It's beginning to

feel a lot like Christmas. Sooo dark. Singing "Sleigh Ride" in the shower. What a dork I am.

My new favorite Christmas song is Eartha Kitt's "Santa Baby." She sounds so evil and wheedly. Where did she get that voice from? What a talent. Too bad she'll be remembered as the other Catwoman.

Here's my Christmas playlist on iTunes:
"Jingle Bell Rock," Bobby Helms
"Run Rudolph Run," Chuck Berry
"Santa Baby," Eartha Kitt
"Funky Christmas," James Brown (James Brown love you, you lucky so-and-so — that's a lyric to be proud of)
"Silver Bells," The Temptations
"Blue Christmas," Elvis Presley
"Sleigh Ride," Ronettes
"Backdoor Santa," Clarence Carter (this is a must-listen, because it is about as funky and un-Christmassy as a Christmas song can get, if you consider Christmassy to be family-oriented)
"Merry Christmas Baby," Otis Redding
"Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree," Brenda Lee
"Silent Night," Al Green
"Santa Claus Is Coming to Town," Jackson 5


Charley made a miniature version of her usual spread. Generally she takes a week off to bake and sets up two tables full of cookies, breads, cheese balls and more. It was only one table this year because she got sick for vacation, but that was plenty. her cheese ball, a combo of cream cheese with mayo to thin a little, scallions, garlic, diced bacon and dill, was killer with triscuits.

This will be my first Christmas without my family, but the people I know have been so good to me, inviting me to thier homes for that day and whatnot. It's enough to make my heart grow three sizes.

The best e-mails

My Pa sends the best emails. He is the squarest beatnik poet you'll ever meet. Here is one of his best missives:

"have arrived, gotten all of the stuff in (not put up yet) changed to MY YALLER PANTS and long sleeved Razorback white shirt, enjoyed the trip to LR and the food and seeing Thomas and meeting Ronnie and the conversation (Carol) and the picture show and all the rest. The drive home was good but windy and how, blowed all the Curl out of my hair. Oh! and I got the mail have not opened it yet. Got an interesting note from a dog setter in Wash thanks Callie ( will try to drop U a line later). All is well that ends well.

Love Big Pa"

He has style.

And he's referring to my last email at the end, where I discuss the travails of dogsitting for three demented dogs. Not all at once. One ran off and was feeling his oats and making me feel guilty, but apparently he's just been off in the woods having an Iron John moment. Another one wasn't demented, but if she didn't want to go out, there was no way she'd go out. The third is an ancient little crone — incontinent, with skin problems and anger issues. I brought her over to the home of the other two dogs on an overlapping day and she, um, expressed her anger or just couldn't control herself all over the kitchen floor. I was just grateful it wasn't on the homeowners' authentic, silk Arabian carpet. She's much better now that she's back in her own home and she's a wonderful companion anyway.

I wish I had some YALLER PANTS. And I wish I could find a wind strong enough to blow the Curl out of my hair.

Post-prandial stompin'

So Thanksgiving doesn't seem like the likeliest holiday to go with shopping at 5 a.m. the next day, what with the massive consumption of (if you were at the home I was at for TG) turkey, wine, roasted yams, cranberry relish, caviar, capicola, shrimp cocktail, pumpkin cake (in a roll, with cream cheese frosting), pumpkin pie, green beans, oyster stuffing and lots of yummy appetizers. It seems like a morning spent sleeping in is the best remedy.

However, there are apparently a lot of people who enjoy getting up early and heading to the local big box store to wait for an early opening to buy specially discounted electronic (and sundry) goods.

I'm beginning to wonder if these one-time-only discounts aren't for more than just attracting consumers, because apparently consumers just want to shop early on Black Friday anyway. I'm beginning to wonder if these deals are meant to inspire good security camera material for the overlords' Christmas parties.

Think about it.

Who do the Wal-Marts of the world hire? Poor, unsophisticated people. What do they do to them while they work there? They strip them of their human dignity and make them put their kids on state health insurance programs. Why do they do it? There's profit to be made.

But something happened on this side of teaching them to sing the company song and do the butt wiggle at the center dash of Wal-Mart. There became a cruelty in the degredation; a pleasure in being telling a woman worker they didn't have to pay for time she spent in the bathroom.

I can just imagine some corporate man of industry telling his cronies, "I'm sure the $30 DVD players will attract the masses to shop ... but let's only stock a few so we can watch the fur fly." Because who buys $30 DVD players because of a marketing circular? Poor, unsophisticated people (and me, but I got mine in the off-season with no lost dignity). It's like two jolly-makers in one.

I bet there is not a person reading this post that didn't watch their local news in some state of horror over the crowds at the big boxes, and the commotions that were caused by the "deals" inside. Or that didn't see some permutation of the 73-y-o grandmother whose leg was broken in the crush to get a cheap laptop computer story in their local paper.

You can say the stampeders were acting like animals, and you wouldn't be half wrong, but there's something wrong with a world that sets up conditions for people to feel crazed and greedy like that. And if it seems crazy that something like this exists in America, well, I sure feel that way.

Justify my FMW

Talked to dad yesterday. He's got a dietician now, and he was talking about good-for-you foods with her. She was mild-mannered about his food choices until he brought up the Frosted Mini Wheats — a cereal he has derided as sugary junk and mocked me for eating so much of — and she went nuts! She got dad convinced that the FMW is about as good as it gets in terms of breakfast food.

So, to all the FMW haters, in your face.

From Russia with Love

These dudes are from the Pallada at the Tall Ships festival in Tacoma way way back in July. The Pallada is a teaching ship that does not carry weapons (unless you count the plumes of cigarette smoke) and isn't even military. They just love the uniform, however, in other countries and so they keep them, with their epaulets and braid and whatnot.

The sailors of the Cuauhtemoc and I could speak in Spanish and I got a couple free posters as well as an illuminating conversation about how they'd been away from Acapulco for a ghastly amount of time and continental civilization for even longer (previous two ports of call were in Alaska and Honolulu, which is unaffordable to regular American sailors, much less Mexican sailors, and they'd been at sea forever. A friend of mine who was a docent and did a little translation told me the sailors asked him where to get typical American food and where to find girls in Tacoma).

From the Russians, though, I left only footprints and took only photos of these strangely peaches-and-cream-skinned chain smokers. All we could say to each other were nonsense phrases like "Da Svidanya," "Perestroika," "Michael Jackson," and "Smoke! Smoke! Ha ha ha ha! Smoke? Nyet? (shrug)"

Stephen and Noga went to Vietnam

You should check it out.

Some Wilmoths, for a change

Rob and Hannah, to be precise. They're my blonde, curly-headed relatives, and this is after Grandma's funeral.

Rob and Carol came in from Steamboat, and it's always great to be around them. They always have such stories to tell. In fact, in June, Rob and I tooled around Etowah and Lepanto and he pointed out all the fields the high school kids used to pull into to have sex back in the day. Northeast Arkansas is as flat as a pancake, and it didn't seem to be very private to be in a field that was essentially in the middle of town, but I suppose the towns are so small not only does everyone know who is doing who anyway, but no one would be around to necessarily witness goings-on in Old Man Whoever's field.

Extreme Reporter

This is me, back at work. Ish. Lee Giles, the photog, jokes that I'm an X-treme reporter because I am not afraid to climb up and down 21 flights of see-through stairs to get to the bridge worksite, nor be on top of the bridge towers (I've been on top of both the new bridge and the one that is currently in use, which can't be called the old one because the actual old one was torn down by wind and then rebuilt). I've also been in a stunt plane, done a Polar Bear jump on New Year's, petted a polar bear (it was under sedation for a root canal at the time), been on a salmon fishing boat and done other various and sundry "extreme" things I can't recall.

Well, I guess you could say this is how I roll.

Charles documents Dad's exercise

Dad was doing really good at his 20-minutes-a-day exercise routine before I left, and it was thanks to the heart monitor on the exercycle (recumbent) that dad realized his heart was beating too fast. In this scene, you may be able to see a bit of the Greenland fishing village puzzle Charles and I worked on. That's Shelby in his little bed. Just watching dad work out wears him out.

Since dad has been doing physical therapy, he's the star patient and the rehabbers are trying to get him to enter a half marathon, which is still more than 13 miles. He seems keen, but if I recall correctly, didn't he have knee surgery at some point?

Charles was later seen helping my aunt Sandy recuperate from her own surgery, upon the heels of which came a hurricane. I'm telling you, this has NOT been the White Family Year of Great Fortune. Sandy is doing great, I hear, and, like with my dad, the surgery didn't end up being as humongous as the doctors at first thought it was going to be.

People, eat your veggies, do your exercise.

Fantastic experiment — sort of.

The Tacoma News Tribune is offering reader comments on their stories, just as if they were blog entries. Through Haloscan, even.

Yesterday I visited the TNT site to read a story that they wrote — with access to a 300-odd page legal filing in another county that I didn't have access to (on deadline, too far and Thurston County charges what I would call a freedom of information-stifling $.50 per page copy of its documents in county court. I mean, that's MORE than the cost of paper, electricity and toner for what is PUBLIC information. Spending $150 bucks is out of the my paper's budget for what amounts to what is now a minimal story).

So there were three comments that were left anonymously that basically mocked the way the state handles its finances. Nothing out of the ordinary for a typical blog entry on a typical popular site. I believe the comments centered on how TNC (the Bechtel-Kiewit company that has been hired to build the bridge by the transportation dept.) gets to pocket the difference for what its subcontractor can save them but my memory does not serve me well.

At any rate, though flip, the comments were quite stinging. And brought up some good points. And now they are gone into the ether. I'm not sure why this is so.

The Seattle PI also encourages comments but only on its blog stories. Which so far are all A&E stuff.

Anyway, I think it's a fantastic experiment. Sort of. With comments, you kinda have to keep them on if they aren't klantastic or you risk losing your credibility. I wish the Gateway would do something similar. It's a lot of fun to read what people will only say anonymously, because even though 1/2 of it is claptrap, some of it is the honesty of paranoids and more of it is the reflection of regular people.

