tried digging for some old pictures of that storm; alas, they have been gobbled up by the sands of time during my many moves. I remember the snow being deeper than the tires on my little Subaru. It was an interesting few days for sure; snowman, snow forts and snowball fights ensued. I was out driving in the first storm and got behind a snowplow spreading sand, I think that is what he was trying to do anyway. I was puttering down the road to my house when I came up behind this plow truck weaving back and forth across the road. He was driving very slowly, from one side of the road to the other and I wondered what the hell he was doing until I got close enough. There was a sander on the back of the truck that I guess was either broken or had been set to only trickle sand out the back to save the city a few bucks. This guy was sanding the road with about a 2” wide strip that intermittently drizzled from the chute as he wove back and forth across the road. Jackson Pollack eat your heart out, this was winter street art of an epic degree; he was leaving a nice little brown ribbon that ran crisscross on the road. It was obvious that he or someone else had done the same thing previously from the opposite direction. I nearly wet myself laughing. The typical post storm occurrence in the Richmond area happened over the next 5 days, as all the snow was gone after the temps went up into the 50’s.

     My last winter in Connecticut before moving out to Arizona we almost hit century records for snowfall that winter. That winter just didn’t want to let go and in March it dumped over 2 feet of snow during a span of about 36 hours. I had planned a 4 day weekend. Silly me. The wet heavy snow just kept falling; I started to wonder when it was going to stop. It was probably one of the toughest snow cleanups I ever had. I plowed that mess in an old rot box GMC with a lousy heater and no exhaust. I didn’t sleep that night and neither did anyone else in the neighborhood while the storm howled in harmony with that old truck. By the time I was finished, my legs felt like they weighed 400 pounds each after all the hours I spent pushing the gas and the clutch. I can’t neglect to mention the untold number of times I had to get out and clean frozen snow off the windshield due to the crappy heater. I hired a handful of folks to help clear sidewalks and we must have cleared everything at least 3 or 4 times to keep ahead of the snow that just kept falling. I was running out of places to put snow by the time it was over since we still had some big piles hanging around from previous storms. I was never so glad to park that old truck. I don’t know who was more beat up after that, me or the truck. I left for Arizona 3 months later.

     Plowing snow is not easy work, though it was probably my favorite winter sport; I was never a skier or skater. I had a lot of fun doing it despite the weather conditions and the physical demands.  There were many moments of hilarity that ensued when the plow truck hit the street.

     Weather predicting has been much better since the Blizzard of ’78, though everyone still has to deal with the storm once it hits. My sincere hope is that anyone in the path of this current storm can keep the lights on; the heat turned up, and wrap their hands around a warm cup of something to help them ride out the storm.

      

Cool as the Other Side of the Pillow

     When Stuart Scoot first started appearing on Sportscenter I wondered, “Who is this guy?”  I have to admit he made me laugh and was a great addition to the Sportscenter desk. I loved Kenny Mayne and Dan Patrick as a broadcast pair; their straight men deliveries often lead to hilarity. Chris Berman had been throwing references to songs and musicians into all his highlight shows for a good while already, so over the top silliness with a dash of personality on Sportscenter was definitely not outside the norm.

      Into that crazy mix dropped Stuart Scott and the bar was raised just a tad. With his signature lines, each delivered with their own specific cadence and emphasis he made himself stand out from not only the broadcasters on ESPN, but all the other networks as well.  Those signature lines were original and sounded like them just came naturally to him. I wondered when I first saw him on screen if those lines were stolen from some long forgotten standup comic on Holiday Inn cirucuit or a wannabe rapper street performer. No matter the origin of those lines, they made us sit down to watch and take notice.

      As I continued to tune into Sportscenter I noticed a change; as the old guard at ESPN were moving on the new guys were trying to be Stuart Scott and failing.  Sportscenter turned into an contest to see who could come up with the zingiest one liner to go through the highlights.  It is said that imitation is the greatest form of flattery; no one said the imitation had to be good. I realized after a while that Stuart Scott was in a class by himself; he owned who he was and shared it with the rest of us. If the highlight show had been music, then he was the Michael Jackson of Sportscenter; he had the music in him.

      I ‘ve watched some of the tributes to him over the past couple days as the news of his passing hit the airwaves and everyone seemed to have a story to tell about Stuart’s influence on their life and career.  There were two poignant moments that stood out to me from all the others. The first was from Robin Roberts, a tough and very cool lady who had her own battle with the Big C, and how the two of them helped each other fight the good fight. The other was from Keyshawn Johnson on Game Day. It was a side of him that I’ve never seen on air before. The huskiness of his voice as he related his Stuart story barely disguised the emotion it was obvious he was feeling. If anyone was going to cry on that set I would have expected it to be Cris Carter.

