On a sore neck

You ever get a sore neck that makes turning your head just about impossible? Whenever anyone speaks to you, or you hear a strange noise, or you turn to get a plate out of the cupboard, your neck just stops working–the swivel is broken and you feel about a hundred years old. You have to turn your whole body to see just normal stuff. I pulled a small muscles in my shoulder about two weeks ago, and I’ve been having a lot of fun since. First, driving is impossible. Second, any time you have to turn around, your neck is having second thoughts about the whole operation. Third, no matter what you do for a pillow, sleeping and lying down are new adventures in pain. You have to turn your whole body to see what’s behind you, and it looks so unnatural. Instantly, everyone is asking, “What’s wrong with your neck?” as if you didn’t know there was a problem. It seems, too, that just about the time it starts feeling better, you fall asleep sitting up in some strange position, and it continues to hurt like the devil every time you need to turn your head. You don’t dare look behind you because if you do you risk snapping your head clean off. Yes, you can take some “pain relievers” but they only solve the problem temporarily because it always comes back. A sore neck reduces you from functioning human being to orthopedic nightmare that can barely move, and all the while you feel like the oxidized version of the tin man from the Wizard of Oz. My kingdom for an oilcan.

On a sore neck

You ever get a sore neck that makes turning your head just about impossible? Whenever anyone speaks to you, or you hear a strange noise, or you turn to get a plate out of the cupboard, your neck just stops working–the swivel is broken and you feel about a hundred years old. You have to turn your whole body to see just normal stuff. I pulled a small muscles in my shoulder about two weeks ago, and I’ve been having a lot of fun since. First, driving is impossible. Second, any time you have to turn around, your neck is having second thoughts about the whole operation. Third, no matter what you do for a pillow, sleeping and lying down are new adventures in pain. You have to turn your whole body to see what’s behind you, and it looks so unnatural. Instantly, everyone is asking, “What’s wrong with your neck?” as if you didn’t know there was a problem. It seems, too, that just about the time it starts feeling better, you fall asleep sitting up in some strange position, and it continues to hurt like the devil every time you need to turn your head. You don’t dare look behind you because if you do you risk snapping your head clean off. Yes, you can take some “pain relievers” but they only solve the problem temporarily because it always comes back. A sore neck reduces you from functioning human being to orthopedic nightmare that can barely move, and all the while you feel like the oxidized version of the tin man from the Wizard of Oz. My kingdom for an oilcan.

On surviving Friday night

Lots of people go out on Friday night to celebrate the end of the week, but I’m melting down at the end of the day with a couple of loads of laundry, some pork chops, a bit of Kentucky hooch, and Tony Bourdain traveling around Colombia. I have no energy to go out, drink in a bar, or mix it up with a lot of strangers. There is something liberating about Friday night that breaks all of the rules, knows no boundaries, respects no conventions, and, frankly, my dear, doesn’t give a damn after a hard week of frustrations and disappointments. Yet, I also know that my frustrations and disappointments are pretty minimal when I compare them to others, who may be fighting for their very lives. My problems don’t amount to a hill of beans when others are fighting pneumonia or just old age. But on Friday night none of that matters as the wounds heal, perspective relativizes all hurts, and time begins to push all problems into the past. If we did not have Friday nights, our lives would be unbearable, or almost. Friday night is time off from the day to day routine which burdens us, makes us serious and sad. On Friday night most of us don’t really have to work, don’t have a fixed bed time, and can do whatever we feel like doing, which really doesn’t happen too often. Friday night is about freedom, to think, to do, to act, to sleep, to eat, to drink, to do nothing if the spirit so leads us. On Friday nights we cast off the shackles of daily life and let our spirits free. It just has to happen from time to time.

