I Spy

I am sorry to have disappointed you regular readers -all three of you- these past couple of weeks. I have been remiss in my postings; life got in the way. I hate it when that happens. I semi-carefully went through all my documents to perhaps find a blog I had stashed in case of a time allotment emergency. Alas, all I found were short stories, and that's how they'll stay. In the interests of time and space, I'll share here some of what I witnessed over the past couple of weeks.

My lecture at Stetson University was a roaring success given the great reviews I received. At its conclusion I made my way to Gainesville to visit Cory, and to my surprise, his significant other Cathy. She was supposed to be out of town. Fortunately for me, she had a change of heart.

My drive necessitated taking state route 40 through the heart of the Ocala National Forest. As I made my way north on route 17 from Deland -if you've never heard of it, you're not missing anything- I looked for signs for 40 west. I will forever be able to make this drive again even if the Florida department of transportation decides arbitrarily to change the numbers of every major highway in the state. All I'll need to know is to make a left at the ten foot tall, stainless steel, pink rooster.

If it weren't for my pressing desire to see my son, I most assuredly would have stopped at this incredible statue emporium. Every animal was built to scale. Elephants, giraffes, tigers; all painted with the appropriate markings. There was a ten foot replica of the Statue of Liberty, and so many other stainless steel monstrosities that covered every square inch of the property, it boggled the mind. What a great place!

After driving for a bit, I reached the forest. You know how I knew? What welcomed my entrance was a yellow caution sign with a silhouette of a large bear on walking on all fours notifying me that this was a bear crossing. Really. In Florida. Home of beaches, sunshine, Spring Break, and Disney World. It seemed rather surreal initially. I didn't know if I could handle another Salvador Dali moment following so closely on the heels of the stainless steel menagerie. However, Florida occupies a huge expanse of land. It is a very diverse state. Why not a bear crossing sign?

No more absurd than that bastion of journalistic excellence The Miami Herald,putting Spanish language ads in the sport section when they publish a Spanish language version of the paper called El Nuevo.

But the height of the ridiculous, as noted Renaissance man Oliver Wendell Holmes would say, is the proposed merger between the AT&T and T-Mobile wireless cellular service carriers.

When this tidbit was first announced I thought I was going to have a cerebral hemorrhage. A minor myocardial infarction at least. In layman's terms, I nearly shit myself, then I shit a couple of neighbors and their pets.

I left fucking AT&T for T-Mobile because of the awful customer service I had to endure from this former monopoly. That was back in the day when they were Bell Telephone. Back when everything they were involved in ran like clockwork and the service was phenomenal. That is, until the U.S. government decided they were a monopoly and broke Bell Tel up into little tiny Bell Tels. Pacific Bell, Bell South, you name one, they all performed half as well as prior to the breakup.

Now At&T is becoming a monopoly again. But this time they've spread their inefficiency to every smaller company they touch. AT&T has finally figured out the formula for success and profitability. Acquire lesser financially soluble companies, give their shitty service, because guess what? The stupid American consumer will keep paying for it regardless of how bad we fuck up. The wireless phone service is a prime example.

It has been highly publicized that AT&T has the worst service of every wireless carrier doing business. The best service belongs to T-Mobile. T-Mobile is a German based company that is not the largest, or the wealthiest, just the best according to J.D.Power. They don't spend as much on advertising as AT&T or Verizon. They don't sell the Iphone like AT&T and Verizon. T-Mobile just tries to do the best they can customer service-wise. They are not perfect by far. They also have a little bit of that "customers will keep on paying no matter what" mentality; they're just not so blatant about it. And now AT&T wants to buy up T-Mobile in an obvious effort to somehow shore up their customer satisfaction ratings.

This whole thing smells of the Exxon merger with Mobil Oil after the Valdez scandal. Don't see many Exxon stations around anymore huh? I wonder if AT&T plans on operating under the T-Mobile umbrella to generate some much needed goodwill. I certainly hope not. I will have to cancel my contract. No you say? Can't get out of it you say? Fuck AT&T I say. They won't release me out of my contract, I'll make their customer service people's lives a living hell. Just ask Sony.

Five and half years ago I had an issue with Sony. The abridged version shows I got a new TV. Yea for me and 22 hours of diligence. Well that TV has shit the bed. I'm at it again. This time however, Sony has offered me a new television at a reduced price. It is a generous and satisfactory offer...for somebody else. Not for someone who has been down this road before. Not after reading a testimony from one of the numerous small claims court cases that said Sony only expected the TV (my model) only to last four to seven years when they put them on the market. I'll get another new TV. It may take some effort, but it will be worth it. I'm not going to let these greedy bastards continue to sell us inferior stuff, and laugh while their doing it.

I wish the CEO's of Sony and AT&T were riding in the same car along a highway in central Florida, and become so startled by the sight of a ten foot tall, stainless steel, pink rooster, that they hit a bear crossing the road. It could happen...if Salvador Dali has anything to do with it.

Gym Rats

My wife Helen and I joined a gym nearly four years ago. This was my wife's suggestion. She works for Memorial HealthCare Systems, who besides hospitals, have a couple of gyms in their fold. I hadn't been to a gym since 2000. After six years of residing either in a classroom or at a computer, I had become, how can I put this; zoftig. My weight went from a rather healthy 205 to a rather unhealthy 257. The gym seemed like a great idea.

Initially, for the first six months, I dutifully went every morning six days a week. After the first three months, I felt the machines I was working out on no longer challenged me, nor were giving me the desired result. I had espied a couple who worked out together using the free weights. Nothing says romance more than a husband and wife lifting large amounts of weight together.

I went over and introduced myself and asked for their help. They were diminutive in height only. They obviously had to do some serious remodeling to their home just so Brad could get his massive shoulders through each doorway. Fran's shoulders were wider than mine, and the muscle definition of both looked as though it was drawn anime. But yet, neither thought they were all that. They worked out so strenuously because it made them feel good, not just look good.

They did not make fun of me when I could barely lift the equivalent of two large jars of mayonnaise. They shouted encouragement as I neared blackout due to the strain of lifting approximately the weight of a pair of shoes. They exhibited patience when they'd have to add and take off weights because of the huge differential between us. They'd add what equated to a small automobile, then take off all but the armrest.