Oh yeah

While in Arkansas, after dad's first meal out at Star of India, Charles and I were fortunate enough to get a glimpse of The Commander. She was in full regalia, including her phaser, which if I recall correctly, had to be handed in each day she served as a juror during the Whitewater trial to security. It seems unnecessary to carry a phaser, though, when her look is clearly set to "stun." (And I don't mean that in the Seven of Nine way, but rather, in the sense that people can't believe what they are seeing and so they just gawp.)

It was a first for Charles and although I've seen her before, one can never get enough of local eccentrics.

Great chili

Here's a recipe my mom wanted for some turkey chili I made. It's low in salt, fat and other nasty things, but super high on flavor — but surprisingly unspicy considering all the hot pepper that goes into it. Also it will make a ton. I made it like this back in Arkansas:

Chop up an onion and any leftover onion bits you have.
Chop up a green pepper and any other bits of pepper you have.
I forgot to add garlic, but you can squeeze some cloves in iffin you want.

fry above ingredients over med-hi heat in a dutch over/big soup pot. Stir.

When they are kinda cooked down add

two finely diced jalapenos.
A package of v.v. low fat turkey (if you are veggie make this a vegan dish by popping in a couple packages of tofu that has been frozen and defrosted and crumbled)

Make sure you stir a lot and break up the turkey into little bits. Unlike beef, it will stick all together (what with the lack of fat and all).

When turkey is browned, dump in
1 28 oz can crushed tomatoes.

Cuss because you think you screwed up — you bought diced tomatoes special for this recipe!
Add 28 oz (or equivalent) of diced tomatoes.

Dump in three cans of beans, which have been drained and rinsed to get rid of excess salt (and no, that liquid is not all that good for you, it's like it's all full of corn starch!). I recommend two cans dark kidney beans and one can black beans.

Stir and put the heat down so there isn't splatter everywhere.

Now for the spices. Get out your Cumin and put a wooden spoonful's worth in there. A lot of cumin makes chili. Do you have chili powder? A wooden spoonful. It won't burn. Trust me. Cayenne? Sure. I used that before, and a lot of it. I paired it with a bunch of paprika. Add paprika anyway, it's wonderfully sweet and savory. Is that all a lot of spice? Yeah, but you know what, that's going to be a lot of chili, too.

Let everything stew together for however long you want it to. Let it come to a thick, grotty clottiness. Boil off excess water. Eat with relish (although a little diced cilantro or shredded cheddar would taste better). Enjoy the cheapness of your work lunch (for the next week and a half), gross out your yoga classmates afterwards.

For Mediterranean farty goodness, here's my ratatouille recipe (and my mom's, but it's less a recipe than a series of guidelines).

Get the biggest pan you can find — bigger than the 9x13. This will be what you roast in. Keep the dimensions of this big pan in mind as you chop up (but not too fine because all the veggies will shrink dramatically): zucchini (aka courgette, 2-3), an onion (oignon, pronounced "onion" with a fransh accent), an eggplant (aubergine, which does not sound like albourge), roma tomatoes (tomates 2-3, at least. They will not keep their shape too good, but instead melt into a nice tomatoey glaze for the veggies) and mushrooms (champignons, baby bellas are good, a pack or so).

Mix these veggies either in a bowl or, if possible, in the roasting pan, with olive oil. The idea, as mom would say, is to think of it as a salad and the oil as its dressing. I found it's a lot easier if you grease up everything else first (minus the tomatoes) and add the eggplant after everything else is coated. Eggplant soak up oil like a sponge and are not good at sharing. On the plus side, they are the funnest of all the vegetables to cut. I am serious.

Once the veggies are pretty coated, get out the dried oregano and basil. The proportions you are going for are roughly two parts basil to one part oregano. But each part is a big honking part. When the veggies are in the roasting pan, you tump over the basil until it looks like a lawn is sprouting. Then add the oregano in an equal proportion. You will be shocked and offended by the sheer amount of herbage in the pan. Mix everything together until the herbs are kind of decently spread out. But it will never be as perfectly spread as you want it to be, because the basil and oregano will really be kind of sold on the side of the veggies you so lavishly sprinkled them on. So you basil up the other parts of the veggies with a vengeance. You will make yourself sick and giddy at the same time with each shake of the dried basil container. This is how you know you are doing the right thing, when you feel like a profligate wasteful American with the conscience of a European — nay! A citizen of Japan!

The oven should be preheated to 400 or so. I forgot. It doesn't matter. You leave the veggies inside the oven, uncovered, until they are appropriately shrunk. You may have to give the veggies a stir at some point. Some bits might be a little charred. You don't care. You are still under the heady influence of the fragrant fountains of green you let fly from your spice cabinet. I guess the appropriate time to check them is when you are once again able to stand up and concentrate on such mundane matters.

There you go, two recipes that will be so healthy and keep you so regular and yet so offensive to your exercise partners. Being healthy and fiberriffic has its downsides, it is true.

More ER madness

So dad had an appointment with his GP and reported a fast heartrate; the GP agreed and, at 1:30, we hit the ER to meet up with dad's cardiologist, Dr. Garza. He gets an EKG, he gets a chest X-ray, he gets put on a bed in the hall of the ER (not all in the same hour or in that order, come to think of it). Five hours later, we're waiting for either Garza or Singh, the so-called "cardiology gods," to basically confirm the suspicions of about five other doctors that have looked at dad — namely, that his meds need to be upped to control his heart rate. One of them will write him a new prescription and we're outtie.

Needless to say, I was not prepared to go from a GP appt to the ER and I have no book and am aggressively bored and, because of the fact that I'm bored and scared at the same time I get angry at these hifalutin doctors who think our time isn't worth it and are making us wait five hours. Also, I have to keep going outside to try to reach mom, who never answers her cell and I have to go through the metal detector each time the security guard doesn't keep his eye on me when I'm trying to get decent cell reception (which is blessedly very little time, but honestly). Finally I reach mom, who is with some people from her Sunday School class who have brought dinner. She comes to relieve me.

When she comes into the room dad has been moved to, Dr. Singh is in there with a coterie of little doctors, standing around an old woman who's had some sort of episode and he's doing the "House" thing, making the little doctors call out diagnoses and I'm sure it would be cute as hell if I hadn't thought he was going to look at dad, confirm the diagnosis other doctors have made and give dad some drugs. I figure mom has come at the last moment and dad is soon to be let go (oh yeah, the nurses withheld water from him for a while and he got whiny, but when he got water he felt better). But I get home, eat and watch an episode of "The Office" and talk with a friend back home before I find out the doctors have three ideas about what might be wrong with him. Two of them are pretty terrible situations, I'll describe them like I was "House." (Okay, I've only seen that show once, I'll wing it)

In the first situation, dad has atrial fibrulation. The atria, a sac within the heart, detaches from the heart muscle. It messes up the beat of the heart and speeds it up. It is dangerous. The EKG has already shown this is not what is bothering dad.

In the second, the sac around the heart is filling up with fluid. This is also a grim possibility. An ultrasound (which takes a while) shows this is not the case.

Or, the alternative, dad just needs more meds. Well, there you go. That's what it was. Mom and dad made it home at 10 p.m. Just in time for dad and me to watch the Daily Show and Reno 911. Trudy's getting married to Craig, the Truckee River Killer. That shouldn't be so funny, but it is.

So mom stayed home today and dad slept a lot and everything is fine.

ETA a description of some of dad's more noteworthy fellow sickies. There was an older man with a distended belly who kept bursting out with, "Praise God!" even though he seemed to be in some terrible pain. I overheard him tell a nurse, "I doo-dooed my pants, and it's bad." I never saw anyone un-doo-doo his pants, either. There was a big old redneck guy with a scrape on the back of his head. His lady came in and she was wearing a very revealing shirt and super tight pants and had a silver-blond eighties haircut — you know the mullet that is for very long, limp hair? Where the top part is parted in the middle and kind of brought back in a wave? That's the haircut she had. Also she had a huge tatoo on her chest and back. And boy was her man proud of her. Also, in the waiting room, was the skankiest little crackwhore you ever saw. Even the nurses were talking about her. She looked to have all manner — and I mean *all* manner — of STDs (she had a bump on her forehead, was skinny as anything, her eyes didn't appear to open correctly, and she was dirty, too), she was in a trashy and dirty little miniskirt and tank top ensemble and she was peripatetic. Either she was trying to get comfortable on the chair with a blanket over her or she was wandering around. Also she was constantly surrounded with trash. Where she was sitting, she was surrounded by chick-fil-a wrappers and chip bags and coke cans and about a jillion wadded-up napkins. She was with her crackpimp (?) who was a big ole ugly dude in a uniform shade of navy blue. I'm serious, his clothes, shoes, skin, hair, all looked to be about the same color of navy blue. He was not healthy. Or maybe it was the fluorescent lights.

Krishna Rocks

I'll get some photos up shortly, but this past weekend Granddaddy White and Uncle Charles came to visit. They drove my granddad's Lincoln Town Car up in spite of the uncertainty of supplies from Katrina, but took the route through Atlanta. They made it in Thursday afternoon — apparently they were just flying from Jackson, Miss., where they had stopped the night before. They were so fast that Charles had to call dad while we were doing his walkies at the Hobby Lobby (we were getting fabric and batting for mom's dinner chairs so there might be a place to sit and eat for the guests. However, that project has yet to get off the ground).

Granddad had a hot date Saturday night with Millie, his secretary from 50 years ago or so, with whom he had re-struck-up a friendship after running into her at a Fayetteville Rotary meeting. My granddad may be in his late 80s, but as a single man of his age he is HIGHLY in demand by the widder women. He cooks, he cleans, he is fully ambulatory and, the kicker, according to Charles, he can drive at night. It is not his preferred time to drive, but it means dinners and shows out on the town.