On surviving Friday night

Lots of people go out on Friday night to celebrate the end of the week, but I’m melting down at the end of the day with a couple of loads of laundry, some pork chops, a bit of Kentucky hooch, and Tony Bourdain traveling around Colombia. I have no energy to go out, drink in a bar, or mix it up with a lot of strangers. There is something liberating about Friday night that breaks all of the rules, knows no boundaries, respects no conventions, and, frankly, my dear, doesn’t give a damn after a hard week of frustrations and disappointments. Yet, I also know that my frustrations and disappointments are pretty minimal when I compare them to others, who may be fighting for their very lives. My problems don’t amount to a hill of beans when others are fighting pneumonia or just old age. But on Friday night none of that matters as the wounds heal, perspective relativizes all hurts, and time begins to push all problems into the past. If we did not have Friday nights, our lives would be unbearable, or almost. Friday night is time off from the day to day routine which burdens us, makes us serious and sad. On Friday night most of us don’t really have to work, don’t have a fixed bed time, and can do whatever we feel like doing, which really doesn’t happen too often. Friday night is about freedom, to think, to do, to act, to sleep, to eat, to drink, to do nothing if the spirit so leads us. On Friday nights we cast off the shackles of daily life and let our spirits free. It just has to happen from time to time.

On hurting your index finger

While doing a little work yesterday, I accidentally skinned the back of my index finger on my right hand. Now I have a scab there which has been unceremoniously ripped off about five times, and this is the skin on the knuckle, on the back of the finger. You never know how much you use that particular finger until you have to do dishes, floss, tie your shoes, or change your the tail pipe on your muffler. Even drinking coffee is strange now because that particular spot on the finger touches the hot cup, which I did not know until this morning. Some people call it the “pointer” finger, which sounds rude and probably is. Yet, even from medieval times the “indice” was known as that finger which everyone uses to give directions and focus the attention of different speech acts. And scratching (if you deny you scratch, you really need to have your head examined), who could get through a day without scratching? We won’t specify what, but scratching is important, especially if you have an itch. Even pictures of a hand pointing with its index finger extended have been important signs centuries. Today we might substitute an arrow or similar icon, but it’s just a variant of the pointing finger. Most people “mouse” with their index finger, and those who never learned to type properly use their index fingers to communicate with the world. And there are those less delicate people who think they are invisible at a stop light while they use their index finger to pick their noses. The light turns red, and the old index finger goes into action like an ancient coal miner who just found a new vein to mine. The finger that we wag at our opponents is also the finger with which we push buttons, which may be one and the same thing, depending how who you are trying to bother. For some, the index is also their trigger finger, which is interesting but not necessarily telling or indicative of anything. Until, however, you have an “owie” on it, you just never realize how important that little digit really is.

On hurting your index finger

While doing a little work yesterday, I accidentally skinned the back of my index finger on my right hand. Now I have a scab there which has been unceremoniously ripped off about five times, and this is the skin on the knuckle, on the back of the finger. You never know how much you use that particular finger until you have to do dishes, floss, tie your shoes, or change your the tail pipe on your muffler. Even drinking coffee is strange now because that particular spot on the finger touches the hot cup, which I did not know until this morning. Some people call it the “pointer” finger, which sounds rude and probably is. Yet, even from medieval times the “indice” was known as that finger which everyone uses to give directions and focus the attention of different speech acts. And scratching (if you deny you scratch, you really need to have your head examined), who could get through a day without scratching? We won’t specify what, but scratching is important, especially if you have an itch. Even pictures of a hand pointing with its index finger extended have been important signs centuries. Today we might substitute an arrow or similar icon, but it’s just a variant of the pointing finger. Most people “mouse” with their index finger, and those who never learned to type properly use their index fingers to communicate with the world. And there are those less delicate people who think they are invisible at a stop light while they use their index finger to pick their noses. The light turns red, and the old index finger goes into action like an ancient coal miner who just found a new vein to mine. The finger that we wag at our opponents is also the finger with which we push buttons, which may be one and the same thing, depending how who you are trying to bother. For some, the index is also their trigger finger, which is interesting but not necessarily telling or indicative of anything. Until, however, you have an “owie” on it, you just never realize how important that little digit really is.