Eventually, I caught up...to Fran. Months later I surpassed her personal bests. I would never catch up to Brad, but that wasn't the point as he constantly reminded me. "It's not about the weight" he'd say. "It's all about the form." He'd add "Are you pushing yourself beyond your preconceived limits?" he'd ask. That's what a good workout and results are all about, he'd share. My mind understood completely. That and he was ten years younger than I. He ate right and I didn't. But I showed up every morning, and with their help, there was a physical transformation; not very discernible, but one nonetheless.

Brad often reminded me that if I kept coming for three months, it would become a habit. If I came for six months, it would become a way of life. I've now been going for nearly four years. Oh, I've been injured and had to take a few weeks off. Helen and I would go out of town and I'd miss a week. But I'm still going, maybe not six days a week; now it's more like 3 or 4 depending on my schedule. I have met some wonderful people there. Some are still going right along with me, or should I say, me with them; they were there before I was. Then there are others still, who just come and go. The rest of this blog is about them.

There is always an influx of newbies after the first of the year. Most would last about four weeks, never to be seen from again. There would be others who'd stick around about six months, get in pretty good shape, quit, come back in about six months looking exactly as they did as when they started. Then there'd be those who'd show up religiously, work their fucking asses off; treadmill, elliptical, and spin (bike riding and not going anywhere), and after a year or years, nothing had changed. Two people come to mind that I could swear got fatter.

And then there's the Dirty Dozen or so that I see every time I'm at the gym. Christ only knows how long some of these folks have been going to the gym. Some are in great shape, some not so much; but they're all maintaining what shape makes them happy. They know what they're doing for themselves is beneficial. They do yoga, they spin, they lift free weights, they work out on machines, they do the stupid stairs, they attend organized classes, they stretch; on and on and on they go.

When I joined the gym no one talked with each other. I could see no harm in at least acknowledging people I was sharing space with everyday. One thing led to another, and a whole bunch of us were making going to the gym a semi-social activity, not just a mild sado-masochistic exercise to test our thresholds of pain and agony. One guy even talked more than I did, which I was almost unable to fathom. He'd had a heart attack back in his thirties. Doctors told him if he didn't want to die, he should exercise regularly. And exercise he does! He also assumed this meant his mouth as well as the rest of his body.

There is the guy going on seventy that flirts with every woman there whose age is within three decades of his. He thinks young, his body says young, why the fuck not act young. Good for him I say! There are the women with breast implants who are in such good shape they'd look awesome without the artificial bullshit. There are the housewives who go all the time, hit the wall, but maintain knowing it's not going to get any better unless they alter their diets, and that's not going to happen. They still get "A's" for effort. There is the eighty-six year old who looks fifty-six. On top of it, he's got great hair the bastard. There is the doctor with about 12% body fat, him I hate. He's a really nice guy, but I'm jealous. And then there's the pharmacist who goes after working for twenty hours straight. After relaxing like that, he feels the need to expel any excess aggression by lifting large amounts of weight. Better that than shoot people I always say.

We talk about everything. Sports, our kids, politics, the economy. Nobody argues, nobody gets mad, everybody respects everybody else. We laugh, we tell of our trials and tribulations, and then we go home so we can return to do battle another day. They are some of the most wonderful, genuine people I know, albeit peripherally. But somehow I also feel closer than just a shared gym experience. Aside from Brad and Fran, I have never socialized with any of them. (Brad and Fran have moved on to another gym and I miss them terribly.)
Yet, I forward them e-mails daily. They read my blog. One, I'm trying to help her son get into a particular college. And the pharmacist, he has provided me with moral support concerning so many endeavors.

Are these gym rats my friends? It depends upon how you define friendship. Are these people just acquaintances? We are too intimate to be only acquaintances. I will say this. If any of them were to move away, I think it would affect me profoundly. Would we keep in touch? I doubt it. We all seem to occupy a certain niche in each others lives. I'm glad they're there, and I'm grateful for the hour or so I share with them each morning. The gym helped me get more than just my body in shape.

Observe and Report

When I had just started my master's program in history, I took a class called "5060." The course was called Intro to History, or something along those lines. I don't rightly remember, or should I say maybe I don't want to remember.

I thought that maybe I had this academic process thing figured out, then along comes "5060." I learned an extraordinary amount of useful knowledge in that class, one nugget being I was a moron. I don't know if I really learned that, or was it merely being reinforced as a reminder to not get too heady.

The class was led by, I say "led" rather than taught because this professor gave us the tools, it was up to us to figure out how to use them. He "led" us to water secretly knowing some of us would drown. I love him for it. Taking that class allowed me to excel at the other classes that followed. Here is where I give props to Dr. Ken Osgood for many lessons learned, not all heeded at that particular moment in time.

One thing he told us in his introductory lecture was, besides that was to be his only lecture of the semester, was, and I'm paraphrasing here: "You'll never read a book, newspaper, or magazine; watch a television show, the news or a movie, in the same way ever again." With those words, and the subsequent teachings for the next two years; I became a critical thinker of the first order...or so I perceive myself.

The problem that has arisen from this metamorphosis is that, as my friend Gregg says, "I spend too much time thinking"... about pretty much everything. From the most mundane and commonplace, to the most complex or advanced; each and every observation has a context big or small. My company (which right now seems to be a non-profit organization) slogan for Wahdai Consulting is "We'll have to think about it." Draw your own conclusions.

How does this or that fit my worldview. How does this or that support theories I've developed about our culture and society. Who the fuck cares? But there have have been things I've observed the last couple of weeks that have summoned my powers of critical thinking.

The first I posted on Facebook. Here on Interstate 95 in Florida we have what is called the HOV (High Occupancy Vehicle; gas conservation you know) lane. Between the hours of 7:00am and 9:00am, and 4:00pm and 6:00pm, there must be multiple passengers in any vehicle for one to travel legally in this lane. This law is scoffed at by the thousands. Every now and again you'll see a State Trooper issuing a summons to a lone driver for such an offense; a true rarity indeed. However, what I found particularly galling one beautiful winter morn about 8:15, was a young lady driving a Prius Hybrid of all things, tooling along in the HOV lane. I queried on Facebook if this could be considered a paradox. A stereotypical tree hugger hypocritically flaunting her misguided, pretentious, conservation of the earth's precious resources illegally. I wanted to take a picture for posterity...and then shoot her.

The second I didn't post on Facebook but should have. Another environmentally conscious young lady (purely coincidence...or is it?), on her way to further her education at Florida Atlantic University, came upon what is now a normal occurrence; traffic back up at the traffic light at the Glades Road exit from the highway. The light offers two lanes to go left and two to go right -toward FAU. The self-centered, self-absorbed, inconsiderate shithead; merrily wheeled her Scion toaster with tires, into the left turn only lane, and then turned right so as to bypass all the folks patiently waiting to turn right. I noticed the bumper sticker she had affixed to the back door of her vehicle. You've seen them; it said "Coexist," with all the symbols of every organized religion (oxymoron) known to man.

