Monthly Archives: August 2016

Kenneth Clark

21 Sunday Aug 2016

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He has been dead for decades now. I never met him. Yet his television series Civilisation is a constant resource for me. His calm, measured, learned voice holds forth still. He was a master narrator above all else. His observations about what makes a society a civilization constantly intrigue me. Right now, as I write, he is talking about the preservation of the basic texts of Western civilization by Irish monks. 

I suppose you could argue about his perspective and points of emphasis, but he knew his subject and his view is a jumping off point for other perspectives.

When I consider my day, the events, both positive and negative, I feel agitated and attached to the situations and outcomes. I am reliving the experiences in my brain. Ken’s story (he preferred to be called Ken) is uplifting, positive, calming. His narrative of human achievement, informed and inspired by faith, at least in the early chapters, is reassuring. We have a culture far greater than the scoundrels who aspire to the power to direct it.

Streaks

20 Saturday Aug 2016

Posted by in Love and stuff, Sexual Identity

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Love is nothing without forgiveness and understanding.-Pope Francis

I wanted to tell the story of my two cousins, now deceased, who were both born on 21 August, but 10 years apart. That is going to have to wait.

I have to write about streaks. We all have them. There are those times when everything is going well, or not so well. It seems that the good stuff, or the bad, will go on forever. Then it stops. All of a sudden, our mojo isn’t working any more or starts again, just as enigmatically.  I was cruising along, swimming every day, dropping weight, feeling good , taking my vitamins. Then it stopped. You might say I got too deep “in my head”, wondering.   I’ve been feeling not so good since the colonoscopy. My first swim after the procedure the following Monday ended at 100 meters when some nausea  came on. The next day I did a decent workout. The next day, Wednesday,  my  younger son and I had dinner at my sister’s and I was all jazzed up about seeing him.  Then Thursday brought the trip to Baltimore.

Baltimore includes The Things  about which I haven’t written. How I wanted to reconnect sexually with my wife. How it did not happen.  Is she afraid? Am I? Are my fears in a dance with hers?  I am afraid she will reject me sexually, verbally,  with finality, and I will be left with pieces of a life to reassemble at age 65.  I am afraid, in that case, I lack the courage to move on.  I am afraid that my sexual needs, wants and desires  diminish what we do have. Laughter. Conversation. Family.

Then again,  how much longer am I going to step over the garbage? Literally. That’s what it is when you live  with a slob. And slob-ness is infectious.  There is crap accumulating in my respective micro-habitat. Kitchen has crumbs. Trash can is full. Sinks and toilets need a once over.

What’s up? Swimming with tears in my eyes, for sure. Coming back home, doing something to make the house a little cleaner.  Avoiding the pop psychology “Self-Esteem” game, but, rather, doing the next right thing,  whether I feel better afterwards or not.

This  morning on Instagram was a post from Pope Francis, not that he went online and posted it himself.  “Love is nothing without forgiveness and understanding.” Thank you, Holy Father, for another  growth experience.

Baltimore

15 Monday Aug 2016

Posted by in Amtrak, Baltimore, Otakon 2016

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Way back in 2015, we had planned on attending my elder son’s wedding in Philadelphia. We had to back out because my spinal stenosis was just too painful for the trip. Amtrak gave us a voucher for the trip we paid for but did not take. However we had a year to use it. The year was coming to an end, so we booked a trip to Baltimore for this past weekend. We had planned on visiting the National Aquarium at the Inner Harbor and just relaxing.

We left Thursday. Our train was scheduled to depart Richmond at 7:00 PM (1900Hrs). However… Good Old Train #66 from Newport News was stuck behind a disabled freight train on the single track that runs from Williamsburg to Richmond.  Sooo…. CSX, who owns the track and runs the freight traffic has to send a locomotive down the line to pull the disabled freight forward in order that Good Old #66 can complete its mission. Around 9:30 (2130 Hrs) we finally leave Richmond. It’s fairly obvious now that a crimp has been put in our meticulously planned getaway. We climb aboard, choosing the quiet car. I was hoping the conductor in the quiet car wore black tights, white face and white gloves, like a classic French mime, but it wasn’t that quiet. He scans our ticket and off he goes.

We proceed, stopping at all the stops between Richmond and Washington; Ashland, Fredericksburg, Quantico, Woodbridge, Alexandria.  It seems like an eternity. And we have to pull to a siding to let a freight pass (all part of the “fun” of being delayed two and a half hours).  All of you East Coast rail connoisseurs  know that trains  switch power from diesel to electric in Washington for the trip further North, reversed the opposite way. That’s another thirty or so minutes for the switch.   Off we go. It’s now 2:00 AM (0200 Hrs). We’re tired, wondering what we did to piss the travel gremlins off.  We stop in New Carrollton,  Baltimore BWI, and finally Baltimore Penn Station. It is now 3:00 AM (0300 Hrs) and unbelievably hot still.  The easiest piece of the travel epic so far is the speed with which a taxi arrives with a very courteous driver, an African immigrant from, I suspect, somewhere in West Africa.  He promptly takes us to our hotel and we check in around 3:30 AM (0330 Hrs) Friday morning.