On washing the car

A most worthless past-time has never been invented. I’ve seen the guys who spend every weekend washing their vehicles, waxing them, polishing up the chrome, making their cars shine. I get it–these vehicles are an extension of their egos. I’m not even going to talk about those people who pay to have their cars washed by others–disgusting. Nevertheless, cars go out into the world, cars get dirty, cars drive through every bit of crap and dirt and pollution that contaminates our environment; these things never vary. I haven’t washed my car in several months; it’s not a habit of mine, and every time it rains, the car just gets a little more dirty. Finally, the back end of my red car had turned gray, so it was time to go to the car wash. Washing a car is bit like painting the Golden Gate Bridge, no matter how often you do it, the car will still be dirty. Other than pride, wanting to show off, why would we possibly wash our cars? Yes, you do want to get the bird excrement off of the paint so the paint doesn’t start to flake off, but just regular dirt doesn’t have that much of an influence on the paint job. In fact, doesn’t the dirt protect the paint from further harm? Now my car is a nice, bright, candy-apple red, again. But I still can’t figure out what drove me to wash my car; it’s only going to get dirty again.

On washing the car

A most worthless past-time has never been invented. I’ve seen the guys who spend every weekend washing their vehicles, waxing them, polishing up the chrome, making their cars shine. I get it–these vehicles are an extension of their egos. I’m not even going to talk about those people who pay to have their cars washed by others–disgusting. Nevertheless, cars go out into the world, cars get dirty, cars drive through every bit of crap and dirt and pollution that contaminates our environment; these things never vary. I haven’t washed my car in several months; it’s not a habit of mine, and every time it rains, the car just gets a little more dirty. Finally, the back end of my red car had turned gray, so it was time to go to the car wash. Washing a car is bit like painting the Golden Gate Bridge, no matter how often you do it, the car will still be dirty. Other than pride, wanting to show off, why would we possibly wash our cars? Yes, you do want to get the bird excrement off of the paint so the paint doesn’t start to flake off, but just regular dirt doesn’t have that much of an influence on the paint job. In fact, doesn’t the dirt protect the paint from further harm? Now my car is a nice, bright, candy-apple red, again. But I still can’t figure out what drove me to wash my car; it’s only going to get dirty again.

On soap operas

The first soaps I remember as a small child were “As the World Turns” and “The Edge of Night,” which were the daytime dramas which my mother watched from time to time while taking care of two children under the age of five. I can’t say that at that age I understood anything that I saw on the screen, but I did get the impression, often, that most of these soap opera people were troubled, in trouble, or just plain trouble. What completely escaped me was both the meaning and purpose of these never ending dramas that ended each day with a small (or big) cliffhanger. Yet, in spite of the accidents, murders, and kidnappings, all or most of the characters just kept limping along from episode to episode. One older woman seemed to have been married to every male character on the show at one point or another. Children that were infants in March were going to school in September. My mother dismissed these inconsistencies by saying “Oh, these are just my stories,” as if this explained all the weird shenanigans on the soaps. Perhaps the great appeal of these television shows lies precisely in the magical fact that they never ended and all the viewers knew this. No matter how bad it ever got–fires, earthquakes, shootings, disappearances, mistaken identities, vampires and werewolves–the show, with all its characters, would be there again tomorrow–same time, same station, same evil doers, same matriarchs, same torment souls–and the day after and the day after. So no matter the strange vicissitudes of the characters, everything would continue on just about the same from day to day. The acting was melodramatic, the stories were predictable, the sets were made of cardboard, and the dialogues were shamefully the same. In fact, I think that most of the viewers were frequently hoping for a cataclysmic flood or fire, an earthquake, a bank robbery, a mistaken identity, a new wedding, a new baby, an unexpected pregnancy, or the disappearance of a major character. As a very young child, I was confused by the serious attitude of the characters and often wondered if it was difficult for the actors to keep a straight face and actually do the dialogues as written. For the most part, the women were elegant and the men, handsome, unless they were evil, in which case they were often represented as ugly miscreants who did not fit it with the utopian society of the television serial. There homes were nice, their jobs, good ones. Yet they suffered infidelities ad nauseum, and at some point or other every single character had been in bed with every single other character of the opposite sex–there wasn’t even the slightest whiff same-sex relationships, or maybe I was just too young to know. Later, when I would have to stay home because I was sick, or it was summer and I was home, tuning into these shows only proved that nothing ever really happened, that the results of an atomic explosion on a soap opera don’t really have any consequences in the long run–perhaps Aunt Hortensia, who has been lost for thirty years, (probably living in Europe), comes back from the dead to move in with a daughter who hates here. The plot possibilities and twists are endless within the format because the viewers expect repetition, not verisimilitude, and they want everything to be the same year in and year out–heroes, villains, were often one and the same person. They want to see the same faces year in and year out, and so some of the most venerated actors in a soap are the ones who last thirty years, get married fourteen times, and have eleven children by the age of 25. Some actors did over two hundred live shows a year during the heyday of the soap. Today, I can’t watch them because they seem goofy and overtly melodramatic, but then again, maybe I’ve just grown too old and cynical.