My first thought was, coexist with whom? She obviously can't coexist with anyone else in humanity exemplified by her need to form her own rules. I assume the rules the rest of us abide by weren't meant for her. Besides, who'd want to coexist with a douche like that who'd exploit the meaning of a bumper sticker to get compassion from others. Fuck her too; just another hypocrite with some stupid half-assed agenda.

The last occurred at a traffic light near my house. Don't ask me why these all happened when I was driving, there were probably others, but these three peaked my curiosity.

As I've stated before, the United States has the largest church going population in the world, around ten percent. However, American Christians (perhaps another oxymoron?), seem to have this insatiable need to adorn their cars with some sort of paraphernalia that calls attention to their devout attachment to Christianity.
Recently, I was at a wedding where I met a gentleman who was French and had lived all over the world. I asked him if the other places he'd lived was there such a overt display of religiosity? He said flatly, "No, only here you see that sort of thing."

Fueled with this information that I had pretty much suspected all along, just needed confirmation; I observed two women (eerie if you ask me) in their respective vehicles in the two lanes in front of me. On one was a bumper sticker that read "I, a heart symbol, Jesus." On the other was not only one of those fish symbols, but for good measure a bumper sticker that read "God loves you." Why must these people feel the need to show everyone they come in contact with where their allegiance lay? I thought if I had a bumper sticker on my car, -if I was so inclined to even consider putting a bumper sticker on my car -that read "god is a superstition," these two people in front of me would follow me to where I was going, and as soon as I was out of sight, one would slash my tires, while the other keyed the paint.

I couldn't help think why not just act Christian rather than show or tell everyone you're Christian. Why not coexist rather than remind people to do so. Wouldn't that accomplish more? Why recruit if you don't even know the fucking cause? It's like those parents who take their kids to protest abortion clinics. What seven year old even knows why they're there unless the parents are already indoctrinating them? And, what kind of parent discusses abortion with a seven year old?

Maybe I'm not supposed to understand what motivated these people. Maybe I'm not supposed to figure it out either. Maybe I'm supposed to just readily accept every contradiction and hypocrisy that occurs in my daily life. Maybe I'm supposed to point these inconsistencies out to dolts like these. No, they're too into themselves to give a shit about what someone else has to say. Better for them to be oblivious to their state of mind, if they indeed have formulated one that doesn't require hours of extensive therapy.

Knick Knack

I have always been a New York Knickerbocker fan, albeit a closet one since Patrick Ewing retired. Regional loyalty, and a love for the game of basketball fueled my love for the Knicks. I did not care if they won or lost, they were my team. Wins and losses are not high on my priority list when it comes to securing my devotion. The Knicks acquiring Carmelo Anthony does not mean I'm going to return to the fanaticism of my youth when Dick Van Arsdale, Howard "Butch" Komives, and Walt Bellemy roamed the hallowed Madison Square Garden court. However, for Carmelo Anthony to come home to New York does breath a little life into my once near dormant zeal. What disturbs me is all the haters.

It seems, particularly down here in SoFla, that other teams fans are up in arms concerning the courting of Carmelo, and the way the Knicks went about getting his services. Sure, the frequency Anthony's name has been connected trade rumors for the past two seasons has been an annoyance, but to equate what the Knicks did, and are trying to do, with what the Miami Heat did is silly. Unless of course you're an idiot.

I hold no malice toward the Heat by shamelessly trying to buy a title, that's no different than the New York Yankees approach in baseball. I hold no animosity toward the Celtics for acquiring two aged stars toward the end of their careers to compliment a proven star and a rookie in the hope of forming a cohesive unit. Even a casual fan must see that Carmelo Anthony does not mean instant title contention, just like the signing of Amar'e Stoudemire did not mean the Knicks were now in a class with Boston or Miami. All these two players mean is maybe the Knicks can make the playoffs for the first time in a decade.

There are no grandiose predictions. No 70 wins in a season as many sports pundits forecasted for another franchise. No title assurances as many commentators confidently portended when this team assembled looked like a juggernaut on paper. Based on all the hyperbole that was spewed, I'm surprised that David Stern the league commissioner didn't just cancel the season and hand out the championship trophy at a contrived made-for-TV "decision."

The Knicks defense has more leaks than an old inner tube. There is still a dire need for a legitimate center so Stoudemire can play his natural position at power forward. And there is no instant offense player to come off the bench to provide a much needed spark. An enforcer in the mold of Dave DeBusschere or later, Charles Oakley would be nice as well. All landing Carmelo Anthony did was makes the Knicks a more formidable foe. Just like when the Knicks drafted Patrick Ewing.

Before the Knicks won the Ewing lottery, the team had Bernard King. He was fun to watch. He'd score fifty and the rest of the team would score fifty. However, sometimes their opponent would score more than one hundred. When Ewing arrived from Georgetown, the hated hometown St. John's rival, he was embraced as a savior, not the as the object of scorn as he was treated the prior four years. I hated Patrick Ewing as a Hoya, I loved him as a Knick. Later I would come to despise Isiah Thomas but still love the Knicks. Hate the ownership, but not the team.

So all you Knick haters continue to do so because of the intense rivalry your team may have with the Knicks, not because of how the Knicks are trying to become competitive. They still have a ways to go. It surprises me how a team can draw so much ire just for being mediocre. Why don't you worry why your team is not playing up to snuff, or why your team is not on track to win seventy games. Keep in mind, the Knicks lost to the lowly Cavaliers last night. So if I want to have my loyalty rewarded just a little, why don't you haters stop pissing in my cornflakes and be concerned your team is underachieving. Enduring Latrell Sprewell, Stephon Marbury, and Isiah Thomas was bad enough without the unfounded whining.

Deus Ex Machina

Last year at this time I was posting a blog concerning my latest attempt at the Jeopardy online test, which you must "pass" in order to get to the next stage, "a formal interview" if you ever hope to be a contestant on the show. From what I've experienced, it has become clear that the screening process and subsequent mock shows are harder to get through than MIT doctoral oral comps.