Our room is an homage to minimalist decor, and not at all unpleasant in its sparseness. There is no dresser, desk, or superfluous chairs.It does have a nice comfortable king-sized bed, honking big TV, and more electrical outlets than I (or anyone else, for that matter) can possibly use.  The hotel people did their market research. It was set up for people who travel with lap tops, tablets and smart phones. And, more than likely, Hitachi wands, given the outlet placements.

We are thirsty and discover that there are two, yes two, plastic cups in the room for our use. There is minimalist and then there is out right, fuckin’ stingy.  Then I discover the ice maker and drink machine is one flight up.  Fortunately they work.  With ice and sodas, I return. We sip our sodas and soon are trying to fall asleep in a strange room with an incredibly noisy air conditioning system, in a city where, at Four AM, every vehicle operating seems to be an emergency vehicle.   It seems like we are in a corner of Post Modern Hell.

Our first trip to the Inner Harbor is for breakfast. We schlep down in the heat. Thankfully, it is a very short distance. We find a  Cheesecake Factory that looks like the Cheesecake Factory at home with the same menu and the same prices. Nice. I order the Huevos Rancheros and coffee.  The service is slow, not terribly so, and the server is courteous and friendly. The food tastes the same as the one at home.

In case we were afraid that everything would be the same as at home, a few thousand of our closest friends decided to stage the Otakon 16 Convention on this very same weekend. We had all these twenty somethings traipsing about in their favorite anime` character  costumes. Being  old and indifferent, the only character impersonators I could recognize were the Sailor Moon wannabes.  All in all, it was fun to watch. Hallowe’en on steroids.

The Inner Harbor has a shopping mall as part of the attractions. The Inner Harbor is a James Rouse project from the 1980’s, when folks imagined the affluence would never dry up.  Today there are plenty of vacant stores. Given that a shopping mall is a shopping mall is a shopping mall, we got the idea fairly quickly of what was there.

It did not, all of a sudden, get cold in the hour we were at breakfast. The lack of sleep was taking its toll. We went back to the room and slept, in anticipation of our trip to the National Aquarium at 6:30 (1830 Hrs). The sleep came easily. Evidently, people having emergencies sleep during the day. I heard not nary a siren. Mrs CorC? decided that watching a Gray’s Anatomy  rerun would tickle her fancy, so I tried to sleep while all these actors were playing doctor.

Finally we get to the National Aquarium and the experience was well worth the aggravation, inconvenience and pain. The place is brilliant in concept, design and execution.  Realizing one visit won’t do it justice, we are already planning a return.

As a finale, we dine at Phillips Seafood Restaurant. It is definitely a little high end in the chain restaurant spectrum,but the food is well worth it. We had the ceviche`. I had the grilled rockfish, she the crabcake and scallop.

By the time we get back to the hotel, all I want is an ice pack at the fusion site and two naproxen gel caps. As non-cable viewers at home, we take advantage of the cable offerings.  We watch HGTV’s House Hunters, amused at what the house hunters are looking for and what they have to spend. They must choose from condos in St John’s, The Virgin Islands, and they are bloody picky!  I would be tickled to death with indoor plumbing and a refrigerator, but their standards are higher. The shoppers are reminiscent  of characters from a Christopher Guest mocumentary and we can imagine Jane Lynch, John Michael Higgins, and Parker Posey as the prospective buyers.

We sleep through the full complement of sirens and cooling systems . Saturday morning comes and I have resolved to leave Baltimore earlier than our 6:17 PM (1817) departure on train 97, The Silver Meteor, to escape the heat. I may as well sweat at home.  The train switch to Train 195, is simple. This cabbie is also polite and efficient. We are at the station in plenty of time for the train’s arrival.  We discover it is late, but only about a half hour.  We climb aboard, find seats, and sit.   Heat is the culprit in these travel delays. It plays havoc with the equipment. We arrive home a mere hour past the scheduled arrival.

A mini-vacation in 21st Century America is completed.  Recovery from this fun-filled extravaganza takes all of Sunday.

An Epilogue: PEG3350. OMG. KMN.

15 Monday Aug 2016

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I received the results of the biopsy of the polyp. It was noncancerous. I see The Boy Wonder (Dr. Gastroenterologist) again in five years.

My back and neck were hurting after this procedure and a nurse friend of mine told me that getting me in the proper position for the colonoscopy (fetal position) may have put some stress on my fusion site,  but I feel a little better every day.

PEG3350. OMG. KMN.