A little irony: Doug and I are young and good-looking (though not as good-looking as granddad) and not at all in demand for dates. We do, BTW, drive after dark. But that's just totally taken for granted by our Gen-X cohort, I suppose.

When I say a hot date, I mean it. They are talking about going to Branson together and seeing Shoji Tabuchi at his cabaret theatre, where he performs a family-friendly show with his beautiful wife Dorothy and delightful daughter Christina. Also a character in his show, his atrocious bowl-cut.

They also ended up going to Devil's Den park for a picnic, and granddad got a flat on the way back home and drove up the hill to the farm with the donut. It's amazing to me that his car made it up that hill in the first place, much less with the donut.

Charles stayed longer and left his "The Office" DVDs here. It's such a funny show, but nobody wins. Ever. It's kinda sad. I guess that's the dilemma of the modern man. He also took dad (and, I guess, me) on our first lunch out since the heart attack. It was to Star of India, and although Charles hadn't been there in maybe two years, Sami remembered him. Sami gives all the credit for his photographic memory to Krishna. Krishna rocks.

Charles also helped me get closer to completing the puzzle coworkers of dad's have brought him. It's a bunch of seaside buildings in Greenland; apparently there are only about three colors of paint in Greenland.

But Charles didn't have much time to spend here; he had class Monday and you know how those college kids are.

Hurricanes and worry-canes

Well, I suppose you know the drill — dad's doing fine as far as the recuperation goes. Since he is not able to lift anything heavier than a mug or a fork, yet is not as active as he probably should be, I have tasked him to unload the small dishes from the dishwasher. But he kind of has backed off that, because he wants to see if mom needs anything. Mom, you see, slipped in the tub last night and hurt her arm bad enough to need to go to the ER. She didn't break anything, only bruised it pretty bad, and she took the day off.

I swear, the luck of those two. Aunt Carol has always said they'd be a good sitcom.

Well, because it was Labor Day yesterday and mom was home, I did something mom and dad would have liked to do if they weren't overwhelmed: volunteered at their church, which was to be a shelter for some families from Katrina.

The church offered to take in a "bunch of Indians," and when I asked Indians or Natives, I heard, "you know, Indian Indians, like a tribe." Obviously I have a lot more exposure to the, er, politics of this sort of thing, what with being from the Northwest and all the fishing and gaming and tribal issues up there. But I was in for a little more White cluelessness before the day was over. Before anyone gets upset that I am making fun of these goodhearted volunteers, I would like to point out that these are all goodhearted volunteers I am talking about. They are people who are honest and open about what they don't know or understand, in that incredibly protected white person way. They want to understand so bad. It was charming.

When I got to the church in the afternoon, only one family was there. They were from New Orleans and had been there since the day before. They were intent on relocating to Arkansas, and the father (it was father, his pregnant girlfriend, their almost 1-year-old daughter, his mother) was looking for work and already had some business cards. Normally he's a barber. Poor pregnant mother had to sleep on air mattresses and her back was hurting something fierce. The grandmother had picked out a new cotton dress and lime-green shoes. "It's my new Labor Day outfit," she told me. She has 17 grandchildren and a great-grandbaby and the only ones she can't track down are the baby's family.

There were scads of donations, though. Some of them were ... weird. Like a bag of clothes with six unmatching socks at the bottom. Like stained old drawers — male and female. Like about 8,000 T-shirts. I swear, we are a T-shirt junkie of a nation, or maybe a junkie of what the T-shirts represent — vacations, biblical sentiment, regular cheeseball sentiment, pride in breeds of dogs, pride in breeds of brand names (unless Old Navy has actually established football, rugby and street hockey teams), pride in sports institutions — then using and discarding the T-shirts once they are raggedy and stained and don't feel so soft or new like so many busted syringes. There were plenty of toys and games and books. I was stacking and sorting some — Clive Cussler, John Grisham and LeCarre really have a grip on the imaginations of the people of mom and dad's church (there was also a full set of the "Left Behind" series. I couldn't blame a body for wanting to shuck them, but hadn't these evacuees been through hell already?) and came across one titled "Social Welfare Policy" with a long subtitle by Ira Colby.

It made me mad; I had no idea what the politics of the author were and the cover was no help. I held it up to one of the volunteers that seemed to be kind of in charge and said, "Is this for real? Is this a joke? What is the point of this?" Her reply: "Just chuck it. If you don't feel comfortable, just chuck it." She and another volunteer regaled me with stories of stuff they'd already chucked, unwashed sheets being the main offender.

There were a lot of nice things — and NEW things, too. I pulled out some pants in misses sizes 0-6 with tags still attached. But when the evacuees came, lemme tell you, those will not do the job. Gals from southern La. are on the big side. Willing donors were dispatched on an emergency run to get some big-girl bras. A search was posted for big-girl clothes. The well-to-do women of mom and dad's church seem to be a pretty petite, fit bunch. There were new shirts from LL Bean, Izod, Tommy Hilfiger, Gap, you name it.

About 3 p.m. or so Donell, who was kind of running interference for a lot of shelters and delivering families from the Arkansas State Fairgrounds (which he said was horrible — three hots and a cot, but no privacy or dignity in the big old Hall of Industry), brought us a family that had been evacuated from the Convention Center in N.O. Of course, the church was expecting 40 Native Americans, but they didn't want to turn the family away.

If the church had turned away the family of four, it would have been the fourth time they were denied a refuge. They were put on a bus in N.O. with no clear direction where they were going. The bus first stopped at Ft. Smith, at the now-converted into a refugee center Fort Chaffee (where dad spent a couple of weeks back in the reserve evading 'Nam), where they were turned away because it was full. Then they stopped at Camp Robinson and the bus was turned away. Then they were sent to a Baptist campground that had been converted into an evacuee shelter and that was full and the bus was turned away. It ended up at the state fairgrounds, where the father and Donell met.

The church has one of the better refuges, Donell said. Not only are there plenty of clothes and supplies, but there are toys, and the families are to get their own "apartments" in the gym — really just partitioned areas with air mattresses, folding chairs, a couple of tables and chests, but able to be screened off from the open area. Evacuees also all got checked out by a doctor (pediatrician to boot) and registered nurse who are members of the church. That's not a service that's available to everyone.

So the Choctaws came in and it was just crazy registration time. There was supposed to be a security search of the bags — did not happen (no alcohol, drugs or weapons allowed in the gym. A pastor said the stuff would be confiscated but returned when evacuees left. The weapons thing also could apply to the church — one pair of donated shoes came with a box of shotgun shells. Apparently this being Ark. one must make certain allowances for hunters who hide ammo from kids and then forget about it.) Nobody was sure how the families would break off into groups or which apartment they'd stay in. All the organization was being dumped on one overloaded volunteer so I tried to break off the responsibility a bit and approached a nice liberal woman about figuring out who goes where. She gave me a little talk about how the families choosing where they would sleep and having some autonomy was part of the healing process and I was like, okay, if that's how you want to play it.

Medicine is an important service — when the tribe came in (25 Choctaws, but none of them easily identifiable as such — they were all Black, which did a little confoundation on the volunteers) — some of them had not recieved any care for ages. Many evacuees just plain old forgot their medicines, too, usually for asthma, high blood pressure, diabetes and more. One elderly woman had a terrible wound and a deep staph infection on her leg and the doctor recommended she go to the hospital (there was also a boy — teen or so, I guess — with serious developmental issues and a feeding tube and medications. I can't imagine the woman taking care of him would want to return to the fairground).

But that would get bound up in some politics. The chief, who went by that title and was fairly reachable through a cell phone at the state fairgrounds, had agreed to the rules of the church in a preliminary discussion with one of the pastors. But there was a question of keeping the totality of the tribe together, even if that meant putting an elderly woman with a staph infection back at the fairgrounds. It was all a bunch of drama, and the goodhearted volunteers were disappointed that not only would noses be turned up at the hospitality, but that other families that could have been moved there — and two were turned away while waiting for the tribe — were not.

Most of the people who came in wanted to stay, though there were issues with the air conditioning. Also, remember the thing about the choosing and healing process? Well, partly because of that and partly because a room was set up to be a hospital-like room, there were all these joined rooms and the people decided the couples with small children should have their own rooms and all the teenagers should dorm up in one room — a coed room. This was presented by the kindly liberal at an organization meeting. I and another, senior, pastor both said "Nuh uh" at the same time. That didn't fly. The rules were written to make sleeping in "family groupings" mandatory, to be presented with the chief present as an authority figure.

Another source of potential tension came to see me while I was alone at the desk. A kid who had a Gamecube wanted to hook it up to the huge tv on loan from a local dept. store. I told him I didn't have any say-so, that I would ask someone who did, and that in the meantime, I didn't think it was a good idea because there were a lot of kids and they could be jealous.

Man, it was interesting watching how these two communities are going to come to an arrangement (or not).

As I was leaving a Lincoln Town Car and a Jeep Cherokee pulled into the church and three very native looking people got out — a man with a red shirt that said "Arkansas Bear Dance" and a big braid, a man with a braid and a Muskogee t-shirt and a woman in a flowy white ensemble with beaded jewelry and the affect of a living dreamcatcher, if you know what I mean. Bear Dance had a real typical native accent; the other two sounded Latino. Bear Dance asked me if this was where the people from Mississippi were. I said there were a lot of Louisianans and walked them down to the hall. I asked who they were looking for and Bear Dance said "Choctaw." I said, "well, they're chock full of Choctaw in there." I guess they've heard that a lot or maybe it's just the understated Native American thing to not laugh, but they were clearly on a mission and I really really wish I had stuck around to see what was going to happen.

At any rate, I came home and mom was in the hospital's e.r. and dad was reading that second Hamilton bio. I volunteer tonight so I guess I'll find out who is staying and who is going and will update.

P.S. This blog vetted by dad for potentially over-sarcastic things about good, kind people. I can't say enough how much folks want to help at that church and how positive the response has been. There are going to be misunderstandings, crummy T-shirts and all that everywhere. I'm just trying to be honest about it while doing justice to the authentic goodwill that exists in my folks' church.