And if that's not enough, if you somehow get through that gauntlet of hyper-information and scrutiny, you may just luck out and finish...third...out of three. That ignominy will pay you the princely sum of $1000! No, I did not leave off a zero. No, I did not mistakenly put in a "1" instead of something else. So not only did you get to fail on national television under the watchful eyes of millions of viewers; you got to fail miserably.

$1000 dollars would not pay the airfare for the not one, but two trips to California I'd have to make if I did indeed get on. One trip for the test show, the other for the real show.

It's not like just appearing on the show is going to get you all kinds of notoriety that you can parley into something much more grandiose. You don't go on with the hope that your appearance will somehow be a career boost. If you finish last -let's call it what it is- the next day no one in America outside of your immediate family and close circle of friends will recognize your name. No stranger is going to walk up to you on the street and say, "Hey, aren't you Joe Biffleschpick? I saw you on Jeopardy last night." They may say, "Man, I know your face from somewhere, I just can't place it. Give me a minute, (several may pass before you uncomfortably make a move to continue on your merry way). Oh, I know! You're the guy who lost on Jeopardy last night. And for that you are thankful. Because he could have said "Hey, I saw you on America's Most Wanted last night! Don't move, I'm calling the cops!"

If you do happen to step in a huge pile of poo and pull enough "trivia," -as Yahoo News refers to that kind of knowledge- out of your ass; and you're able to squeeze a hand-held buzzer faster enough times than two other humans, you could possibly win. Now that you've overcome these seemingly insurmountable odds, for your trouble you may win a lot of money; rarely less than $10,000, less rarely more than $30,000. Two men who won night after agonizing night and walked away with over two million and three million respectively came back to Jeopardy for a showdown that aired Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.Their showdown had one other contestant; a machine.

For several weeks Jeopardy promoted the appearance of its two most celebrated contestants matching their "knowledge" versus that of an IBM supercomputer. Sounds intriguing right? And then I thought about it. HAL from "2001" on steroids against two "trivia" kings. My mind reasoned "no contest."

"Watson," as the supercomputer is named, had so much information downloaded into its memory that it would take a man 256,000 years to acquire such knowledge. To add insult to injury, the machine's reaction time would far exceed that of a human. I decided I wasn't going to watch, but I did listen in periodically.

As I anticipated the buzzing in for the humans was a real challenge. Challenge my ass, it was a near impossibility. The only way for one of the humans to buzz in first, was if the computer (I refuse to call it "Watson."), did not have a ready answer within the 90th percentile of the possibility of being correct. You could see the frustration on the real contestants faces.

Speaking of faces, the faces in the audience were not the usual studio variety. The cameras seemed to fix on the glowing IBM think tank that put together this modern marvel of technological science; ahem. Excuse me if I don't share the enthusiasm of mankind's capabilities in the field. It was creepy to hear the audience applaud when the computer got a Daily Double. It was creepier still to hear Alex Trebek congratulate the computer when answering what he deemed to be a particularly difficult question. And then using a personal pronoun when addressing the computer completely weirded me out; referring to the computer as "you" rather than "it." All this for the sake of stimulating entertainment...and giving IBM a chance to showcase how brilliant they are. I wonder if the companies stock went up?

I rationalized that the two humans must be getting paid a boat load of money just to appear, knowing that they'd be humiliated on national TV. No, I was told, there would be a prize pool with the "winner" getting a million dollars...and a ton of exposure for IBM, because you had to know who the winner going in was going to be right Alex?

When Big Blue, another IBM supercomputer played Gary Kasparov, and whoever is currently the world chess champ, both parties know all the possible moves and counter-moves. If the human doesn't have a brain fart, the match could conceivably end in a draw. Not so with an infinite number of questions to choose from.

To put a big bow around this whole three half-hour advertisement for IBM, all of the money won by the computer would be donated to charity, half of what the humans won would be as well. I read on Yahoo the marvelous benefit a computer like this would be to the medical field, and I ought right medical; more like defense would get first dibs.

Thank goodness this little expo only ran three days, five days would have been too painful for the human contestants no matter how much sacrificial lamb money they were getting. I sure hope that the IBM team of who knows how many are proud that they could come up with a talking computer that can store and recall more information than a human. When the computer "spoke" the voice sounded eerily similar to another computer. The one that asked Matthew Broderick "Would you like to play a game?" That's all our defense department needs.

Epilogue: When searching for a picture to accompany this weeks blog, I used the search term "scary computers." An image of the two human contestants, Alex Trebek, and the IBM supercomputer was in the tenth row as I scrolled down.

The Cost of Doing Business My Ass

Once upon a time there was this young man. He was a very careless driver. He frequently wrecked automobiles. That was fortunate since he often grew bored quickly with his cars.

The young lad never had trouble getting insurance, even though it was expensive. Allstate was his company for a long time. When he got into an accident, his insurance went up. When he got tickets, which were numerous, his insurance went up. After many accidents (7), and many tickets (44 points when only 12 was allowed),and a drunk driving charge, the insurance on his latest car, a new 1980 Corvette, his insurance went way, way up. Almost to the sky.

His insurance went up so high, it cost the young man more each month to insure his car, than it did to make his monthly payment to the bank. How much you may ask? Well, his car payment was $312.00 each month, and his insurance payment was $323.00. Wow! That's a lot he said.

But he understood. Because of the way he drove he had to pay the piper. Also, he understood that because of his age (23), the small heavily populated state he lived in (New Jersey), and because he didn't own a home, and he drove a red Corvette, his insurance was going to be unusually high if he wanted to have complete coverage.

But then the young man got older and wiser. He stopped getting into accidents. He stopped getting speeding tickets. He stopped getting DUI's; and lo' and behold, his insurance went down! The man was happy. But he didn't live that way ever after. Because you see, the man moved to Florida, where, when it comes to any kind of insurance, all bets are off.

My friend Patrick can explain the Florida insurance issue much better than I can here, so I won't try. Patrick was at one time a lobbyist for the insurance industry, now he conducts historical research into the sordid lineage of insurance in Florida, and writes against what the industry has done to the people of Florida, or something along those lines. Try as I might, with all the intellectual tools at my command, I listen to Patrick intently only able to grasp snippets of the tangled web of corruption and shenanigans that is the world of the Florida insurance industry. What I've been able to coherently decipher is this; the residents of this state are getting bent over a desk without even the courtesy of a reach around.

