SwampLog 3.0

The Worst Decision Possible

This was going to be a standard "this is how I'm doing" post, but I'm just too bored / too tired.  I'm still at work -- the crew is here at Rawlings cleaning the vent hoods and grease traps, which is a three hour process.  Of course, I have to be here until they finish up, so I've been trying to entertain myself with new music -- the new Tears For Fears album that I'd been avoiding for the last few months was just as good as advertised, and the instant gratification of the new Weezer single "Beverly Hills" reminds me why I love that band so damned much.

Still bored.  And still wondering how much to divulge right now.

I turned in an aircheck for a talk radio host position, and have heard nothing back in over a week.  Fiddle-dee-dee.

I also interviewed for a position for a company that has a ticket in their logo.  That interview went quite well.  I should know something in the next two weeks on that gig.

With either potential new job, not only would I have benefits from day one, but I would also work far less than 70 hours a week.  In the meantime, I remain at the ballpark, slogging through a job I tolerate only because I need to pay bills.

The last few days, I've been going through a lot of Hunter Thompson's work, and reading the Rolling Stone coverage of his life and death.  Maybe the romanticism of it all has gotten to me, but the prospect of taking hallucinogenic drugs to further my writing career seems mighty appealing to me right now.

(Oh, get that look off your face.  I'd make a horrid junkie.)

Maybe I'll take this opportunity to vent some bile.

Terri Schiavo is still alive, in some sense.  And every story I hear about anyone other than her parents working to get her back on life support makes me truly sick to my stomach.

I sincerely hope that none of you are ever in the position to make the decision to suspend care for a patient due to lack of brain function.  Because I did.

Last year, after Darla coded, she was without oxygen to her brain for over half an hour.  When I rushed down to Austin, I didn't know what her medical condition was, or what I would see once I went in to the ICU to see her.  I don't have to tell you that what I saw wasn't her.  It looked like the woman I once knew, but it wasn't.  She was already gone.

There was a time when I thought she was reacting to external stimuli.  She held on to my hand when I was talking to her, and rolled over to face me when I would say something relatively funny.  I was certain that she was fighting to come back to us.

The doctors -- including the one who had taken care of her for years -- told me in slow, mind-numbing succession, that her tests and scans all pointed to the same thing.  She was only showing signs of low-level brain activity, and had no higher cognitive functions at all.  From all accounts, the person I knew as Darla Raye Thompson was gone that first night.

The time came, late that week, where I -- being the closest kin member -- had to sign off on her DNR order.

Darla was an RN in a previous life, and we spoke on occasion about our wishes in circumstances like this.  Neither one of us wanted to be kept alive if we were in a vegetative state.  Those conversations were no comfort at all when I was faced with this decision.

I don't regret signing the DNR.  Not for a moment. 

A chaplain came in to console me while making the decision.  I was concerned that signing the DNR was a wholly selfish act.  He convinced me that it was the opposite -- keeping her around after her soul was gone would have been the height of selfishness.  Trying to do the right thing by your loved ones is one thing, but once the time comes when the person is beyond care, you have to listen to the voice of reason.

The Schindlers are trying to hold out hope that their daughter is still somewhere in there.  I wish they were right.  But the doctors have all told them Terri doesn't live in that body anymore.  They need to listen.  It is the most disgusting, revolting, horrifying thing you can come to terms with.  And they will, in time, I hope.

As for anyone else -- Tom DeLay, Jeb Bush, any of the protesters outside the hospital -- you may think you're fighting to help Terri, but all you're doing is chipping away any dignity Terri has left.  You have turned her life, and death, into a circus.  Congratulations.

Freebie And The Bean

Let the scolding begin.

I'm working more hours now than I was prior to the heart attack. A lot of this was precipitated by the departure of my friend Angela to the land of the Seattle bean -- she got a manager's position at Starbucks. To make sure everything got covered, I'm back to working five shifts a week, plus the weekly manager's meeting on Mondays. Each PM shift runs anywhere from 10 - 13 hours a night. Math.