Sick as a dog

Poor Shelby. Here's dad getting all this attention and he's wheezing and sneezing and bleeding from his leprosy spots. I mean, the dog's a mess. It's ironic because mom and dad got a Jack Russell because of thier alleged hardiness, and the poor old thing is just a mess. I gave him a half a child's Benadryl and he seems to have stopped snotting up. It's just the most pitiful thing you ever saw, an old dog walking around sneezing and snorting and not being able to walk well because of his pain.

Dad has felt a little off the past couple of days — it could be a side effect of the drugs he's on (about a jillion), part of the natural depression that comes with the heart surgery recuperation process (it's in all the pamphlets and booklets), or just part of all the pain and muscular stuff that comes with having your chest cracked open. Nonetheless, we soldiered out to the mall the other day for walkies.

Dad did a loop of each of the three floors, the top one twice, and there were lots of benches and even some leather la-z-boy style chairs to crash in. As we were at dad's last bench before leaving, he was approached by a guy who was a member of the same club as him — the broken heart club, so to speak. He was 59 (like dad) when he went in to get his new valve, a pacemaker and a quadruple bypass. He said his heart was so enlarged it had split his valve. Jeez. It was all stress, which he quickly depleted himself of — sold his business and divorced his wife — and said that he's about as good at being a bum as anything.

Dad has been sad about Katrina. Lots of human misery and all that. As a non-Arkansas resident I feel liberated from the bonds that usually restrict journalists from doing anything nice for anyone anytime and have offered up my name as a volunteer to do whatever with a couple of churches. See, a lot of the evacuees are here in Arkansas, and they haven't got a thing or a clue about what's going on in N.O. They are being put in the Ark. State Fairground, Barton Coliseum and War Memorial Stadium. What is up with putting these folks in sports arenas? If the Superdome was a terrible place partly because it had no showers or anything that made it an appropriate place for people to live with dignity or privacy for a couple of days, what will make the Astrodome better for an untold period of time? I am really curious.

Dad asks why not reopen Fort Chaffee? Bases that are being closed? Seriously, why not?

Anyway, it doesn't sound like there's a strong interfaith alliance that is getting things together to take care of people up here — though lots of churches are sending supplies southward, there is an opportunity to get things done in this community.

So dad's still soldiering on and pretty much the same as before except now with a voice.

Dad's progress

Mom took dad to his first doctor's appointment after being discharged from the hospital today and it's all good. Dad is doing well and he's even going to be allowed to use the recumbent bike (very low resistence and speeds). He even had a glass of red wine with dinner today (it was pasta from Heifer, with whole-wheat bread and salad).

He's still on about 8,000 pills and doing his breathing exercises with the blowing machine.

Things I have learned from the TV at the folks' house:

- Inspector Lynley's girlfriend is such a pain in the neck. When will he realize he and Havers are meant for each other???

- Chuck Dovish no longer does "Travelin' Arkansas." Well, he does, but for public TV.

- Some chick named "Susan" or something has local news ratings all wrapped up, and there's nothing Ann Jansen can do about it, nor her partner in anchordom Andy Richter (not his actual name, but what he looks like).

- Arkansas Mid-day news has hired a little gay Asian man — and I didn't think Ark. was ready for that!

- Norman Lear is still funny for the "Celebrex" ad crowd. Until you find out it's the one where Edith was raped, and then it's time to change the channel.

- CMT proves that just because Loretta Lynn is cool don't mean she has to surround herself with cool people in her "Country in my Genes" video. Also that there is a group of ugly, over-groomed men trying to look cool and hetero (their obvious non-heterocicity is not tied to their ugliness — I fully believe they recognize they are not hot and made a marketing decision to go for the only music scene that accepts conventionally ugly men as stars) and people are, apparently, buying it.

- No matter what you're age, that 1 1/2-minute Hillary Duff video demands you watch it if you stumble across it. Is it her new veneers?

- Pulaski Heights United Methodist Church needs to up its lighting for its TV ministry.

- Antiques Roadshow NEVER gets old. And mom knows the theme song for "History Detectives." Or she made one up, which is a scary thought.

Dad is almost done with his Hamilton bio. Mom compared his obsessive reading of it to her students who read Harry Potter or "Red Wall," whatever that is. Mom is working on school stuff. Shelby just wants a place to lay his little head, that poor old leprous dog.

Dad on the town

Today dad's busy schedule of sitting around was interrupted by a trip to Barnes and Noble. Armed with the knowledge that Target is not a bastion of well-spaced seats, we also knew B&N is. So he spent some time sitting in their armchairs looking at "French for Dummies," then took a turn around the store, sat down in the travel section and looked at a few cookbooks for heart-healthy foods.

He ended up with a biography of Alexander Hamilton.

He took a couple of naps and read his P.G. Wodehouse — I mean, really, he's obsessed, and that's not necessarily a good thing because Wodehouse wrote something like 200 books — and Jennifer Pierce from Heifer dropped by. Although they talked about work the most stressful moment for dad was when I refused to make a left on Shackelford because I couldn't see traffic coming from the right. He got all cussy and het up and I reminded him it wasn't like he had anywhere to be. Also, I gave him a little GMR driving philosophy — I don't turn until I'm psychologically ready. And that is why I don't have accidents (knock on wood and never mind that time I scraped dad's car against that other car while parking).

Although we watched the news, and that was pretty much it for TV today, mom walked in on us rubber-necking "Being Bobby Brown." Dad was horrified at the rudeness and flat-out appallingly cracked-out behaviour of the Brown family (which includes Miss Whitney Houston). At least Ozzy Osbourne isn't the only example of why you should stay away from drugs on the TV.

Mom's ordering Chinese, and I'm getting ready to go to the pool with Hannah and Suzy. It's 103 with the heat index outside, so this will be fun.

Back from Etowah

Well, Grandma had a nice funeral, and people were commenting how much she would have enjoyed being there for it. But then, isn't that kind of a standard comment for funerals? There was an indoor part (including the hymn Unclouded Day, which has been removed from the current Baptist Hymnal, which prompted mom to prompt me to grab her Methodist Hymnal and make 150 copies of the song at 11 p.m. the night before the funeral) and an outdoor commendation. Although it was at about 11 a.m. it was not terribly hot and there was a good stiff breeze.

I was one of Grandma's pallbearers, along with all the other big cousins and Harry Jr., and that was a heavy coffin. It was weird to be a part of carrying Grandma to her final resting place. It didn't hit me until later what an honor it was; she's in Garden Point Cemetery now, next to the other Wilmoths, next to where Pa will be someday, and I helped get her there. I'm sorry I had to do the girl thing and put my hip into it, but I know she wouldn't care in the least.

The church ladies made up a big buffet for the family and guests and it was good country eating. All the foods that these past couple of weeks have been shown to be poison to my family. I packed myself full of chicken and dumplings, candied yams, green beans cooked with ham, chicken casserole with those crispy onions on top, coconut cream pie, peach cobbler, whipped potatoes, cheese grits and chicken and dressing, promising to get back on the healthy skim milk-frosted mini wheats-strawberry train when possible. I know that when I'm on my own I'm a pretty healthy eater; and I know that from the mypyramidtracker.gov site. I also know that the site seems pretty silly to a lot of people, but I am now all too aware of the consequences of what goes in my mouth and how much time I'm on my butt. Seriously, get your cholesterol checked, look into your day-to-day eating routines, rethink the source of your tiredness.

Dad is doing well enough to say that he's going to help with cleaning. However, I haven't seen him start in on it. That's okay; I don't particularly care if he cleans or not. The only thing I care about is how much he says "please." We watched four whole hours of "Gilmore Girls" Saturday and an episode last night. I think he thinks it's better than he says it is.

I hate slipcovers and think they are the tackiest things unless you never sit on them.

Dad's chest wound has been bugging him today and yesterday. Well, I imagine it's a real humdinger to heal that kind of a cut. He went to Target last night with mom for a walk and was worn out when it was over. Partly, I think, because mom was into the shopping thing and dad, well, dad is a recuperating quadruple bypass patient. Also, he reported back that Target is not a great place to walk because there are not a bunch of seats all over the place. He managed to get halfway across the store pushing a cart and got desperate for a place to sit down and found where they were selling some cheap chairs and used those, then spent some time later leaning on a dog food bag and then managed to get to the snack bar, where he put his head down and got a glare from security. He did not have his special heart pillow to show and say, "Hey! I'm a heart patient! Don't rough me up!" And one of his prescriptions is to keep his heart pillow with him 24/7.

Well, that's the news for now. I need to get to the racquet club and be put on Suzy's membership so I can use the workout equipment and lounge around by the pool. That will be a much-appreciated distraction from the inside of Chez White.

More bad news

Dad is doing fine except in one area: Saying "please." He's pretty good about saying "thank you" when I bring him something to eat, massage the horrible scar that runs down his calf (it goes higher, but he's in charge of above-the-knee scar therapy), put his bandages on or take them off, etc. He told me today that both he and my mom have trouble remembering to say "please."

But dad's okay. It's grandma that's not.

My mom's mother died yesterday. This completes a trifecta of stressors on my mom — husband having a heart attack and quadruple bypass surgery, the car getting stolen and now this. She's not really that stressed about the car, but getting a rental to go up to Etowah and figuring out how to keep dad with a caretaker through Monday (when Grandma's funeral is being held, and Doug and I are going to go for the day) is the sort of thing that she doesn't need but has to deal with anyway.

Grandma has been really sick for a long, long time, so this wasn't a shock or anything. Grandma even wanted to die for months — if not longer. But it's depressing and sad nonetheless, and I keep thinking about Pa. He just lived for her for so long. She died at home and with two of her daughters and Pa around her, which is probably more than most people with her kind of health problems and age can be assured of.

Grandma was really cool. She was just a super grandma to me and all the other cousins. She loved her family unreservedly. She liked to keep up with the news of Lepanto/Marked Tree/Etowah, but not the world so much. Before she got real sick she had to have her morning coffee and smoke. The last time I talked to her I said, "I love you," and she said, "Who's ugly? Who's ugly?" and I repeated myself and we ended up agreeing that everybody we knew was pretty. And that's really how she felt.