      I watched his acceptance speech at the ESPY’s for the Jimmy V award; dry eyes were not in attendance for this seat.

     The sports world and the rest of the world lost one of the good guys, who will forever remain as cool as the other side of the pillow.

     

Tag, You're In and the Floppy Socks are Out

     When the New Year rolls around, as it just did, conversation often turns to the question of New Year’s resolutions. What New Year’s resolutions are you making and how long do you think you will stick to them?  The idea, in essence, makes a lot of sense; we just passed through a time of introspection and reflection on the year that was, as Christmas and whatever holiday you celebrate blew in through your front door and out the back. Then again maybe not, everyone celebrates the holidays in their own way and some folks are just happy to see the previous year in the rear view mirror as we look to a fresh start.

     New Year’s resolutions have been around since ancient times and are recorded as far back as the Babylonians and the Romans. The Romans moved the practice from March back to January, apparently as an offering to the God Janus, where we get the name for the month of January.  This god had two heads looking in opposite directions, one looking at the year ahead, the other head peering back at the year behind.  No doubt Saturday nights in the land of the gods must have been difficult; when you have two heads wanting to go in opposite directions deciding which party they were going to run off to probably ended in a tug of war. As you can see in the pic above he has his party jug at hand. I bet he walked sideways a lot.

     The beginning of a new year is similar to the experience of driving a stretch through a winding road only to finally come around a blind curve that opens into a long straightway. That straight stretch of road appears to have no end as it touches the horizon in the distance, though we know perception lies a lot and that straightaway may contain a dip we don’t see and a turn or three as we keep on truckin’. Maybe that’s where New Year’s resolutions come in to the picture; either way we get to see where the road leads.

     As we drive, those resolutions can become navigational aids or convenient clubs left by the side of the road to pick up and beat ourselves over the head with when we feel the need. The old standby resolutions such as eating better, losing weight, getting more exercise, quitting smoking or drinking have the potential to lend themselves to frequent stops to grab a club. From this seat I see those as year round sort of resolutions; whether it’s January, May or October I can always start my year over.  I kind of consider offering the old standbys as my New Year’s resolutions as being kind of lazy on my part; most of those pop up all year long for me anyway, so I know I am and will continue to be a work in progress.

      My resolutions tend to be a little outside the norm and I fully claim the right to make new ones at any time of the year. Last year in March I had to make a late resolution to not wear my shirt to work inside out. Apparently I threw on my polo shirt inside out one morning and didn’t notice until someone asked me why I had a tag on the outside of my shirt halfway through the day. I didn't bother switching it around at that point, why argue with success?

   A brief side rant here: Why do we call polo shirts polo shirts? I remember when these types of shirts started showing up everywhere during the 80’s we called them golf shirts, because golfers seemed to be the only ones wearing them.  There is a lot more people that play golf anyway. Who the hell knows anyone that plays polo?  Seriously, full contact croquet on horseback with a soccer goal and we name a shirt for that?  No, nah, nah, nah no, false. Okay, end rant now where was I? Ah, resolutions for a new year and the right to change them, or not.

     I’ve decided to keep the not wearing my shirt inside out to work resolution, and will apply that to all apparel with tags, though my wife and I disagree on one item. I say underwear doesn’t count because no one sees it, she disagrees; the eternal debate rolls on.

     Another resolution I am going to stick with this year is to try some type of food I have never eaten. A few months ago I ate guacamole for the first time. To me it is the most disgusting looking stuff; I thought it looked more like lizard puree than something edible. As far as I’m concerned it still is horrible looking stuff, though now I can say it tastes good. Live and learn I guess, though I do reserve the right to not eat cottage cheese again. Ever.

    Another resolution I’ve made for this year is a kind of two in one. I decided at least a couple times a month to wear different colored socks to work. That idea will test my creativity with a collection of socks that are either black, grey, or brown, which leads to part two. I resolve to purge my sock drawer of all my Pete Maravich socks. You know the ones I’m talking about; the ones with the elastic that is shot so they just puddle around your ankles. Hmm, I guess there is a part three here too. I suppose I’ll also have to rid my sock drawer of all the socks I’ve sharpened my toenails on for so long I can read the newspaper through the toe.

