Friend Todd to the rescue!!!

You'd think that I'd know better by now than to try to use this old body to do any physical labor.  I guess it's time for me to just kick back in the recliner on the weekends.  My hand has gone all wonky on me again (being both numb and painful at the same time...how is that even possible?!?!).

Just as I was wondering how I could type up a post for today, friend Todd unwittingly came to the rescue.  Yesterday he sent me the following video via snail mail and I think it is definitely blog-worthy (especially with me having a bum hand).

One caveat in closing...objects hooked on the fishing lines of Texans appear preposterously larger in videos than in real life.  I remember friend Todd once catching a so-called "fish" that wasn't big enough to use as bait (most aquarium fish were bigger).

Flint

FOLLOW UP ON LAST WEEK'S CAPTION CONTEST! (to be spoken just like Cash Cab's Ben Bailey when he says "Red Light Challenge!")

Hmmm...I really got caught off guard on this one.  Apparently virtually all of my vast readership have lost the use of their hands/fingers in various freak accidents (e.g., getting caught during a fast moving storm while they were in the "death zone" portion of their ascent on Mount Everest).  My apologies to all for making the insensitive assumption that y'all could type.

My readership (prior to losing the use of their hands on that fateful ascent)

It reminds me of a story my mom used to read to me (most recently, last week).  It was called "The Little Red Hen".  If you have never read/heard the story, let me include it here for your reading pleasure (relax, there is no typing required on your part).

Once upon a time, a little red hen lived in a small cottage. She

worked hard to keep her family fed. 

One day, when the little red hen

was out walking with her friends, the goose, the cat, and the pig, she

found a few grains of wheat.

“Who will help me plant this wheat?” asked the little red hen.

“Not I,” said the goose, “I’d rather swim in the pond.”

“Not I,” said the cat, “I’d rather sleep on the hay.”

“Not I,” said the pig, “I’d rather lie in the mud.”

“Then I’ll do it myself,” said the little red hen. And she did.

Time went by and the wheat grew, but so did the weeds.

“Who will help me pull the weeds?” asked the little red hen.

“Not I,” said the goose, “I’d rather swim in the pond.”

“Not I,” said the cat, “I’d rather sleep on the hay.”

“Not I,” said the pig, “I’d rather lie in the mud.”

“Then I’ll do it myself”, said the little red hen. And she did.

All summer the wheat grew taller and taller. It turned from brown

to golden amber. And, at last, it was time to harvest the wheat.

“Who will help me harvest the wheat?” asked the little red hen.

“Not I,” said the goose, “I’d rather swim in the pond.”

“Not I,” said the cat, “I’d rather sleep on the hay.”

“Not I,” said the pig, “I’d rather lie in the mud.”

“Then I’ll do it myself,” said the little red hen. And she did.

At last, the wheat was harvested and put into a large sack, ready

to be taken to the mill to be ground into flour.

“Who will help me take the wheat to the mill?” asked the little

red hen.

“Not I,” said the goose, “I’d rather swim in the pond.”

“Not I,” said the cat, “I’d rather sleep on the hay.”

“Not I,” said the pig, “I’d rather lie in the mud.”

“Then I’ll do it myself,” said the little red hen. And she did.

The next day came and the little red hen was hungry.

“Who will help me bake this flour into bread?” asked the little

red hen.

“Not I,” said the goose, “I’d rather swim in the pond.”

“Not I,” said the cat, “I’d rather sleep on the hay.”

“Not I,” said the pig, “I’d rather lie in the mud.”

“Then I’ll do it myself,” said the little red hen. And she did.

At last, the bread was baked and the little red hen called to her

friends once more.

“Who will help me eat this bread?” asked the little red hen.

“I will,” said the goose.

“I will,” said the cat.

“I will,” said the pig.

“Oh, no you won’t!” said the little red hen. “I found the wheat, I

planted it, I weeded it, and when it was time to harvest it, I did

that too. I took it to the mill to be ground into flour and at last, I

baked it into bread.

“Now,” said the little red hen, “I’m going to eat it with my

family.” And she did.

In light of that, let me now announce the winner of last week's caption contest...wonderful me!  However, I need to give a shout out to my wife, my daughter, and my mom (which may be my entire readership for all I know) to thank them for pushing past the typing pain to respond (either with a caption idea or just to say they couldn't think of a good caption).  So just like the little red hen, I decided that I'm going to enjoy my caption contest winnings with my family.  And I did.

Silence...I keel you!!!

Flint


P.S. On your next Everest summit attempt, please be more careful!

P.P.S. Note to self...don't make a habit of insulting your readers or you will end up just talking to yourself (sort of like you're doing right now).