On soap operas

The first soaps I remember as a small child were “As the World Turns” and “The Edge of Night,” which were the daytime dramas which my mother watched from time to time while taking care of two children under the age of five. I can’t say that at that age I understood anything that I saw on the screen, but I did get the impression, often, that most of these soap opera people were troubled, in trouble, or just plain trouble. What completely escaped me was both the meaning and purpose of these never ending dramas that ended each day with a small (or big) cliffhanger. Yet, in spite of the accidents, murders, and kidnappings, all or most of the characters just kept limping along from episode to episode. One older woman seemed to have been married to every male character on the show at one point or another. Children that were infants in March were going to school in September. My mother dismissed these inconsistencies by saying “Oh, these are just my stories,” as if this explained all the weird shenanigans on the soaps. Perhaps the great appeal of these television shows lies precisely in the magical fact that they never ended and all the viewers knew this. No matter how bad it ever got–fires, earthquakes, shootings, disappearances, mistaken identities, vampires and werewolves–the show, with all its characters, would be there again tomorrow–same time, same station, same evil doers, same matriarchs, same torment souls–and the day after and the day after. So no matter the strange vicissitudes of the characters, everything would continue on just about the same from day to day. The acting was melodramatic, the stories were predictable, the sets were made of cardboard, and the dialogues were shamefully the same. In fact, I think that most of the viewers were frequently hoping for a cataclysmic flood or fire, an earthquake, a bank robbery, a mistaken identity, a new wedding, a new baby, an unexpected pregnancy, or the disappearance of a major character. As a very young child, I was confused by the serious attitude of the characters and often wondered if it was difficult for the actors to keep a straight face and actually do the dialogues as written. For the most part, the women were elegant and the men, handsome, unless they were evil, in which case they were often represented as ugly miscreants who did not fit it with the utopian society of the television serial. There homes were nice, their jobs, good ones. Yet they suffered infidelities ad nauseum, and at some point or other every single character had been in bed with every single other character of the opposite sex–there wasn’t even the slightest whiff same-sex relationships, or maybe I was just too young to know. Later, when I would have to stay home because I was sick, or it was summer and I was home, tuning into these shows only proved that nothing ever really happened, that the results of an atomic explosion on a soap opera don’t really have any consequences in the long run–perhaps Aunt Hortensia, who has been lost for thirty years, (probably living in Europe), comes back from the dead to move in with a daughter who hates here. The plot possibilities and twists are endless within the format because the viewers expect repetition, not verisimilitude, and they want everything to be the same year in and year out–heroes, villains, were often one and the same person. They want to see the same faces year in and year out, and so some of the most venerated actors in a soap are the ones who last thirty years, get married fourteen times, and have eleven children by the age of 25. Some actors did over two hundred live shows a year during the heyday of the soap. Today, I can’t watch them because they seem goofy and overtly melodramatic, but then again, maybe I’ve just grown too old and cynical.