   I resolve to make more lists this year to give myself a visual reminder to not forget to do the stuff I keep forgetting to do. I think I will do them in pencil, because those trusty old pencils need some love too. I think I have a sharpener stashed in my office supplies box, its probably hidden under the box of staples I bought 5 years ago. This list idea is done under the guise of having my office be more organized. Now if I can keep the top of my desk a little more clutter free I might be able to find said list. 

     My resolution for this weekend is to put all the Christmas stuff back in the shed and fill the recycle bin with the boxes left over from Christmas shipping. The cats will lose their playhouse, though they have more than enough toys around here to keep them amused; especially the hair ties from the two-legged in the house.

     My wish for your New Year is one of good health and much success. Hopefully you will all find the time to find a good spot to watch the sun rise or set, take in the glow of a full moon with someone you care about, find some flowers to get a good whiff of and just basically  be happy. I say this to you and also to myself. We have a new year to mold, enjoy it and fill with new memories. Here's to making it a good one.

     

The Year of the Pen

    Each year as the end of the year rolls around there are numerous lists of the 10 best, worst, funniest, saddest, and whatever other name can be slapped on a list of 10 somethings during the year. I like checking out some of those little "year in review" lists; they become snapshots to remind me what went on during the year while I was busy being busy. Relax my friends, this is not going to be one of those lists. Well, then again no promises, I’m just going to follow this missive to the end.

   I spent a bit of time thinking about this past year and the new one hurtling at us. Not surprisingly I decided I wanted to get some thoughts down on paper, though I didn’t want to make just another "year in review" list type of thing; several someones have been gracious enough to do that for me already.  The end of the year easily lends itself to look back at what was; whether with fondness, or a tear, a grumble, or a guffaw, we all have things to be grateful and thankful for.  The New Year is always a bright shiny box we have to wait to open until January 1^st. We open that wondrous mystery with the hope that within there will be bigger and better, new and exciting happenings;ever hopeful it includes untapped wells of quiet strength and boundless faith tucked in the corners to carry us through till we say goodbye to the year that was at its conclusion.  

     The year 2014 was another typical atypical year; it had 365 days like any non-leap year, the sun rose up in the morning and dropped below the horizon at night. During those days strung end to end there were many moments for us to stop and take notice that it was a great year, mainly because we’re still above ground at the end of it. Not everyone was so lucky. Some of us lost someone close to us, or at least near the sphere of our day-to-day; their absence most notable during those moments we know they would have enjoyed too. Others we will miss from afar because there are no new offerings to make us laugh, the sound behind the music that carries us on epic road trips is silent, or the eloquent words on paper we use to whittle away a cold rainy day have come to the end of that life's book. Many of us have added to our families, whether by an exchange of rings, bundles of joy with tiny little fingers and tiny little toes, or made some new friends to add the family that’s not related by blood.

     This has been a year of change for me, the biggest of which you are a part of now by reading this. Starting this blog and keeping it going has been a big step for me and an ongoing one at that; finding my voice and keeping my ear tuned to the world around me has been a lot of fun. I’ve written for years, since I was a kid really, though more in earnest after I started keeping a journal in the 70’s, and I’ve never really shared those words on paper with more than a handful of folks.  Now a day doesn’t feel complete unless I’ve written something, even if it’s just a book review or two on Amazon.

     I really want to express a big Thank You and attempt to convey how grateful I am to those of you who take the time to read the musings, rants and silly stories that flow from the ends of these fingers. If i had to give 2014 a name it would be the Year of the Pen, and now I face 2015 with a blank piece of paper and my trusty pen with the hope that I never really find the bottom of the hole in the paper. Thank you for stopping by.

                                                  *** Happy New Year! ****

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Requiem for a Dinosaur

     A couple of weeks ago the phone book pictured above landed on my front sidewalk. I hadn't really thought about how much these were still used, or wondered how many people still used one. I haven’t kept any of the phonebooks I've received the past several years after I got rid of my house phone, so now when I get them they go straight to the recycling bin, except this one for the time being. We are watching the extinction of another piece of Americana fade quietly into the night. 