Don't tase me doc!

I recently injured myself.  And by "injured", I mean I used my body to actually do physical labor.  As a result, parts of my writing hand are now chronically numb (and my other hand is a bit "iffy" also).  While that condition would be fine for my teeth (thus saving hundreds on lidocaine at the dentist), it doesn't work well for someone who basically just sits and types for a living.

So I scheduled an appointment to see my doctor.  He (sort of like an A-list celeb) has an entourage of "peeps" to protect him from actually seeing his patients.  His first line of defense is the crabby and rude telephone lady (who he apparently hired specifically for her world-class crabbiness and rudeness).

Once I can get past her and show up for my appointment, the next rampart I must hurdle takes the form of the crabby and rude receptionist (who I think just barely lost out on the crabby and rude telephone lady job and is now, as a result, exceptionally more crabby and rude).  Her motto seems to be "don't diagnose/prescribe/heal/help them until you see the whites of their insurance card (and the greens of their co-pay)!".

The truly humiliating element of these exchanges (with the telephone lady, the receptionist, et al) is that, to try to avoid rousing their inner beast, I find myself putting on a fake exceedingly happy demeanor (it is interesting that, by coincidence, the root of that word is "demean").  It is the equivalent of falling prostrate in front of them, kissing their feet, and shamelessly groveling just out of fear of hearing the words "off with his head!".  But I digress...

My doctor's office

Anyway, when I successfully made it inside of Fort Knox for my hand problem, my doctor told me that I needed to have a "painful" test performed.  Now, since doctors are prohibited by professional oath to admit anything is painful, this scared me (especially since there was apparently no better name/description for the test and since I am severely allergic to pain).  As the world started spinning around me (but before my face slammed against the tissue paper on the examining table), I distinctly recall hearing words like "needles", "electrical shocks", "Chinese water torture", and "bamboo under the fingernails".

After he brought me to, all I could picture were scenes from "The Right Stuff" where they do various strange medical tests on the Project Mercury astronauts (BTW, if you haven't seen this movie, you ought to).  The one scene in particular that kept flashing before my eyes is where they jab a big needle (the size of a McDonald's drink straw) in the arm of Scott Glenn (ironically portraying Alan Shepard), hook it up to a generator, and turn on the electricity.  This causes his hand to spasm and convulse wildly.  When he gets up to leave, he has to use his other hand/arm to pick up his tested arm (which looks like Harry Potter's arm after Gilderoy Lockhart removed the bones from it instead of mending them).

An astronaut medical testing scene from "The Right Stuff"

Comparative size of McDonald's straws

Harry Potter's boneless arm

Needless to say, when I showed up for the (scientifically and appropiately named) "painful" test at the hospital, I was very nervous.  However, it turned out that I had blown all of my "electrical needle" fears completely out of proportion.  Unfortunately, there were other fears which I had totally neglected since my doctor hadn't warned me about the "taser" portion of the test.

During this part, the person administrating the test (I don't know his name, but I think "Igor" will suffice for the purposes of this post) used a taser to shock me at several places along my arm, wrist, and hand.  The taser was connected by wires to some sort of monitor so that Igor could determine the places that were most sensitive to the shocks (thus maximizing his enjoyment).

Ladies and Gentlemen, does this look like modern medical science?!?!
Why couldn't we have just stuck with the leeches?
They seem like nice enough little things (especially by comparison).

However, I am proud to say that I survived the test.  Amazingly, the test itself miraculously cured all of the feelings of numbness and pain in my other arm (basically 'cuz there is no way I'm ever going to suffer through that test again).

After receiving the results, my doctor told me that I have Carpal Tunnel syndrome.  He then said that he knew that was the case even before prescribing the test, but that the insurance company would require the "painful" test be completed before they would allow treatment.  Yet another reason to hate insurance companies.  I'd like to see Igor have a field day at their office.

So, now it appears that I will require surgery to address the problem.  However, the hand surgeon, to which I was referred, wants me to try 30 days of an anti-inflammatory drug first to see if that might relieve my symptoms.  Why couldn't I at least have gotten to try that before the "painful" test?!?!  It seems like the order of events got slightly out of whack somewhere along the way.

I'm thinking/hoping the surgery won't be as bad as the test that I've already endured.  However, I have read some articles on the internet (which is always a bad choice when looking for reassurance regarding anything of a medical nature) that say the surgery is often performed with just a local anesthetic (possibly to sate the sadists at the insurance company yet again)!  What day and age are we living in here folks?!?!  Why not just pour some whiskey down my throat and give me a bullet to bite on?!?!  Surely the findings of Albert Einstein (and/or the other geniuses of our time) can be applied to the alleviation of medical pain and terror!  C'mon people, something is wrong here...our priorities are all screwed up.