Anyway, that's the report from Loretta Lane.

Maybe we've turned a corner, though. The insurance company is willing to write off the stolen car (recovered, banged-up, from a ditch) as a total loss and the folks are getting some cash money for it.

Back in the recliner, again

Dad got kicked out of the hospital about noon today; he came home and plopped into his recliner, where he's been spending most of his time. He did his exercises and took his first shower in about two weeks. He's so happy to have clean hair. He also cut his beard and nails, thus transforming from Grizzly Adams to Grizzly Adams with a trim.

He's not that bad. He also got to eat his first bunch of fresh and ripe (at the same time) veggies in a salad.

Perhaps the highlight of dad's return (besides being at home with his family and all that) was having a clicker that goes up and down the channels instead of up only.

Another day of improvement

Dad got his chest drainage tube taken out today. He got extra drugs for that, even though Dr. Adam did a better-than-serviceable job in gently removing it (ha ha. During rounds he had told dad he was going to "yank" it out, provoking what dad said was a withering reproach from the cardiologist). Without the tube, dad can get around a little easier. He took a walk with his nurse, Jing, and did two laps around the cardio wing. His occupational and physical therapists came by and showed him some exercises — they are pretty basic, but seemed to wear him out pretty easily — and were impressed that he is very good about not pulling himself up with his arms. He can't push or pull anything over a couple of ounces of force for 6 weeks. He can't drive, either. He will be expected to walk, working himself up to 30-45 minutes per day.

Dad took two walks, and I accompanied him on his second. He pushed a wheelchair around and I spotted him. He said I should have gotten a picture of him doing *that* but I forgot the camera. I didn't expect today would top yesterday after the wagon.

At any rate, it seems like dad will be able to leave tomorrow and come home. He has been fully prepped with horror stories about people who felt fine and did something stupid and ended up at square one. If he's not totally paranoid, I sure am after hearing about the guy who decided to mow his lawn, whacked his bean on a tree limb, got knocked out, woke up with a split sternum and now will suffer kidney-stone like pain down the front of his chest for the rest of his everlovin' life.

So, bypass surgery recovery makes for serious paranoia.

Dad got a private room!

Dad on how he feels when he has to share a room. (He was moved out of his shared room last night)

Just kidding! This is Dad showing how big a baddy he can be while wearing a hat that says "Support Your Local Bandido," the motorcycle group his friend Lori's huband belongs to. It was one of about a million gifts she and Christine:



brought to dad. There were some magazines, madlibs, logic puzzles, a stuffed rabbit, a SpongeBob lap blanket, blackjack electronic game and a fake World Ark, magazine of the Heifer Project, with the title "Rendezvous in Chengdu" with the infamous picture of dad smoking with the local Chinese officials with their hats all tilted funny. Oh yeah, and the R. Kelly/Jay Z collaboration CD. Because dad and the rap, like peanut butter and chocolate, milk and cookies and Stephen and G.I. Joe, just go together really well.

They got dad's spirits up pretty good — Christine is from Dallas and she was in town for a Heifer press conference (the Keller family donated $3 million smackaroonies) because she does PR — and got him laughing. Which kind of hurts him a little in the chest, what with the split sternum. And Reader's Digest thinks laughter is the best medicine indeed.

Dad's bosses, Tom and Mike, also came by and I brought up the ill-made promise Tom made to cut the grass. He seemed repentent but willing. It was really sweet of him to offer. But that doesn't mean I won't tease.

Also Terry and Judy from Heifer dropped by and brought a bag of food for whoever was taking care of dad. Which was me. Those pretzels, blueberries, carrots, cheese sticks and tomatoes bought dad a few more hours of my company, because I was starving. I gave him a few blueberries — I figure that's kosher on a no-salt diet — and he said it was the best thing he'd tasted since he got in the hospital. I've seen his meals and I don't know how he could so easily dismiss his limp iceberg lettuce salad with a slice of whitish tomato.

But Heifer people weren't the only ones to drop by. Pati had a workshop in Conway and swung through to see her big brother after it was over.



They had a good visit and a good talk. It's so good to see her. She and dad were talking about the exercises he's supposed to and they're basically the same ones Grandmommy had to do. One of them is described in his handout as "lifting hubcap burger to eat," which I think is a particularly cruel descriptor because eating one of Cotham's hubcap-sized burgers isn't something these patients are working up to (in fact, it may be a bygone pasttime of some). Imagine lifting a big burger up from your lap to your mouth. Or holding your arms out straight for a second. This is what dad will be doing for six weeks, along with "walking around the Wal-Mart," though since we're too klassy a set of people for that Target will probably be our destination until the Fair Trade Big Box Store opens a branch in Little Rock.

Here's another exercise dad does:



This is the blowing machine and dad is almost consistently hitting 2,000 somethings. Which is where he needs to be. It makes the air sacs in his lungs get used to working on their own. He also accidently sat around without the oxygen tubes stuck up his nose for hours (I couldn't tell because he was sitting in the chair and I was on the bed where I didn't have a face-on look) but didn't have a problem.

Dad is able to get up and around and we walked down the hall about 30 feet and back to his room. He was whipped. I was nervous because I had to hold the chest tube wound sucker as we walked and I didn't want to get too far away and rip it out of his chest. Which they are talking about doing tomorrow.

Dr. Ozdimer also talked about sending dad home tomorrow, but that is only a possibility. There is a security in being in the hospital — all the stuff to stop things from going wrong is right there. Nobody is more aware of that than dad. Still, this demonstrates dad's good progress.

The depressing thing about this surgery is the prognosis says if he does well, he'll get to sit through this again in 10 years. Of course, by then they may be able to put something in his chest that lasts longer than his own veins. And he'll do fine since all those other people in the cardio wing are that age and getting hacked open.

Dad had the exotically-named Exzeria for his tech today. She was so sweet to him. And the food services guy fetched TWO diet french salad dressings (yum!) for dad when his was left off his food tray. That was really nice of him.

Doug should be in the hospital watching The Daily Show with dad about now. They probably watched Reno 911. Yeah, dad says it hurts to laugh but can he stay away from the two funniest shows on TV? I seriously doubt it.

Heart-ailment hilarity

Yes, dear readers, heart hilarity ensued today as dad was moved from his big private, cardio intensive care unit room into a regular, smaller recuperation room with roommate.

I went to the hospital at about 8:30 a.m. to find dad sitting up in a chair washing himself (though not too exposed). He had to use some kind of funky shampoo foam in his hair then "rinse" it with the soapy water in the spongebath bin and then towel it off (I did most of the hair stuff, it's hard for him to keep his arms up like that). But he was cleaner. We read the paper (I read some of the more hilarious ADG letters to the editor and obituary names, plus an article on a redneck with five pit bulls whose home has become like a homing beacon for dozens of copperheads — mom is very grossed out by that story, I'm waiting for the crazy Bible-thumper letter about how it's a sign of the end times) and talked a bit.

A little before noon, Monique and Kali — pronounced "Callie" — got dad into a wheelchair, put all his junk in a couple of plastic bags and we were in the not-so-posh recuperation room. But now dad gets to have his cellphone with him so there are *some* benefits. And you all can call him.

Well, dad got visits from Harriet Farley, a friend from college, Brett, a guy from church, George and Peggy Ackerman, from his reading group and, I think, church, and I think that's it. He's a popular guy.

So dad and I tried to do the Sunday NYT crossword (what's a word for light orange that isn't melon or apricot?) and we played a game of Phase 10 (not all the way through). And as we were kind of starting up our game dad got a roommate. Dad has been assured that he's at the top of the list for a private room, but not yet apparently.

Dad's roommate is an older guy who was a real vinegary old codger. He came in with his wife but she left for lunch (dad and codger got salisbury steak, whipped potatoes and fruit cocktail). After he ate a psychiatric doctor came in with a couple of residents (who looked WAY young, BTW) and started asking him some questions. Here's a brief transcript from memory of the exchange:

"Do you know where you are?"

"Well, I'm here, aren't I? You got me trapped in this place!"

"Do you know where here is?"

"I'm not a damn fool, this is a hospital!"

"Do you know why you're here?"

(big pause — he must've been looking at his chest and making a connection) "My ... my breast."

"Yes, your *chest.* You had an operation on your chest."

"Well I don't know why I needed that."

"Do you know what year it is?"

(big pause) "O .... oh-five?"

"Yes it is! And do you know what town you're in?"

"Why are you asking me something like that? I've been in the Navy, I've seen the world and a lot of towns. Do you think I'm crazy? I saw you before, you're a shrink! You bothered me earlier and you're bothering me now. I'm not crazy!"

"I know! I'm here because you seemed a little confused earlier, and I thought I would check on you and see if you were still confused."

"I'm not confused, you're confused. I just need to go home and I won't be confused at all."

And so on. Codger was a real treat, lemme tell you. Dad and I were like, choking back giggles.

So the shrink and shrinkitos leave, and we're still playing Phase 10 when I hear:

(conspiratorial whisper shout) "Young lady! Young lady!"

Dad and I exchange a look.

"Yes?"

"What town are we in?"

"Huh, well it occurs to me we're in Yokohama."

"What? No we're not!"

"No, of course we're not. I heard someone speaking Spanish. I think we may be in Mexico City."

"Oh, shit." (pause) "I don't know why you can't tell me what town we're in."

"Where's your home town?"

"CABOT ARKANSAS!!"

"Okay, well, if you're from Cabot and you're in a hospital, what town are you probably in?"

"I don't know these towns around here ... I don't know."

"Where are all the hospitals in Central Arkansas?"

"I don't know."

"If I give you a hint you think you can figure it out?"

"I don't see why you just don't tell me, you're as bad as that other girl."

"We're in a big town near Cabot."

Later he moaned out loud, possibly because he wanted to make some sort of connection: "I really made an ass of myself. I really did it. I made an ass of myself."