     Seeing it sitting there on my desk got me thinking about how out of place it is to see a phone book now, because there was a time when there was always one somewhere in the house; now they just seem to be teleported in and dumped from another time. The days of the poor old battered and abused phonebook are numbered; they were often covered with crazy doodles, had a number or two scrawled on the cover when another piece of paper wasn't close at hand, or had the pages containing your usual take-out joints dog-eared for easy access. They served us well for many a year didn't they? Now with the prevalence of cell phones with internet access they have become an object of wonder almost. The fact that I received this one tells me there are still plenty of land line phones out there, though I imagine there may be more businesses with the then homes. This is the Yellow Pages for the East Valley, which is about 1/6^th the size of the first East Valley Yellow pages I encountered when I moved to Arizona in 1994; that one was actually split into two 3” thick volumes because there was so much in it, an added plus due to its weight was it could serve as a weapon in a pinch. I don’t think selling add space in the Yellow Pages would be such a good gig these days.

     Who remembers when you could just call 1-411 for directory assistance and have an operator find it for you? I guess you can still call it since the cell carriers have it available, though from a land line it’s probably 12 bucks a shot now. When I was in college some of us would drunk dial National Directory Assistance at 1-area code- 555-1212 and talk to operators in exotic places like Hawaii, Alaska and North Dakota. Alas, AT&T put a stop to that in 2000, those dirty buggers: 

http://transition.fcc.gov/Bureaus/Common_Carrier/Public_Notices/1999/da992541.html

Over time the phone companies got a little smarter, and started to give you options to connect the call, for a fee of course. If you've ever had a phone you know how those fees manage to sneak their way onto your bill.

     I have been a numbers nut for a long time and there was a time if I wrote a number down, then used it, I would remember it; I still remember the phone number from my first apartment, odd I know. The trusty phone book or books always managed to find a place in the house , whether they were piled next to the phone or stacked up on the floor nearby for those who were phone book rich and furniture poor like me; in a pinch a stack of them made a decent end table. Nowadays, if I write a number down it’s either to just use it once, or to put in my phone under a name and then I don’t have to remember it, I just find the name in my contacts list. The world has moved on.   

     The old days of paying a fee each month to rent your phone as part of your phone bill seems like such a ridiculous idea now with us having the ability to carry our house phone wherever we go. I managed apartments for many years and would find phones left in apartments when folks split in the middle of the night; they usually were owing rent.  At one time I had so many of those ugly princess phones and hang on the wall kitchen phones, in their lovely gag me with a spoon colors, I was giving them away to friends. Of course, I ran extra lines to every room in the house I could to add a phone; when the phone rang it sounded like the donations lines at a Public TV telethon.  

     When long extension cords for phone lines became readily available I was stoked; I never have been one to sit in the same place while talking on the phone.  Of course one the drawbacks to having one of those long cords is that after a few weeks of walking around the house talking on the phone you have something that resembles a rats nest of Christmas lights without the lights sitting on your floor. Unwinding all the twists and kinks was never big fun, though eventually I’d be back in business to start that ridiculous cycle all over again.

      Those original cheap handsets that didn't need a base were a fine example of a product that should have been extinct before it was ever put on the shelf. I had one that would pick up the Spanish station in Hartford, but only at night; it sure made for some interesting conversations.  “Are you listening to the Spanish station?” “No, it’s my phone, only does it at night.” “What, I couldn't hear you the music got kind of loud there for a few seconds.” Ahh, this new technology is great isn't it?

 I grew up in the dark ages, i.e. the 60’s, and we had a wall phone in the kitchen with a short cord. You had to stand there next to it like you were using a payphone in your own house. My dad finally put in an extension in the basement; after breaking the railing on the cellar stairs for the 3^rd time dashing up from his workshop to answer the kitchen phone.  There were no answering machines or Caller ID, which really didn't matter; when the phone rang you wanted to answer it! 

     That thinking changed over time of course. I learned that if I turned the ringer down and my music up loud I didn't hear the phone ring; kind of like Caller ID before it became available and the best part; no extra fee. There was about a 2 year span where I was pretty much subsisting on berries and bark and it wasn't in my budget to have a house phone. I really didn’t miss it much and came to see having a phone as a luxury not a necessity. That was back when you could still find a payphone somewhere besides a grocery store, an airport, or some other mass transit location. Those phonebooks at those pay phones really took a beating didn’t they? How often did you find one that didn’t have a chunk of pages ripped out of it? Who can say they never ripped a page or two out of phonebook at a payphone; if you have never seen one then you can’t count that as a never.

     What’s it all mean? Do I long for the days of phones on the wall, with a stack of phone books standing by at the ready to let my fingers do the walking? Hell no,now I have room for the detritus of my daily existence to fill the space created by the phone books absence. I like that my phone can go in my pocket, I don’t need an alarm clock and it’s a great little flashlight to save my toes from finding malicious furniture in the dark.

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