My fear-o-meter is once again pegged.

Old age really does suck (and I'm only in the early onset of the disease).

Flint

I think that I shall never see, a billboard lovely as a tree...

At significant risk to my longstanding membership in the non-renaissance man club, today's post includes yet another reference to a poem.  However, at least in this case it is humorous (not some flowery crap about roads or the like).  The entirety of the poem is as follows:

I think that I shall never see

A billboard lovely as a tree.

Indeed, unless the billboards fall

I'll never see a tree at all.  

This verse (pronounced "verse") is a product of super-wit Ogden Nash.  Perhaps one of the reasons I really like this poem is that it is a humorous take-off of the serious poem "Trees" by Joyce Kilmer.  Who can't resist a guy that is able to make a name for himself by comically standing on the dignified shoulders of others (especially with a name like Ogden)?  Maybe it will work for a guy with the name of Flint too.

Here are some other gems (and not just poems) from Ogden Nash:

Middle age is when you've met so many people that every new person you meet reminds you of someone else.

Beneath this slab

John Brown is stowed.

He watched the ads

And not the road.

I do not like to get the news, because there has never been an era when so many things were going so right for so many of the wrong persons.

A door is what a dog is perpetually on the wrong side of.

The trouble with a kitten is that when it grows up, it's always a cat.

Shake and shake the catsup bottle. None'll come and then a lot'll.

Anyway (and finally), the stimulus for today's post is a billboard that I saw in Omaha over the weekend.  It read:

Your wife is hot!  

Better call us to fix your AC.

I'd rate that about an 8 on my clever billboard scale.

Flint

CAPTION CONTEST! (to be spoken just like Cash Cab's Ben Bailey when he says "Red Light Challenge!")

Ok, I'm exhausted from too much blogging so it's your turn to sweat over a hot keyboard today.  Enter the contest by submitting a caption for this photo.  You can do so by leaving a comment or sending me an email.  The winner (to be chosen by me of course) will receive...drum roll...a later mention on this blog!  Stop booing and get thinking/typing.

Flint

Quintessential Chipotle Dry-rubbiness

Last year, my daughter Chelsea and some of her friends started getting together each week at a restaurant chain called Buffalo Wild Wings.  In "hipster" lingo, it is abbreviated to BWW (which is pronounced "bee dubs" by those who also pronounce "vs." as "verse").  She then began trying to convince me that I needed to give the restaurant a try.  I first did the obligatory fatherly posturing and assured her she needn't try to tell me anything about a world in which I had lived for 31 years before she was even born.

Chelsea (the one on the left)

However, like any father of a teen (and especially with her being the baby of the family), I eventually gave in to her pleading.  On my first visit (yes, there were subsequent visits...congratulations on deciphering my ingenius foreshadowing), I chose to just have a hamburger...a hamburger that changed my life!  For this was no ordinary restaurant hamburger fried to a dry and tasteless existence on a stainless steel grill (and I use the term "grill" very loosely).

This hamburger was a juicy and savory delight.  It tasted truly grilled (meaning meat actually barbecued over charcoal made from that bag of overpriced bacon-wrapped-hickory-apple-mesquite wood chips you see at the store).  The black crisscross (Middle English for "Christcross"...the sign/mark of Christ's cross) pattern on both sides of the burger were the genuine result of the meat being seared by the grill rods (not just painted on with black food coloring #4).

You'll just have to imagine this without the cheese...I couldn't find a photo of the real deal

But don't change the channel yet...there is more gospel (Greek for "good news") to come!  I'm usually very conservative on my menu selections.  Once I find something I like, I usually stick with it for fear of trying something different and potentially being disappointed.  I hate the thought of leaving a restaurant having spent my hard-earned (ok, well at least "earned") money on disappointing food.   However, some modicum of menu liberality can still cunningly be achieved.  The secret trick is to dine with friends/family who will let you try some of their order to see if you like it (without you having to incur any risk to your personal restaurant satisfaction).  Just such an exploit led to yet another fortuitous BWW discovery.

The unfortunate "mark" in this con was my new and unsuspecting son-in-law Derrick (one of my two favorite sons-in-law).  My first wife (Renee) and I were having lunch at BWW with Derrick and his bride Haley (who happens to be our daughter as it turns out).  While we were all perusing the menu (or, in my case, faking it), I heard Derrick contemplating trying the newly listed "dry-rub" wings.  I seized on the opportunity and suggested Derrick give them a try (and even tossed in a subliminal mention that the chipotle seasoning sounded like a good choice).  To put my conscience at ease, I at least made it known to him that I would like to sample the wings if he ended up ordering them (so Mom, there is no need to be concerned about my salvation).  To my delight, he bit my diabolical lure hook, line, and sinker.  So I just proceeded to order my usual "cheeseburger without the cheese" (as they don't actually list a "hamburger" on the menu...yet another piece of priceless information as typically supplied by this blog).