Well, he didn't figure it out and when his wife came back he asked what town they were in but as far as I could tell, and dad, too, we were both shameless nosy nellies, she didn't know either. He told her he'd made an ass of himself.

Anyway, this old dude had got me involved, I'm sorry to say. And when the shrink came back I was getting a nurse to — pardon the details here — come measure and dispose of dad's pee from this little bedside tupperware thing so he could go again — but codger totally bogarted her as she came in with his bad attitude and she was all futzing with his stuff and getting him as sorted as he would allow himself to be. And dad really needed to go, and I was all het up at codger, so I kind of butted in to get the nurse to take care of the non-complainer and he pulled me in with some question and, in front of all these nice, understanding, liable-skeered professionals, I kind of let this man have it.

"Do you talk to waiters this way?"

"What?"

"I said, do you talk to other people who are trying to help you this way?"

"What? Uh..."

"All they want to do is help you, and you're giving them a hard time." (at this point I have totally usurped the authority of the professionals in the room, who are probably appalled that I'm allowing myself to be dragged in, but I have recognized codger's personality type from years of writing for and about seniors, and he's the kind who likes to be disciplined a little and hates to be patronized).

"Well, they keep asking me questions."

"I know. It's not fun. But is it because you're in pain?" (I'm wondering if he's truly a codger or if pain is getting in his way of being polite. Also I'm thinking let's shut this dude up and give him a little naptime. I'm not a very nice person, I guess, but he actually kind of settled down from being agitated and irritating a little.) "Do you need something to cut back on some pain?"

"I'm not in pain! I feel fine!"

"Well then I am out of ideas to help you. Maybe they can. Nurse? My dad really needs to go potty, can you please measure his pee so he can go again?"

And she did.

Mom has been telling people dad's got a psychiatric patient, but he's just got a scared old man in there with him that the doctors don't know how to talk to. Not, really, that I did, either. Not to make myself out to be anything other than a teed-off daughter who didn't want her pops to wet himself.

Dad and I played up until we both hit phase 8? 7? Then he got tired and I needed to check on Shelby. Dad's got the TV remote and the window, so he's going to be okay. Doug and Mom are going to visit tonight.

Heartbroke hotel

As some of you know, my dad had a heart attack on Monday morning and bypass surgery on Friday. It ended up being a quadruple bypass instead of a quintuple, but that doesn't really make the recovery that much easier. After all, the doctors crack your sternum open and pretty much take your heart out of your chest before they stitch the leg veins into your normal blood pathways. Big ouch. That pillow is so he doesn't put too much pressure on any particular part of his chest, because with the pectorals having been through all that pain, it's hard to do much with your arms besides tuck them up on your chest. He is able, however, to scratch his head and put a little pillow behind him.

I am posting some pictures because I know how hard it is when you care about someone to not be able to see what their situation is. I was not in very good shape for a few days while I was still in Tacoma, but Doug sent me an email with some pics he'd taken of dad in the hospital and the big "unknowing" was lifted a bit. It helps to see to believe, you know?

There are a lot of good things about the circumstances of this heart attack. Number one is it didn't happen in Guatemala, where he was 24 hours earlier, nor in Dallas-Ft. Worth airport, where he was 12 hours earlier, nor on the road to Little Rock from DFW. Number two is mom is on-point and he took an aspirin. True, the fact that he's quite healthy and young (as far as these things go), was depressing and scary. It's been a real wake-up call for him and Mom, which also is not wholly a bad thing.

Dad has a really good attitude about healing up and he's enjoying his nurses and the respiratory therapist and everyone else at UAMS hospital. He's not a negative person or a racist, which I wonder if that is not a trait that is the bane of the extremely diverse hospital staff, what with it being in Arkansas. He does what they tell him, like blow in this little tube and try and get an air bladder up to 2,000 somethings. It's about three inches from the bottom of the thing, and which he told Dannette, his respiratory therapist, was to get air into his "alluvial sacs," duly impressing her. "I usually just say air sacs for most patients," Dannette said. Anyway, Dad's real social and a people person so he's all chatty with the nurses, even if he doesn't have the strongest voice at the moment. He has to work extra hard to get the words out, so he sounds a little quiet and strained.



Doug and Dad.

Dad sat up for several hours today, which is a big change for him. He is usually lying down on the bed — which is not that bad. It's pretty squishy, as I found out when I plopped on it while he was sitting, and he said it was the most comfortable of the three he has been on. He's got wires hooked up all over and tubes and whatnot. He has a couple of tubes coming out of his neck area that Monique, one of his nurses, injects with heaven knows what. He had about four injections while Doug and I were there and that didn't include an IV drip and albumin to do something for his veins. He also has stuff coming out of him — a catheter and a wound sucker (yes, that's the technical term) — and a Mr. Thirsty, like from the dentist, and all three hold their respective fluids, which I guess the staff is used to and thank goodness Dad is fairly shameless about it from the pain meds and the gratefulness for being alive. To me the collection of fluids reminds me of the early medical practice of checking the humors.

Dad hasn't been on a lot of pain medication because his tolerance for pain has skyrocketed since The Kidney Stone at Meegan's Wedding incident. We are encouraging him to not dismiss pain levels of 6/7 just because he can. Dannette and Monique told him it might hinder healing and his breathing.

Doug has been so good to Dad and Mom. He is a real rock, and you can tell from this picture that he's such a good-lookin' young man. We did a crossword puzzle with dad. Talked politics. He got a call from a college friend of mom's. Last night when I saw him (for the first time) he really wanted to watch "The Daily Show" with us, but alas, it was Saturday.

I want to give a special shout-out to Kaye for taking care of Shelby, the 14-year-old Jack Russell, while Mom couldn't cope. I picked him up and he was getting along great with her feisty little Pomeranian and six cats. It's because he's old. I brought him home and he sniffed everything inside and out (I guess to check that no other animals had been here in his absence) and has been sacking out in his usual pillow. His being here will raise Mom's spirits a lot, I am sure.

Although Doug was horrified that I brought in a camera (and proceeded to document the transfer to the chair, which is kind of revealing with the gown and all, but particularly invasive for the sort of vulnerability it captures of a man depending on two women to get him up and about) I'm used to talking to people about/at their worst moments and generally being nosy (I'm also used to respecting the dignity of my sources, however. Well, except a few and that's because they don't have any).

Well, that's the update for now. Tune in for more pictures and milestones as they become available.

Going postal

So my folks sent me a package with the parka I left in Arkansas and some books my mom wanted to get rid of (my old Lloyd Alexanders among them. The nerve!) so badly she put them in her "go ahead and 'borrow' these books" bookcase at school. If I hadn't decided to go to the post office to pick up the package rather than have it delivered to the lease office I never would have seen a near riot.

What happened was the downtown office was very foolishly understaffed this morning. Some guy named Steve was it. And when I got there the line wasn't too heinous. But this is the post office, and conditions change very quickly. And Steve was giving the old fashioned kind of service one sees, if ever anymore, in the sorts of small towns where people are either related to each other to some degree or can't run the risk of angering anyone else because generations of grudges will be born. I mean, he was chatting with people, whistling while he worked and taking his sweet time about everything.

While this was irritating, and much more so when the line stretched for about half the length of the nearly-city-block-long building, what set the whole thing over the top was the guy with the passport application. What a maroon. From the moment he did the "what? I'm next" look of surpirse and I saw his Tarpon Bay, Fla. t-shirt, I knew this was going to be a very special conversation for Steve. When Steve called out, "oh, a passport!" I think we all knew where this was going.

And going. And going. I heard Steve and Tarpon talk about where Tarpon was going, how often he traveled, how Steve didn't get to travel too much because he has two weeks a year, but when he retires he has some ideas about where to go, etc. etc. etc. I clocked this transaction at 15 minutes when Willie, post office person number two, showed up and acted like he was going to take over another register.

But no sweet relief yet. Willie didn't have a key to get a cash box, so he went looking for the manager, then Steve went to get him and give him a key to get a cashbox because the manager had left, then there was more aimless running around for a few minutes ... it was like a victory for alacrity was snatched out of our hands.

Anyway, Steve keeps flapping his gums with Tarpon. And the lady in pink decided to rebel.

The lady in pink was a middle-aged Black woman in a much-too-short pink frilly dress — kinda flapper frilly more than girly frilly, with layers of ruffles overlapping each other with a hot-orange line print. Also she had hot pink thongs on with big hot pink flowers on them. And hot pink toenails and hot pink hair accessories. The funny part was that she had all different shades of hot pink on so she looked less coordinated than crazy. She was also clutching her neck because she had some kind of issue with it.

"This is not a social call for you, will you hurry up?" The pink lady let out.

Something about that set off the bald retired honky in green-lensed glasses behind her and another old guy behind him. All three of these folks just started going OFF on Steve. Who came back with some pathetic, "I'm just providing good service" line to them. At this time Willie reemerges with a cashbox and sets up and serves about three people in rapid succession.

Pink lady: "Oh, please. You are too slow and you act like this is social hour every time I come in here!"

Green glasses: "This is ridiculous, the line is too long for this kind of stuff!"

Other guy: "C'mon buddy, some people don't have all day!"

Tarpon looks a little amused and a little embarrassed and he kind of realizes he's done with the passport thing but has a few more words to say to Steve (enabling jerk) so he hangs back like he's going to get into the line AGAIN to waste other people's time or maybe to give Steve a special goodbye.

But he leaves because Steve gets grumpy and stalks off from the counter and comes back with a manager who asks if he can help anyone. Well, you don't have a cashbox, I think, so there's a limit to what you can do.

But the post office rebels don't want their packages ("I do!" I think), they want to burn Steve at the stake. A torrent of noisy invective is flung at the manager like so much chimpanzee poop. Albeit chimpanzee poop that should be listened to. This is not a case of an overwhelmed post office dude doing the best he can, this is a case of a guy who does not appreciate that rapidity is an all-important part of customer service.