Home owners, auto,flood, you name it, there's a excuse it's going up and no justifiable reason. Case in point. Did you see where FEMA has recharted the "flood" zones for Broward and Miami-Dade counties? They've simplified things by encompassing every square inch save a postage size area that not a soul inhabits. But I'm exaggerating...kind of. I will say this. That during FEMA's drunken holiday game of pin the tail on the donkey, they've included an area in the city of Davie that is the highest most point and furthest from the Everglades as well as the ocean. Hence, all the people who live there now not only have to get flood insurance which they've never had to carry before; but subject themselves to the arbitrary increases that occur if an active hurricane season is even forecasted. And the auto! Don't get me started. Too late.

We have State Farm, who recently became the neighbor whose dog constantly shits in our yard, and plays loud music into the wee hours of the morning. My son Cory, who has his own policy, had an accident with my car almost three years ago. We did not make a claim because the damage was less than my deductible. He does not live with us. Yet, State Farm raised my premium based on Cory living with us. Now we've tried on several occasions to make State Farm understand that Cory has lived in Gainesville for the last eight years. We had quite a to do six years ago to get this rectified. My State Farm agent assured me it was taken care of. So that's why the rate was raised. Understand? No, me either.

We have paid over the last twelve years nearly $20,000 in premiums, and make claims totaling less than $2000. I got a ticket eleven years ago. My wife has yet to get one during that time. Our insurance goes up each year. Both our driver's license's have been designated with "safe driver" status as anointed by the great state of Florida. Still, when insurance companies go to the state with a case for raising rates, our legislators gladly comply. Fuckers.And now to credit worthiness.

The new assrape that is now in vogue is based on some actuarial study that concluded that people with lower credit scores make more claims. This is the new be all end all guideline for which all rates are based. Throw out previous claims. Throw out past driving history. Throw out age. If you are a credit criminal -I had to file Chapter 11 a year ago due to unemployment for most of three years- your rates, because of a few scam artists (the ones who sue in slip and falls, will go up like a hot air balloon.All because some douche needs to justify his exorbitant salary and stock holders get their rates of return to which they've so grown accustom.

The best part, (is there a "best" part to any of this?), is that when people make too many claims, the insurance company just packs their bags and leaves our fine state never to write another policy again. The excuses are as obscure and insulting to one's intelligence as the reasons we hear on the news why oil companies are raising gas prices.

In the fall of our lives, my wife and I now pay nearly $2000 per year on a new purchased vehicle that listed for $27,000. We used to lease, but the insurance coverage required was higher. You can laugh here. We do when we consider this. Because if we didn't, I'd have to put State Farm's corporate office in Winter Garden, Florida on my list of places to firebomb, right after the Miami Herald building. I wonder who insures them, and whether they'll honor that claim.

The moral of the story is the young man grew up to become an anarchist. The End.

Legends in My Own Mind

My wife Helen works for Memorial HealthCare Systems, the controlling forces of the network of Memorial Hospitals and support services here in South Florida. For years now she'll forward me the e-mail that's circulated company wide announcing the upcoming charity "Legend's Game" benefiting the Joe DiMaggio's Children's Hospital, an annex of Memorial. Me, "Joe" baseball asshole, Mr. Society of American Baseball Researchers, having missed an Opening Day somewhere in the last thirty-four years; had never attended a Legend's game in the ten years Helen has worked there. Did I say the bleacher tickets are for free?

I am loyal to Memorial for the simple reason they are Helen's employer. She dutifully goes to work everyday without complaint. I belong to their gym. I umpire for Miracle League, a pet cause of Helen's boss, and Joe DiMaggio's Children's Hospital. Last year I ran the 5K in the Tour De Broward where the funds raised benefited Joe D's. Don't ask me why I've never attended a Legend's game.

I can't seem to recall any of the lame ass excuses I've come up with over the years. I couldn't tell you if I had made other plans; and if I did, they didn't make an indelible impression on me, providing me with memories that will last the rest of my life. I'm here to tell you how ashamed I am. Because I will carry the memories of last Saturday with me until they torch me. Not the actual game so much, but what I soaked in and played out in my head before the game is what really mattered.

The driving force behind my enthusiasm for this year's game was rooted in the knowledge that a core of the 1969 New York Mets would be in attendance. Helen e-mailed me the lineup of ex-ballplayers -I can't really say "stars" because many of them were not- a few days before the game. When I saw that no less than seven Mets were on the roster, my mind was made up; this year we'd be going come hell or high water.

We arrived just after 10:00 to upgrade our seats. Gates wouldn't open until 11:00, and the game itself didn't start until 1:00. As you can imagine, the only people there that far in advance were the baseball dorks and nerds...and me and Helen.

They were loaded down with bats, balls, autograph albums, baseball card portfolios, posters, and glossy photos neatly arranged in spiral note books. I was thrilled that these autograph hounds and exploiters of memorabilia did not engage us in conversation. One gentleman did fill us in on his non-stop drinking fiesta from the prior evening, and the day's upcoming continuation of his sotfest. His breath left something to be desired.

Once inside the stadium we grabbed a bite to eat, some peanuts were included of course, and then made our way to our seats which were outstanding. The quaint, old, former Spring Training home of the New York Yankees, and former Spring Training home of the Baltimore Orioles, was charming, inviting and on in a state of decline. But, that didn't dampen my spirits one iota.

Oh, the ballplayers that have roamed its field! Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, Yogi Berra, and Joe D himself to name a few. Several of the "Legends" that day called the old Ft. Lauderdale Stadium their winter home. Horace Clarke, Roy White, and Steve Whitaker were there. Yankees from a not so glorious period in the franchise's storied history. But it wasn't the former Yankees I was there to see.

Not wanting to deal with the crush of autograph seekers, I was perfectly content to take in the sights from my venue. One of the first players out of the dugout to warm up -they needed a lot of that- was Art Shamsky of the old Mets. I couldn't see his number, but I could tell it was him by his distinctive shoulders back, duck-footed gait. He looked physically fit enough to be playing today. His stroke in the batting cage affirmed it. Slowly the old ballplayers, some looking decidedly older than others, trickled out from beneath the stands. I now needed to get a closer look.

I left Helen to her own devices and took a post up against the backstop. Through the fencing I relived- if just for a few minutes- my childhood. I espied former San Francisco Giant Bob Bolin. That name might not mean much to even seasoned baseball fans, but to me he represented my first professional baseball player autograph. To a kid of ten, that was huge.