The "mark" (or in this situation "the Derrick") 

It turned out that Derrick's wife was my daughter Haley (from my first marriage)!

My first wife (Renee) in her "natürlichen Lebensraum" (German for "natural habitat")

When Derrick's chipotle dry-rub wings arrived, I quickly sealed the deal by asking if I could try one.  It too (like its hamburger forefather) was a delectable treasure, but with an additional quintessential (Latin for "fifth essence"...a medieval term for the substance composing the celestial bodies...basically like saying something is "heavenly")  chipotle dry-rubbiness.

They may not look like much, but these babies pack a punch (just like me)

So, in closing, I urge you all to add a BWW trip to your "KFC bucket list" (see my "Hello World!" post from 7/23/10 if this means nothing to you).  To sweeten the pot, I'll even tell you what to say to your server when ordering.  To ensure your total satisfaction, say "For an appetizer, I'll have 6 (or more) chipotle dry-rub traditional wings and then I'll have the cheeseburger without the cheese".  There is no need to specify "quintessential dry-rubbiness" when ordering as that would be redundant and your server isn't likely to understand the term "quintessential" (unless they happen to be one of the lucky and informed followers of this blog).  Do not (I repeat, DO NOT) get cocky and venture beyond my recommendations.  For example, don't adjust the order to be "boneless" instead of "traditional" (trust me, I got burned bad on that particular one...learn from my mistakes or you will be destined to repeat them).  Once you get a solid BWW foothold, you can try out other things on their menu (using the so-called "Derrick Manuever") and let me know what else I should try there.

Daughter Summer and Son-in-law Grant in a candid shot
(hey, I had shown everybody else in the family!)

Flint

P.S. Tuesdays are "45 cent wing days" at BWW if you are a fiscal dynamo like me (aka: miser, Scrooge, penny pincher, skinflint, tightwad, cheapskate, moneygrubber, pinchfist).  Okay, enough self-admiration already!

P.P.S. There is no shame/sin in opting for a cheeseburger (or for that matter any other burger on their menu).  All the burgers listed on the menu use the same precious burger as the primary building block.  I just happen to like nothing getting in the way of the actual burger taste (plus, I get some sort of weird/silly kick out of ordering a "cheeseburger without the cheese"...most servers immediately balk at the order until it eventually registers).

P.P.P.S. Having now established my pedigree at our local BWW, I'm contemplating testing out the waters beyond the menu on my next visit.  I'm thinking of hazarding a request to have them pre-batter my burger with the chipotle dry-rub elixir before exposing it to the fire.  If I don't end up flying too close to the sun on wings of seasoned ground beef, I'll let you know how it turns out.

Roadie

A friend sent me an email today with several beautiful/interesting photos of various roads (thank goodness for friends and email or I would have no material at all for this blog).  As I was looking through the photos, they brought to mind a couple of my favorite poems (and by "favorite", I mean the few that I actually know).  I found it interesting that something as pedestrian (pun intended) as a road can evoke such strong emotions (and I'm not talking about road rage).

So sit back, relax, tune out the world, put on your safety belt, and enjoy a little virtual drive on the scenic byways today.

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveller, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could 

To where it bent in the undergrowth; 

Then took the other, as just as fair, 

And having perhaps the better claim, 

Because it was grassy and wanted wear; 

Though as for that the passing there 

Had worn them really about the same, 

And both that morning equally lay 

In leaves no step had trodden black. 

Oh, I kept the first for another day! 

Yet knowing how way leads on to way, 

I doubted if I should ever come back. 

I shall be telling this with a sigh 

Somewhere ages and ages hence: 

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- 

I took the one less traveled by, 

And that has made all the difference

Nobody knows it but me
by Patrick O'Leary

There's a place that I travel
When I want to roam
And nobody knows it but me.

The roads don't go there
And the signs stay home
And nobody knows it but me.

It's far far away
And way way afar
It's over the moon and the sea

And wherever you're going
that's wherever you are
And nobody knows it but me.

You might be surprised that the latter of these two poems doesn't come from some golden age/era of poetry.  It was written for a 2002 Chevy Tahoe TV ad.  Now, who said TV wasn't enlightening?!?!

Flint