Pink lady had the best comment, however: "You pay him $30 an hour to go slow; I could do ten times as much!"

Manager: "Who says I pay him $30 an hour?" Which manages not only to not address the issue but also to antagonize the pink lady, whom he then further insults by saying, "There is a test one takes to get into the postal service, it is going on now if you would care to take it we are looking for new employees." What a crappy manager. We are all hating the crappy manager. And Steve, who is now surly, has managed to help not even a single man, the guy after Tarpon is still standing at the desk. In the meantime, four people have been discharged from Willie's window.

I get to the window, ask Willie if this happens often and he said, "Just today." He handed me my package and boom, I was gone.

The dispersal of the postal riot people would not have been possible if not for the quick hands and non-surliness of Willie at that time (although if the cashbox thing had been resolved earlier there may not have been a near-riot at the post office in the first place.) Willie was the true hero today. Steve, champion of slow-food values but not actually nice enough in reality to know how to be a window worker and the manager, who did everything in his power to avoid the fact that he had understaffed the front desk, and with a turtle-human hybrid to boot, and actually goaded an angry (and clearly crazy, because that was a lot of pink) lady, were the losers.

It was quite an experience for the Northwest. You people in the east coast and south know from confrontation; out here the whole Scandinavian culture is all about playing nicey nice. You never see this stuff. It was awesome.

Been such a long time ...

Sorry about not keeping on top of things.

There was this nagging feeling, see, that maybe I was being too hard on the NW (Newsweek) since they are actually kind of doing a decent job lately in re: Valerie Plame leak. However, I did think Jon Stewart did not hit Michael Isikoff hard enough on TDS and treats Fareed Zakaria ("I talk to people on planes I'm next to!") with a little too much respect, and have since come to see NW as leak printers. What? Do they think they're a community paper or something?

Sike. I do a LOT more reporting than not. This week was an abundance, in particular. I'm experimenting with alternative story forms (mostly long-form Yopo, the headshot with quote staple of the OpEd page — it's a little, um, random in practice) and that's a lot of dang work. It's easier to bang out ten inches than call a bunch of people and do something creative. Anyone have any ideas on alternative story forms for newspapers, do tell, I'm looking for a little difference.

Netflix is a good investment. There are so many videos you can't get at the corner store. I'm going to Bollywood/Hong Kong martial arts/indie myself out. Or not. So far of the few movies I got I would recommend "Infernal Affairs," "Bride and Prejudice," and "Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge." If you can get through Shahrukh's mugging for the first hour and a half in "DDLJ" you will appreciate the second hour and a half.

Also keeping me away was a waiting game. I have been patiently awaiting some certain news which could have arrived at any time this month. It was very distracting waiting, especially as the month wore on. But today, the wait is over. I did it, people! I achieved the thing I was waiting for but now there is a second and, after that, a third waiting game to play. Anyway, once the whole thing is finito I may just have some awesomeness to report. Or not. It's all still up in the air. But not as much. I'll keep you all posted.

Why so secret? Because I follow the rules of blogging under one's real name. The first rule of blogging under one's real name is don't say anything too terribly real. So that sangria-soaked night I babysat (making it up!) is mentioned as often as the time the city councilperson called me up drunk (ha ha! Err... wait... it could happen). It's all off-limits. You'll have to decide for yourself which category the news fits in.

But I've got at least a little slice of awesomeness right now. Word found my blog and I have a mini trampoline!

Jobs even KBR won't fill

In between news items about Angelina Jolie's adoption of a little girl from Ethiopia (why, Brad and Angelina, must you thwart the conception of the World's Sexiest Baby, that sweetest of tabloid dreams? Brad, this is your second such thwarting, and with Jennifer apparently hooking up with Vince Vaughn, the eyes of the world have come to rest upon your pouty, ripped self) and finally giving in to the Netflix pressure, I found this.

Now, I don't know what kind of pie-eyed optimism or incredibly negligent person would sign up for a job in the soon-to-be biggest target in Iraq (actually, it kind of already is. I forwarded the link to a co-worker who pointed out that the embassy building has already been the target of a bombing attempt and it isn't staffed), but I can see the attraction. I mean, you get room and board ("a food service contractor provides food service for all employees, including adequate supplies of fresh fruits, vegetables, ice and safe drinking water") and a phat paycheck of $30k to start. (This was up this morning in a graphic, it's gone now. Also, after reading more, I think it is on top of whatever federal salary the applicant already makes, since the opportunities are for current federal employees, but I wouldn't swear to it.)

Upsides listed are as follows:

"Employees have access to a movie theater, a DVD library, a fully equipped gym, and a pool. Special activities are frequently scheduled. Religious services are regularly scheduled in the Annex Chapel found in the north end of the Palace." Okay, it's a Palace, how grim can it be? But should the gov't be advertising the location of the place Christians are going to congregate on Sunday mornings in Iraq?

"The following services are provided by the logistics support contractor: expendable supplies; motor pool; free laundry service (both drop-off and self-service) and dry cleaning; barber shop; beauty shop; full-service cafeteria; small theatre; gym; swimming pool; shuttle bus, facilities maintenance, morale and welfare; and other services. Residents are charged a nominal fee per service for barber/beauty services." What are "expendable supplies?" Who will need a "motor pool" and why? How casual is this pool? I mean, it obviously isn't for getting to the airport, right? How many times can they pimp their swimming pool before it gets repetitive? But thanks for the cheap salon. That's kinda cool.

"Satellite cable TV is currently being installed in all Embassy housing units."

"Employees are not authorized to ship or own privately owned vehicles (POV). Official and personal travel outside the International Zone will be in accordance with post policy in Full-Armored Vehicles (FAV) with personal security details (PSDs)." Well, I could have told you that. But that don't mean it don't sound pimp!

"Nearly all 3161 employees are housed in modular units on the heavily guarded and fortified Embassy Annex compound." Okay, that isn't what I think of when I think of a Palace. Especially a capitalized Palace. "Post will make every effort to ensure that each permanently assigned employee on a one-year tour of duty is the sole occupant of one room, sharing a bath with the occupant of the other room in the modular unit." I suppose the fact that not all, merely nearly all, the 3,161 employees are in a heavily guarded and fortified annex is something of a downside. For those that aren't, I mean.

Downsides listed by the the site? They include:

"Clothing and shoes become dirty and worn very quickly from the fine dust, gravel, dirty air, and, sometimes, mud."

"Bring towels, but bed linen is issued."

"Those who are posted to the Embassy for shorter durations or who are not USG employees should expect to either share a room or live in temporary, less private, group accommodations."

"Each modular unit consists of two separate rooms with a shared bathroom/shower. Rooms typically contain at least one single bed, a small closet, an air conditioning/heating unit, a small refrigerator, and a television." I guess I should be glad the government isn't being too profligate with those tax dollars, but this sounds pretty grim. I mean, what, are the diplomats going to go outside in the Green Zone much?

"Credit cards and travelers checks are not yet a means of transacting business in Iraq. Shop owners only accept cash ... ATMs are available in Kuwait City, but they are NOT available in Iraq at the present time."

"Internet is not available from local service providers"

"The logistics support contractor transports employees to the military side of the Kuwait airport. Meal tickets will be provided. The logistics support contractor will issue a helmet and protective vest. There is usually a long wait and departure schedules are not published due to security concerns. Luggage is palletized. Employees must carry their helmet and vest on the plane and wear them during the trip into Baghdad. Only one briefcase or small backpack can be hand-carried onto the C-130 aircraft in addition to protective gear." This is starting to sound a little intimidating, this year in Iraq thing. For $30k, anyway.

"Bring towels, but bed linen is issued." No towels? Those things are a pain to pack.

And although the logistics person "palletizes" luggage, above, those towels will become a major burden. To wit:

"Iraq entails some unique medical challenges. Travel in and out of Iraq is physically demanding. The trip may take several days and uses military aircraft. Personnel must wear heavy body armor and helmets, and carry all of their own luggage over long distances. During the summer months this is all done in extreme heat. "

Also the Rabies pre-exposure shot is recommended.

The having to pack towels thing puts me right off. I mean, I was all set to sign up for a lovely year of being stuck in an embassy with a staff the size of my college (likely with the same social tensions, but none of the tension-reliving, uh, tools? we had at our disposal) and minimized contact with the host population and having to worry about bombs.

I mean, you have to be REALLY dedicated to the reconstruction to join up. Or mercenary. Or barking. Godspeed, volunteers.

Where's the Jazz???

I'm listening to some joker from the new TV One talk to KCRW's The Business. The interviewer and the joker are talking about how much BET has relied on the "cross-over" appeal of hip-hop. They clearly don't watch any BET or they'd be like, where the black people?

Last night on BET Jazz I saw some Punjabi pop videos. That ain't jazz and it ain't Black. Then it was more Latino stuff. Stop trying to be all things to all minorities because you are failing miserably. AZN has its hands full trying to blend Anime, South Korean dramas, Indian variety shows and Chinese historical/sci-fi movies into a pan-Asian channel.

The one true thing I heard the joker and Brodesseur (sp?) say that was correct is that BET has not marketed itself well. The first thing it needs is an identity. A Black one. The joker was talking about making TV One more of a Cliff Huxtable (his words) to BET's Martin Lawrence (my analogy). The thing is, all he has to do is show half-decent Black shows and explain to advertisers why they should go after Black viewers.

BET has the infrastructure to be a decent channel, but it is both insanely cheap (the video quality of recently filmed BET Jazz shows is very 80s, apparently the defunct ComicView stopped just getting rid of its human hosts for the world's cheapest computer-generated host and moved on to getting rid of the whole show, there is almost no original programming of any sort and you know music videos are chockablock with payola) and doesn't seem to have a focus. Of course, if they had a focus they couldn't afford to be so cheap; they'd have to scrap the Punjabi pop (and Rasputina cello goth) for entertainment relevant to the African American community.

As it is, BET is an equal opportunity sucky music rump shaking channel. Which is, I'm sure, the noble dream King died to bring forth.