My father took me on a vacation to Houston one summer. We took in a game at the Astrodome. The Giants were playing the Astros (duh). Juan Marichal was pitching for the Giants. When the game ended I pled with my Dad to hang around and wait for autographs. He accommodated me without any hemming and hawing. While Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, and Marichal himself filed past us as if we were some sort of household pests, others did not. One of them was Bob Bolin. He gladly signed my little notebook. I thanked him, and soon other not so well known Giants signed as well. I'll never forget Bob Bolin for that. I wish I could have gotten close enough to him last Saturday to tell him what his kind act so long ago meant to a little boy.

I knew each and every "Legend" player who took their time signing whatever was waved in front of them. The rude shouts of whatever was printed on the backs of the uniforms, resounded from the laymen. No "Hey Mr. so and so," no "Hey Oscar" when Oscar Gamble made the rounds. Just the voices that were filled with greed and not a sense of baseball history. It was harshing my mellow. I wanted to take my little stroll down Memory Lane unimpeded.

I saw Willie Horton who had such a great World Series for Detroit in 1968, the year in Mr. Hamlin's sixth grade class Cynthia Tanner and I correctly predicted the Tigers would beat the St. Louis Cardinals in seven games. Cynthia guessed, I knew. Our spoils were Hasbro chess sets that had been used for our class tournament.

Al Downing was introduced. He surrendered, as a Dodger, Hank Aaron's 715th home run that broke Babe Ruth's record. I saw him pitch as a Yankee against those very same Tigers. My Dad took Tom Rowlands and I, and we sat behind Mitch Miller of "Sing Along With..." fame.

I watched intently as Al Weis, Wayne Garrett, Ron Swoboda,Ron Taylor, and Jim McAndrew collected around the batting cage to get reacquainted, inquire about families, and trade stories from bygone days. Who knows what the hell they talked about, I couldn't hear them, I just imagined.

I had met Jim McAndrew once as a kid. He was the attraction at the Grand Opening of the new Herman's World of Sporting Goods located at the new Livingston Mall. I eschewed Fitzgerald's in Morristown for the purchase of my new glove just so I could meet Jim McAndrew. Once at Herman's I recall that Ol' Jim looked like he'd rather be anywhere then at Herman's that day. But he was a Met, and as I saw it, that was the closest I'd ever get to a Met, so going out of our way to Herman's was a no-brainer as far as I was concerned. While temporary lost in these thoughts of innocent times, two men stepped on the field that altered my emotional state.

When Brooks Robinson passed before me all I could do was applaud. I did not call his name. I did not shout "Way to Go." I did not tell him he was the greatest ever. His stride and the way he carried himself in such a dignified manner; my voice would have tainted the moment. As Brooks made his way to those who clamoured for his signature, Ed Kranepool stepped gingerly from the dugout along third base. Quite the contrary to Art Shamsky, Ed looked as if getting off the couch to attend the event was a bit of a chore.

To me, Ed Kranepool was the Mets. They drafted him out of high school. He was from White Plains, New York. He was everybody's favorite Met before Tom Seaver became everybody's All-American boy. Kranepool played when the Mets were awful and when they were Amazin'. I was raised on the Mets he represented, and I fell in love with baseball because of those Mets. And there he stood before me in all his overweight stooped over splendor.

I thought maybe it was time I got back to my seat. How much time had passed since I first made my way to the backstop I wasn't rightly sure. Helen greeted me with, "I was going to come down and join you, but you were being a little boy. You had your arms folded, you leaned in so you could rest your head on them while getting your face close to the fence. I thought it best just to leave you alone with your thoughts." It was if she read my mind without all the narrative. I guess I gave myself away. Next year I'll have to ask for a press pass, I'm a writer, right?

This and That

This concerns Ted Williams the anointed "Golden Voice Homeless Guy." Is it just me, or did no one else see this coming?

He was homeless for a reason. No matter much I people bleeding hearts tell me "If only someone had given him an opportunity..." when referring to some homeless person; I still know there is a segment of the homeless who've down more than fallen on hard times or couldn't catch a break. Ol' Ted fell on some hard times. He never seemed to have caught a break. Now he's caught a whole shitload of breaks, and what does he do? He blows them. Ted has a myriad of issues the least of which is being homeless. That didn't occur overnight, it took many months, and by the look of him, years of fucking up to get to where he did.

The bigger issue here is his drinking and drug problem. As far as all of the companies that came out of the woodwork to jump on this exploitative marketing and publicity gravy train, did they not see the forest for the trees? How many people looked for employment at these firms only to be turned away because they couldn't pass a pee test or a background check? How many current employees has human resources had to put into rehab, or worse yet fire due to addiction problems. Yet resume-less, inexperienced, and untrained Ted Williams gets more job offers without as much as a query.

Shame on Kraft and the Cleveland Cavaliers. Why don't you consider the people who've toiled for years in the background working toward the kind of breaks you threw at Ted Williams just to get some PR. Why not interview any number of experienced, college graduates that would kill for the opportunities companies waved in front of Ted Williams like so many dollar bills. And in this economy, with this many talented people out of work. Again I say shame on them.

I hope Ted can overcome his demons for the sake of Ted, not because of his possible future employment status, that has been precarious at best. The other shit if he doesn't get a handle on it can send him back to jail, or worse kill him. The story of "The Golden Voiced Homeless Guy" be just that, a human interest story. That was why it was filmed. Just a homeless man doing some radio schtick, nothing more.

That nut case that decided things weren't going according to the order of the universe he perceived shot some people. Which from what I've studied, always brings clarity to those who may be confused as to the purpose of it all. Are you fucking kidding me!? The idea that no one suspected things were taking a drastic turn on the loony front is what confuses me. It makes about as much sense as offering a homeless alcoholic, drug addict, and petty criminal gigs worth six figures.

This past Sunday I watched the 60 Minutes expose on the Arizona shooter (I refuse to denigrate this piece with his name which already has made its infamous imprint on history). The people interviewed all concurred that he had gone around the bend, yet no one brought this to the attention of his parents, police, anybody that could have acted as a stopgap before it culminated in the tragedy that played out in front of a Safeway supermarket. One of the shooters classmates even said that she took the seat nearest the door just in case this mentally unstable individual decided one bright sunny day that it would be a good time to take out some fellow students.

Is our collective memory really that short? Did the persons responsible for his dismissal from Pima Community College not recall the horror of Virginia Tech no so long ago? Was someone afraid of violating this asshole's civil rights? And now folks are making all kinds of bizarre reactionary suggestions about what sort of legislation can be passed to prevent this sort of thing from happening again. Are the people we elect really that stupid?