05 Friday Aug 2016

Posted by in Health Issues

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I have reached that age when my body gets bored with getting me about and being the locus of pleasure.  It is now figuring out ways to kill me if I let it.  At my recent check-up with the internist, I crossed the bridge guarded by the insidious Prostate Cancer Troll. That was easy; a simple blood test screens as well as a digital rectal exam.   My heart still loves me.  My blood pressure has settled down. I don’t piss high fructose corn syrup or its equivalent, just yet.  Lung Cancer might be lurking, but I don’t smoke, even though a fine cigar tempts me like The Whore of Havana. Skin cancer seems to be on hiatus. The last of my body’s hit men, colorectal cancer, got the once-over this morning.

The screening colonoscopy was scheduled for 0800 hours.  Those of us who know the drill know that the actual test is like a vacation  in the Caribbean compared to the preparation for said test. That prep is no fun.  First, one (meaning I) must secure a four liter plastic jug with some innocuous white powder in the bottom, plus a lemon “flavor” packet glued to the outside, from one’s(my) friendly pharmacist ($15). This is the infamous PEG3350 mentioned in the title.   On the day before, one (I) dilutes this mysterious powder in four liters of tepid water, adds the “flavor” and refrigerates.  At 1600 hours, I begin drinking this stuff, an 8 0unce glass at a time, until I begin expelling  something most indecorously. And I keep drinking it until the ,uh, “output” is clear with a yellowish tint from the bile my body still produces. ( No wonder my body wants to kill me. To him, all he would be doing is evening up the score.) 

Last night I go to bed, a dehydrated wastrel, and attempt sleep. No such luck.  Morning comes, I shower, dress, and Mrs CorC? drives me to the hospital.  I show them my insurance stuff, sign the electronic form, go in the back where I undress and put on the accursed gown and wait on a fairly comfy stretcher while my vital signs are continuously taken in what sounds like a perpetual game of Pong.

Who appears, to me, to be a teen-aged girl comes in the room, introduces herself as Doctor Mc***h, and informs me that she is my anesthesiologist. ( Yes the years have passed me by). Later  Dr.T*****n enters the room. He is the Boy-Gastroenterologist.  He apologizes for a slight delay, stating one of the other doctors had a longer than usual procedure.  I suspect, however, that his mother was late dropping him off at work. ( He can’t possibly be old enough to drive.)  This is like a Doogie Howser, MD. episode brought to life and on steroids.

As they wheel me into the room, I notice that the nurses and technicians aren’t at all uneasy around these young whippersnappers. I fully concede to my innermost self, that these children really are adults and I am the one whose perceptor needs adjusting.  Before long, they knock me out, insert the appropriate pieces of fiber optic cables and such into the temporarily pristine reaches of my rectum and colon, do their probing and snipping.Then they wheel me out. I wake up, barely a half-hour later.

I learn I have one polyp. (Just one, for all this?),  some diverticuli, and, ahem, internal hemorrhoids. Said polyp appears to be noncancerous, but they have to biopsy the little bugger.  So I get to wait three weeks til the pathologist offers a diagnosis. OK. Things look good. I’m probably fine, but, worst case scenario, they caught it in time. At least, I hope

Tomorrow I get to see my family, including my sons, my daughter-in-law, niece, her husband, and my adorable 10 month old great niece, named either for our 40th President or a character from King Lear. It is my sister’s, stepmother’s and daughter-in-law’s collective birthday celebration, all falling within a two week interval. My stepmother is 91. The other two birthdays, you don’t need to know.

Life is good.

Hiding

02 Tuesday Aug 2016

Posted by in cooking, Exercise/ Fitness, loneliness, Love and stuff, Sexual Identity

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I do all kinds of things to hide out.  Mostly they are “activities”.  I’m being busy, waiting for the chance for something exciting, exotic, or just plain memorable to happen.  This is not unique to me and it’s certainly not a waste of time. Because there’s a lot of time between the exciting, exotic or memorable events of life. There are gaps to be filled.

So I swim. In the water I get lost. In my thoughts. In time. In my workout. I love feeling the water on my body as I swim. I love how my muscles feel.  I don’t care much about my pace or whether I am moving quickly or slowly.  I fantasize that a woman desires me because I swim, that she finds me attractive, that I’m wanted.

And I cook. I love the smells, the sounds of a whirring blender, vegetables frying, the colors of the vegetables and fruits.  I love to see heavy cream turn into whipped cream.  I love sharing what I cook with others.

And I try not to think about the void in Passion. The Love is there. Good old Love. Old Love, soon-to-be geriatric Love.  Selfless Christian Sunday School Love. But I need Passion, too. Passion that can flower because that Love is there.  Put all the chips on Passion.  Tattoo your name inside a heart on my bicep Passion.  Staying awake after one fuck, just so we can have another go Passion.   No “good” manners, dirty-talkin’ Passion that would make your friends blush on the outside, while they die of envy.

“Life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone.”– John Mellencamp