Why people don't watch summer TV

Because of this.

I mean, honestly, I think this is a pretty terrible idea that could be incredibly subversive entertainment. I don't think anything on a network could actually *be* subversive; I think the typical TV tropes would be all that came into play from the casting to the story arcs. But really, this could have been a show where all the nasty passive aggressive White people who have bought thier way out of diversity are now confronted with the very world they are so quick to run away from. This could have been a show where the despised outcasts become the sympathetic heroes.

But it had to be about deciding which housefull of oddballs was, in ranking order, least to most able to get along with the intolerant honkies in pleated khakis and Hawaiian shirts (for men). And that makes it pretty uncool. Also it makes whoever "wins" look bad because ... and here's where I'm going to get inarticulate about it ... they are suddenly "the whitest" of the bunch. And they "fit in" the best with a community that is happy with them (and just this representative family of "thems") living on their block. By staying in that racist-homophobe-intolerance-surrounded Texas home, they function less as bringers of a new perspective than as the most symbolic enforcers of the old world view — they adapt to being like honkies; the honkies don't really ever adapt to being like them.

Summer programming stinks. Well, except "Reno 911."

Brave New Podcasting

Who else has downloaded iTunes 4.9?

So far I've decided that I don't like the lack of a clear "unsubscribe" feature. And I've messed around with the program enough to see that in order to download a podcast (as opposed to listening to it on the computer then and there) you need to subscribe.

So far my favorite podcast is "Five Minutes with Wichita Rutherford," which is short and sweet and pretty darn funny. Another short one is the "Queer Eye Hip Tips" which should be familiar to anyone who has seen the show — that part at the end with the white backgrounds and the prop comedy, that'd be the hip tips. Anyway, abstracted from the prop comedy, the seven-minute or so podcast sounds like a gay Orwellian nightmare. "Your skin will never look better than it does right now, so TAKE CARE OF IT." "Freezers are your friend. Use frozen vegetables." "Pleated pants" (hasn't the world learned about pleated pants yet? Do I really have to hear this tip for the millionth time since the first episode of QE?) "are not more roomy."

There's an element of the schoolmarm in the Queer Eye tips, but mostly it just sounds like contextless authoritarian rules for living. In other words, it's not a gay old time.

But I recommend Wichita and am now wondering how I could do my own five-minute podcast. This is a pretty sweet little tool.

Feeling a little better

I thought not getting any comments in spite of multiple views of my Flickr pages was odd. I mean, there are photog-wannabes with 50+ comments per shot!

Then I went to Rosie O'Donnell's Flickr page (don't ask how I got there, it wasn't like I was looking for it) and she has no comments I can see.

Maybe both Rosie-o and I are in a similar circumstance where none of our friends are really with the technological wave and use the same kind of web tools. Or maybe all her pals are kids, judging by the pics.

NW and their metanarratives

So going on vacation left a pile of NWs in my mailbox. Not just the usual two suspects, but also a special edition (which, for you non-publishing folk, means an advertorial bonanza of beaucoup bucks). Naturally, it's a bit overwhelming to slog through more than one NW, nevermind THREE, and before I knew it the June 27 issue was dropped in the box.

Okay, maybe I hesitated a little because I hoped I would get A COMMENT on my TOTALLY AWESOME GUATEMALA PICS but apparently people are too busy with their workaday lives to say, "Wow, Callie, those are some great pics! How'd you get such a STEADY SHOT of Lucas at night? You are the rockin'est chick alive!" or something to that effect.

The first metanarrative I have noticed with NW is the ugliness of the cover photo art. The health issue, as advertorial, gets a much glossier treatment than Deep Throat, which is a Xerox of an old "Nixon Resigns" story and a cutout of Mark Felt circa the humongous glasses years. Anyway, the model on the health issue is over-softened and her bangs look terrible. Also they blowed up her head to make her look skinnier and that always looks silly. The dinosaur cover looks a little fakey and also maybe a tiny bit anime meets J-horror meets Nova. Rather than give us an idea how Dinosaurs lived, as per the teaser, the image is sort of like how NW wishes they might have been on a particularly Dianetics-cover looking day.

Hey, Tom Cruise is inside that issue with the dinosaurs! Wow! What a coincidence. Man, I really can't hear enough about Tom Cruise and his new brainwashed beard. I mean lovely lady.

Another cover metanarrative: Excessive unnecessary whiteness. Health lady is white (non-Hispanic) although really, she could be anything. So are the military father and son. Deep Throat can't help it, however. Let me tell you what I think. I think the white lady had to be a lady because she is basically naked behind some high-tech CSI-style screens that show her guts and bones and stuff (complete with glittery spots that don't exist in reality in your body, we are much messier on the inside than NW would have it, but then, how would that basic biological fact jibe with the teaser "Your Health in the 21st century"?) and men are very comfortable with seeing and purchasing mags with very scantily dressed ladies in vulnerable positions. And she's white because advertisers are comfortable with white people and you can't be accused of being slanted toward the white man if you have a *woman* on the cover. And the female thing makes her plenty exotic; no need to introduce melanin into this picture! Or, for that matter, a couple inches of normal flab and some wrinkles. I'm willing to give the military dad and son a pass SOLELY on the grounds that it might have been the only together people portrait this big, powerful mag can scramble together. But this white woman thing seems really retrograde and offensive to me. Anyway, isn't Mark Felt a Jew? (That was a joke, people)

Oh, man, there's an unnecessarily white see-through man and a whole white fake family inside the health issue. There's a white woman repro'd in blue for a depression story that is not about her, a white boy in a fake fascist poster and a white man holding a box of specialized vitamins. All honkies. NW, you stink. In the future, when we are using rocket packs and sitting at floating tables (as per the picture) NW will still be relishing its white privilege. Even the ads are more diverse than the photo illustrations.

Well, the Deep Throat issue shows some Watergate-era covers. Now, those were unsophisticated, for the most part. The White House as Reel to Reel looks pretty good, though. But the unspohisticated ones are striking in their graphic power.

Craziest inside story is about a born-again former alcoholic and tool (beat) company executive who believes God has put a vision of Israeli oil in his heart. With venture capital raised from gullible and optimistic evangelicals, he is trying to find just that with his company Zion Oil. No one has ever found any kind of oil in Israel in spite of 500 holes drilled. Even the signs in his favor (a Triassic Reef, for example, where he's going to drill) do not mean this is going to be an easy extraction point where the money will roll right in. By the time the knucklehead finds oil in Israel (to help with a strategic advantage against the Arab world, he says, although honestly the democracy and women's rights things might be a better leg up in that respect) I would wager that oil won't be the global energy player it currently is. Israelis are somewhat amused to be the recipient of so much investment by folks that think they are going to hell if they are Jewish. It doesn't say so in the article, but I'm wagering that's the case.

Interesting story about soldiers who rap. I guess there's nothing like a real, terrifying, violent war to put the terrors of the ghetto in a homey perspective. In an attempt to support the troops, there are some people actually recording these raps. Naturally, abstracted from the flow, sentences such as "There's a place in this world you've never seen before/ a place called streets and a place called war/Most of you wanksters ain't never seen the fleet/you talk about war and you've only seen the street." But honestly, wanksters? I'm pretty sure that lyric got whitened up special for NW. If not, this isn't too promising.

Wow. Even the Baghdad bureau chief, a bona-fide anti-Saddam ideologue (why that might be a problem as a journalist isn't even addressed. You stink, Rod Nordland. And you stink more, NW.) has had his little worm turned in an analysis piece titled "Good Intentions Gone Bad." He hits all the points that are pretty obvious: torture hasn't helped save a single life, incompetant leadership, cash going to contractors as utilities fail and the infrastructure crumbles, the too-low levels of troops and the withdrawal of important equipment, the Green Zone is a pig sty and dangerous to boot, the soldiers are hated in Iraq and ignored by the home team ... man, this guy has had the scales fall from his eyes. He still kind of stinks, but I feel a little pity for the poor, stupid, pathetic ... hey, he's making way more money than I am and is half retarded! Rod, you stink!

Oh, hello! "Bad Girls Go Wild"! Love it! Bring on the cat fights! Meow! Hype the fake threat! And say this for a TLS: "Sugar and spice and everything nice: maybe Speight's forgiving nature represents an ideal that even boys can aim for."

Man, this is a particularly rich treasure trove of TLSs. The stories are so cheesy, from the rehash of that chick with the Dracula book to the White Stripes suck-up piece to a completely unnecessary pro-"Mr. and Mrs. Smith" revu (TLS = "They complete each other") I am flabbergasted.

Until I see the June 20 NW. How do they keep up the cluelessness and corniness each week?

"...TV's obsession with celebrity and wealth to new heights ..." Sorry, Mark Whitaker, I think you are confusing the apparatus with the end users. And, for that matter, operators.

NW discovers the guilty pleasure of Go Fug Yourself, in "Blog Watch." Why it gets the yellow exclamation mark and the site that shows camera-ed busts of car thieves gets a green dollar sign is still beyond me.

Catholic hermits! Man, there are all kinds of religious nuts to write about in this country. HIV-positive international adoptions! The specificity boggles the mind. Hair extensions! It's been in since the 90s for white girls — much, much longer for women of color — but that means it's time for NW to notice! The Hiltons! Paris, Nicki, would it kill you to close your mouths for a family portrait? Nothing like looking like you're working on the ben wa balls when you're NEXT TO YOUR PARENTS. All the people in the illustrations of a money article are white. Duh.

Then to June 27. Dinosaurs are the new sharks. With a picture set up to scare us on the cover, there is a jaws-pic in the contents page with open mouthed teeth emerging from the dark. Dinos, of course, are even less of a threat than sharks. Not by much, but they are.

Anyway, suffice to say that there's a story about girls going to spa camp where they get manipedis and do Yoga. NW loves those teenage girls. Just like Tom Cruise! Who's in that issue!

More in depth NW blogging to come with future issues as I maintain alertness only over the course of a single issue. But I think you got the drift.