There's a long list of stuff I need to get done each week on my days off, but I find myself spending the first day just sitting around doing nothing so my body can recover. While I'm not still feeling ill effects from February's folly, I can feel my body's not as resilient as it was before. It takes me longer to get up to full speed in the mornings / early afternoons than it previously did. Part of it has to be psychosomatic, doesn't it?

In other news, if any of you loved me -- any of you at all -- you would snag this for me on auction. It's a veritable bargain, when you consider how undeniably cool it is.

Havin' Relations

By now, you've likely heard of the schoolchildren who want to coerce the Yankees and Red Sox to shake hands prior to their Opening Day match on Sunday.

I think the idea is brilliant. The message it would send to the Pinstripe and Rouge Hose Nations would be palpable and hard-hitting. Yet, players like Alex Rodriguez think the move would be "impractical."

Bollocks.

I'll admit freely that I laughed my ass off watching Jason Varitek shove his catcher's mitt in Rodriguez's face. But looking at it from the perspective of a kid watching the game with his parents is a little chilling. The message the "handshake" would send to adults and kids alike -- that you can put aside your differences for a brief moment and be civil towards each other -- is one that everyone should see the value of.

Hell, even George Steinbrenner thinks it's a good idea.

Graffiti Grade

Last night, after work, Woody and I drove up to Denton to see Jose Canseco.  After travelling to his house in 2003, I've had an interest in seeing how the big guy does, and as Juiced continues to send shock waves through the baseball community, I smile a little knowing that Jose wholly predicted this when we were interviewing him in his Florida living room.

There weren't a lot of people there for Jose's book signing -- he has an exclusive deal with Hastings, and they only have one store in the D/FW area, which is 35 miles from both Dallas and Fort Worth.  There were about 50 people in line initially, and once Jose burned through those (quick signer, almost no interaction with the people), it was really just Jose, the employees, and anyone else who stuck around.  We exchanged pleasantries, though he really didn't act like he remembered me.  No big shock -- after all, he's still thinking of ways to beat Curt Schilling's ass.

Afterwards, I took Woody to the Flying Tomato, the pizza joint I remembered so fondly as a student at the University of North Texas.  It's the stereotypical college pizza house, with smart-ass students running the place and pizza that tastes a lot better when you are almost broke and need to fill up.  It's still good, and they haven't changed anything in the fifteen years since I left the campus.

When I went back to the men's room, there's the Sharpie marker graffiti on the walls.  It's mostly band URLs now, but one just stuck with me:

EAT
SHIT
AND
DIE
UPIE
SCUM

I couldn't stop giggling.  I've never been compelled to leave graffiti anywhere, but had I had a marker with me, I would have written underneath:

LEARN HOW TO SPELL,
SLACKER-ASS

It's "O'er," Not "For."

Well, that was fun.

I just auditioned to sing the National Anthem at the ballpark.  There were 125 people signed up to audition for roughly 65 spots (81 home games, minus special guests and whatnot).  I was somewhere in the 30s.

And I killed.

The auditions aren't in some sterile room with a small amp.  No, these were on the field, with full speakers and everything.  This is so the judges -- two local music teachers and two Rangers reps -- can tell whether or not you can hack it with the big room. 

Of primary concern is the delay from when the words leave your mouth to the time their amplified children come back to your ears.  This is different from any other musicial performance I've ever done, where you have a monitor giving you immediate feedback to get your schtuff straight.  You have to know what note you're singing is the right one, because any hesitation is death to your audition.

I had a little bit of warning on this, as they tell you this when you're queueing up to audition, and I've heard horror stories from people who have sung the anthem here before.  So, I was busy telling my brain to ignore what I was hearing and just... sing.  And, from all accounts, I nailed it.

I'll know in a couple of weeks if I made the cut this year or not.  And Woody took a few pictures of the audtion, so I'll pop a couple up when I get them back from him.

Nit-Pick

There's nothing worse than reading a post I did the previous day, and finding two spelling errors in it.  I only had three sentences in the post that weren't quoted, and it's just inexcusable.

So, I'm sorry.  I suck.  But at least I don't use the word "krunk."