I'm not a big fan of guns. However, I do believe in the second amendment as it was written and the purpose for which it was written; to arm Americans against hostile invaders of our shores. I'm sure had the Founding Fathers foresaw what that amendment would one day wrought, perhaps it would have been worded a little differently. But the idea of outlawing the sale of Glock handguns, and making a law that limits the amount of bullets a clip can hold is not only superficial, but asinine. Do these people really think that's going to stop someone from shooting another? Do these type of laws address the real issue here, which is mental illness?

Our society has been reactive as opposed to pro-active since the first settlements. These groups finally realized they should prepare themselves for harsh conditions, and even harsher winters. No one figured that out from the correspondence from the first early settlers?

Christ, we were the last nation to do away with slavery. What were we waiting on then?

9/11 is a perfect example. Other capitalist nations had already endured multiple terrorist activities. What made us think it wasn't going to happen to us? Information became known that something was brewing even before it happened. Why do we think we're exempt?

And now, with government funding for studying and treating the mentally ill who may be prone to violence abysmally lacking, legislators are looking to pass more laws that infringe on the rights of those who aren't several fries short of a Happy Meal. That makes sense...not.

Since I'm still mid-rant; you know what else doesn't make sense? The way the NFL playoffs are turning out. Before they started, it looked as if New England was going to make another Super Bowl appearance. No one else in the AFC was playing remotely close to their level. Each team in the NFC looked as if they were playing not to lose. Suddenly, Green Bay seems to be peaking at just the right time. Chicago is playing opportunistic football. It looked like one of the two of them was going to give New England a run for their money...until the Jets beat them. So much for that. Jet versus Steelers is anybody's guess, and don't give me that shit about home field advantage, even for the kicker, who also has to kick off that cow pasture.

Green Bay at Chicago is just as perplexing. They play in the same division. They're two of professional football's oldest franchises. They both play similar styles. They both frequently play in shitty weather. I'm not making any predictions, but I think for the pure randomness of what has already transpired has made me me much more interested in watching than I thought I'd be. Oh yeah, by the way, for those of you who are regular readers, fuck Pittsburgh

A Weighty Issue, or A "Wadie" Issue

By the title, you may think I'm about to get on my soapbox and get into some long winded diatribe about the obesity problem in America. Not so. The only weight problem I'm here to tell you about is my own. Though I do think we are becoming a society of fat fucks.

I was once a fat kid. I was never the fat kid by the time I went to grade school, nonetheless, I may have been considered "heavy" periodically. As an infant, well that's a whole other matter.

When my son Cory and I were out visiting my father a couple of years ago, an old Jonathan Dayton Regional High School yearbook of my father's was unearthed. As Cory thumbed through it, an old photo of me and my sister fell from it's pages. My sister was holding my hand. I was no more than eighteen months old. I know this because I couldn't walk until I was eighteen months old. My sister would have never magnanimous enough to held my hand under any circumstances without some sort of dire threat from my parents. I obvious needed assistance. I would have tipped over. Hence, no picture could have been taken, leading to my father's wrath. So my sister got stuck holding my hand.

I was fat. No two ways about it. My head was as big as a basketball. Better legs had been seen on grand pianos. If a stranger had seen me at this stage of my life, they were liable to utter under their breath "look at that poor child with hydrocephalus." (Note: When looking up "hydrocephalus" I noticed Hubert Humphrey's picture next to the definition for "Humpty Dumpty).

Fortunately, my fat stage didn't last long even though I ate copious amounts of junk food. Ring-Dings, Twinkies, Sno-balls, a never ending supply of Charles Chips. There Fritos with Lipton onion dip, all washed down with enough Coca-Cola or every imaginable flavor of Yukon Club soda that I should still have a horrendous case of acne to this day. But somehow I was fortunate enough to avoid every teenager's nightmare. My weight was nothing playing outside everyday and a little hyperactivity couldn't take care of.

My mother would often threaten that all this shit I was eating would spoil my dinner. I still have trouble grasping the concept of anything spoiling what has just been freshly prepared. Not only did it not spoil my dinner, my ingestion of all that junk just seemed to grease the skids so to speak. At dinner I was often reprimanded for the amount I was consuming. That I "couldn't possibly still be hungry." I wish my parents could make up their minds. Do you want me to eat or don't you?

My eating habits accelerated just before I hit high school. Ed and Fred Kane was unfortunate enough to invite me to dinner one evening when I was in the seventh grade. A family outing to "The Pit Stop" a local burger joint. The events of that evening have so scarred the Kane brothers (god only knows how it effected Mrs. Kane) that when they "friended" me on Facebook a couple of years ago, the memory of that eating rampage was the first communication that came to mind nearly forty years later. I made reference to this fact, and they promptly "un-friended" me.

By the end of my sophomore year, I could eat a whole large pizza myself. I ate five Whoppers at a sitting. An innocent trip to McDonald's cost my mother a month's car payment. Two Big Macs, two Quarter-Pounders (no cheese), a large fry, an apple pie or two, and a large whatever shake. After eating that I found it necessary to go to Dairy Queen to have a little dessert. In June I was 5'10" and weighed 175 pounds. Come September when Junior year started I was 6'3" and weighed 215 pounds. You do the math.

After high school my weight fluctuated. I went through my cocaine induced "Redi-Kilowatt" phase where I was now shade taller than 6'4" and weighed 150 pounds. A brush with the law altered my diet dramatically. When I started acting school back in 1981, I weighed in at 180. I stayed around that until my first wife and I moved in together. I was laboring for a mason at the time and went to the gym frequently. I was tipping the scales at about 215 again, but arranged completely different than the high school 215. And then I had my motorcycle accident.

In the short space of 27 days, I lost 83 pounds. They cut off around 15 or so I was told. I was 132 and looked like a reject from some third world impoverished nation. So I went back to the gym, went back to eating everything that didn't eat me first, and got my weight back up to 215 where it staying until drinking replaced eating.

From 1993 to 2000 my weight hovered between 170 and 180. By 2001 I had quit drinking and decided to return to school; where, after six years of being pretty much sedentary, my weight ballooned to 257; it had finally caught up to the size of my head. My body was now proportionate except I needed to look into a full length mirror to see my nuts. On my wife Helen's suggestion, I returned to the gym for a third go around, and the trips there have been a regular part of my weekly regimen for the last three and half years.

My adult weight was finally stable. For 22 consecutive months I remained at 230 give or take a pound...until three months ago. My prosthesis started to give me grief. After twenty-six years as an amputee I've developed a symbiotic relationship with my what's left of my left leg. The first troubleshooting I did was step on the scale, I had been lulled into a false sense of security after so long at the same weight. When my weight fluctuates, my leg acts up. Lo and behold, much to my amazement I had lost six pounds. I still ate as if I was going to the electric chair. Yet, the stayed off.

I am not an alarmist but I was alarmed. Cancer. That was my first thought. I've smoked for over thirty years, but that wasn't it. My blood work is that of someone in their late twenties, so says my doctor. But I was feeling a bit weaker. A tapeworm, yeah, that's it! What am I, fucking loony, I don't live in a third world country. And then yesterday I got on the scale at the gym. A sense of dread washed over me. Here I am, in a predicament many overweight people would die for -ugh, bad choice of words- and I was concerned. The scale didn't lie, 229. Whew! What a load off, no pun intended. Maybe I'll watch what I eat from now on. Only kidding.

"Is It Safe?"

For anyone that's seen the movie Marathon Man, you'll never forget that line. Sir Lawrence Olivier is playing a character that was at one time a dentist for the Nazi regime. Olivier has Dustin Hoffman strapped to a crude facsimile of a dentist's chair when in an attempt to extract the information he believes Hoffman character is privy to, he says, "Is it safe?" Hoffman doesn't have a fucking clue as to what Olivier is talking about, referring to, etc. Nevertheless, while Olivier hums "Edelweiss" or some fucking inane ditty as he preps the instruments used by an oral surgeon, he continues to query Hoffman over and over, "Is it safe?" Finally, when Olivier doesn't get the answer he's looking for, he proceeds to drill into a live tooth of Hoffman's without the aid of any anesthetic. Oh joy, oh rapture.

Like the movie Jaws and its alarming effect on ocean swimmers the summer it was released, dental practices around the country saw a downturn in business. Normally regular customer appointments went wanting. I'm not quite sure if I became paranoid about going to the dentist after seeing Marathon Man, but perhaps somewhere buried between Dracula and local Long Valley urban legend "The Hooker Man," is the specter of dentists everywhere congregating, drinking beer, and thumbing their collective noses at the part of The Hypocratic Oath that states "to do no harm."

Needless to say, I dislike going to the dentist immensely. An already unappealing prospect to begin with, made infinitely worse first, by my move to Florida seventeen years ago, and compounded by the nature of a health care beast so disruptive, by the time I finally muster the nerve to go to the dentist, the fucker no longer takes whatever dental insurance I happen to have at that time.

My angst knows no bounds. It wasn't always that way. As a child, I adored Dr. Gould. He was my first dentist, and I continued to go to him right up until I got married...the first time. I was twenty-six years old. Dr. Gould did me no harm. Even though like Howard Stern's mother, my mother insisted Novocaine wasn't to be used under any circumstances, even when filling a cavity. I didn't know any different. My mother was obviously mentally unstable.

Then, urged on by my wife, her benefits package, and the knowledge that driving forty-five minutes to the dentist was incredibly stupid, I made a switch. The new dentist, Dr. Levy, was wonderful. He was in the same building where I got my haircut. That was all the information I needed. Frank and Tony wouldn't have a quack for a tenant. Dr. Levy took my insurance when my wife became my ex-wife. All remained calm in my dental universe. And then I moved to Florida.

I had to select a new set of professionals to attend to my bodily needs. A new doctor, now referred to as a "primary care physician." I needed to find a prosthetist I was comfortable with, I had only dealt with Richie Guizzone since my amputation. He understood me. He knew what I needed. He listened to me. Christ, he was an amputee himself, so he even knew what I was going through. I needed a new person to cut my hair. Tony Gentile had been cutting my hair for over twenty years. I needed a new dentist. Yuck. I had to find a pediatrician for Cory. A dentist for Cory. His selections turned out much better for him than mine for me. Or, maybe he just adapted better.

I have lived in Florida for seventeen years now and I am now on my seventh dentist. And I don't go to the dentist all that frequently due to the frequency I am forced to change them. It's not like deciding on which supermarket to shop at. Most of the dentist's in Florida I've had the pleasure of doing business with have been ...how shall I say this delicately?...butchers. I could do just as good a job with an awl, a Dremil, and a mirror, and it would be half as painful.

Why the fuck do they ask if you can feel -whatever it is they jamming into your jaw seeming at any moment it's going to come out the top of your head- when you respond you can, they tell you "Oh, that can't be possible!" while they chortle lightly. "Hey Doc, while you're at it, can't you shove a catheter up my penis so that pain will take my mind off the pain you're causing in my mouth?" The only redeeming feature of one of my Steve Martin Little Shop of Horrors impersonator was, Marilyn Manson also went to the same guy. Occasionally we'd bump into each other. That was a plus, I'm a big Manson fan.

This time there was no more putting it off. I already broke one tooth and let it run it's course several months ago, now another had broken due to lack of proper attention and care. I had to go to the dentist. Number seven it is. Mr. Berstler do you have any last requests?

I based this selection on the fact they had Saturday hours, and both husband and wife graduated from the University of Florida, my son's alma mater. She was nice, efficient, and sympathetic. I was just pathetic. My palms were so sweaty it looked like I peed on my shirt when the hygienist took my apron off. The sad news was, my dentist had to refer me to an oral surgeon. Shit, more uncharted waters.

I decided to take the bull by the horns. Upon arriving home, I immediately made an appointment to have two teeth extracted. The kind, nice, sympathetic lady on the other end of the phone said "You can come in tomorrow if you want. We have an opening at 11:00." Before my brain had a chance to survey the mental landscape of such a devil may care decision, I said "Ok." I hung up the phone and stared at it as if I was hoping she'd call back to say someone had booked that time slot without her knowledge. No such luck.

I arrived on time. I waited nearly an hour before I saw the oral surgeon. And when I did, he said he was sorry for the wait so many times I thought he may very well have been some sort of android with a faulty communication chip. I will save you the Bill Cosby-like analysis, but I'm here to tell you, while it was not painless, it certainly was fast and efficient. Two teeth in and out in less than ten minutes (once the Novocaine took hold). After listening to the speed reading version of aftercare recited by the dental assistant, I was on my way. I told him I didn't need any painkillers for when the Novocaine wore off. I must have been delirious.

Yesterday, I did not blog due to my state of discomfort. I find it hard to focus while St. Vitus is River Dancing inside my mouth. The next time I go to the dentist -there will be many more appointments in my future- and they sit me down, I'm going to ask her "Is it safe?" If she gets it and laughs, number eight won't be very far off.