Finally, Something On TV ISN'T Indecent

From today's IMDB Studio Briefing:

Towel Scene on 'MNF' Was Not Indecent, FCC Rules

"Titillating" but not "indecent." That was the conclusion of the FCC Monday regarding the ABC plug for Desperate Housewives that introduced Monday Night Football last fall in which Nicolette Sheridan, one of Housewives' stars, dropped dropped the towel she was wearing after confronting Terrell Owens of the Philadelphia Eagles in the team's locker room. The FCC said that it had received more than 50,000 complaints about the promo. Nevertheless, the agency ruled that "it simply is not graphic or explicit enough to be indecent under our standard." Issuing a separate statement, FCC Commissioner Michael Copps, who has long championed stronger enforcement of the agency's indecency rules, suggested that while the promo may not have been technically indecent, ABC should have shown greater "responsibility" and "self-discipline" and not have aired it. "As stewards of the public airwaves, broadcasters can and should do better," Copps said.

Am I wrong in thinking that this is the frist sign of sunshine from underneath the FCC shadow since Janet Jackson's nipple poked out fourteen months ago?  (And can I mix a couple more metaphors in there?  Anywhere?)

I haven't been a big fan of Copps and some of his comments on what constitutes a decency breach in the few months he's helmed the FCC, but this statement today gives me hope that the commission isn't going to merely fine braodcasters back to the Stone Ages.

...Then, There Was The Time...

There are several stories I keep meaning to write from my past, either here in the SwampLog or in draft form for the book I keep starting and stopping.  The tales are ones that I'll regale people with over margaritas on a patio, with the sun beaming over the rafters and forcing everyone else to dive for their sunglasses.

But I never do.  And I need to, sooner or later.

My concern is that if I commit the stories to screen or paper, they'll lose a bit of their flavor.  I love telling them, and love watching people as I tell them.  One of the things I enjoy doing is entertaining, and nothing is more entertaining on its simplest level than being a storyteller.

So, when I allude to my 48-hour marriage to a lesbian condom shop manager in Vegas, or the time Madonna told me the nastiest joke I'll ever hear, people's eyes will bug out ever slightly and wonder if I'm really serious.  I'll assure them I am, but I refuse to tell a truncated version of the story.  If I have long enough, and enough booze on the table, I'll launch into the story.  If you come in the middle of the story, sorry.  I'm not backing up on this run.  Maybe you'll hear it another afternoon.

That said, it may be time to land the stories onto a page somewhere.

I know it's wholly maudlin to the heart attack last month as a reason to eyeball my own mortality.  It's not the first time I've looked at death as a very real possibility.  Ten years ago this month, I beat throat cancer -- and, as an aside, I'm overdue to throw my annual Remission party.  When I was medically free and clear, I think my reckless abandon hit new heights.  My stride was a little bolder, almost a swagger.  "What can you possibly do to me?  I beat the fucking black plague of the 20th Century!  Bite me!"

It's different this time around.  Nothing to catch, no real pathway to prevent another heart attack other than better rest and less stress in my life.  And I don't feel like I beat death this time around, but more like I was given a pat on the head by le reaper sinistre and a wink signifying the knowledge that I could have had it a lot worse.

So, it's time I quit hogging the memories to myself.  The stories, in the long run, will be just as entertaining if they're on paper, and won't lose their luster when they're shared.  Marty points to the readings David Sedaris does as proof that tales such as mine lose none of their sparkle by being on the printed page.

So, sometime soon, you may get to read about the time I got Donald Trump record an answering machine message for me.  Times like these are too fun to keep to yourself.

Don't Say You Weren't Warned...

I was finally able to get the Early Years photos scanned.  Venture in, if you dare.

Dap

From my friend Niki, who has an affinity for dogs that defies description and totally rocks:

Sunday, March 13, 2005 5pm-10pm

Clay Pit 4460 Beltline Road Addison, TX 75001

Celebrating one year of Legacy Boxer Rescue being a local Boxer rescue. A
portion of all proceeds from food/drink sales will benefit our organization.
Please come by for dinner if you can!

So get out there and support a good cause.