In Sea Turtle Years

by Jer

"Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter." -Mark Twain

My eyeballs haven't aged.

When I look in the mirror - inches from it, really - and take in the lines, contours and imperfections on my face, I can see clearly that I am no longer the little boy whose reflection I seem to recall seeing not so long ago.

Around my eyes are lines that fan out and immediately fade. There are groves across my forehead that were once only revealed when I would furrow my brow, but are now always visible. The rate at which my nose and ears produce hair is only rivaled by my course, patchy beard.

And then there is my scalp.

First, my hairline is fighting two losing battles of the bulge on both sides of my head so that what remains resembles Eddie Munster's widow's peak. And then there is the thinning; oh, the thinning! I recently had the displeasure of seeing the back and top of my head in a security camera at a local store. No wonder it is coldest up there on brisk, winter days.

Lastly, the grays. I've never seen them, but my wife insists that they are there. Every once and a while she will supposedly dislodge one with a pair of tweezers. My typical response is to accuse her of planting it; which - figuratively speaking - is probably closer to the truth than either of us is willing to admit.

But the eyes have reminded timeless. They are the same color and texture that I recall having always seen. I concede it could be argued that the human eyeball doesn't age in the same manner as skin, and therefore isn't as reliable in gauging one's age.

My driver's licence indicates that I will be turn 39 this year, and while I'm just over a year removed from becoming middle-aged, my identity and self-perception sometimes tell me I'm just barely old enough to vote.

If the eyes - as the old adage goes - are the windows to the soul, my windows reveal an early spring scene. In other analogous words, my body ages in dog-years relative to my identity... or my identity ages in sea turtle-years; take your pick.

I admit denial must play a role; aging is a curse in western society.

Strange that we would make a curse out of the inevitable.

In the same way that we laud youth's beauty and physical achievements, shouldn't we lend praise to the wisdom and knowledge of the senior generations?

Stupid question. "Wisdom sells" is a lie.

So when my body breaksdown - and it will - and the reality of aging sets in, am I in for a rude awakening?

Probably, but I'm banking on some of that aforementioned wisdom to see me through to the brighter side of things. The side that still sees an early spring scene in the mirror even though it's winter to others.

We'll Always Have Paris

by Jer

A bunch of us lost a good friend this week.

Former colleague, always a friend, and forever a brother, Jason Presley passed away Monday due to complications from a congenital liver disease. Only in his late 30s, he leaves behind his wife Michelle and their two young daughters.

Now, not many of you had the displeasure of being in the same office as Jason and me when we would break into song together, the following is a favorite memory of my dear friend...

I worked in an office with Jason, and six other music lovers, at a west coast university from 2003 to 2005. At any given moment, on any given day, there were usually eight different songs being played on eight different PCs in our small hallway. Every so often - to diverge from the norm - I would go retro and listen to some old standards; Nat King Cole, Blossom Dearie, Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, etc, etc.

One of my personal favorites is "I Love Paris" as song by Lena Horne. The chorus goes:

I love Paris in the spring time
I love Paris in the fall
I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles
I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles

Whenever my iTunes would play this song, I would reach to my right, turn the volume button clockwise and look over my shoulder at Jason - whose desk chair was in perfect alignment with mine from across the hall - and start to sing at the top of my lungs:

I love Jason in the spring time
I love Jason in the fall
I love Jason in the summer when it sizzles
I love Jason in the winter when it drizzles

I love Jason every moment
Every moment of the year
I love Jason, why oh why do I love Jason?
Because my love is here!

Being completely confident in his own masculinity, Jason would grin widely and sing back in kind.

The strangeness of seeing two grown men declaring their love for each other in song notwithstanding, this silly scene truly was about the friendly affection I felt for my colleague and brother.

Dare I say it?

Jason and I will always have Paris.

We'll all see you someday soon, my friend.

Bottom of the Birdcage Awards for the Week of 04.23.07

by Jer

"Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former." - Albert Einstein

Welcome to the Bottom of the Birdcage Awards! (a.k.a. The BOBs). The Blogged Drain's bi-monthly award for those things - done or said - that fall under the category of the overwhelmingly annoying, despicably wrong, or galacticly stupid.

This week's winners...

3rd Place: Sheryl Crow

If you hadn't heard, singer and environmental activist Sheryl Crow has proposed a limitation on toilet paper use. From her website she recommended that "only one square per restroom visit, except, of course, on those pesky occasions where two to three could be required". She goes on to say, "I propose a limitation be put on how many squares of toilet paper can be used in any one sitting."

You propose a limitation?!? Two questions: First, how do you propose to enforce this limitation, and second, do you really expect us to believe that you get by with just one square?

2nd Place: Fred X

Blogger for men's rights, Fred X, made the following comments about Kiranjit Ahluwalia and the movie Provoked, which chronicles the 10 years of domestic abuse she suffered and her eventual decision to set her husband on fire. Of Ahluwalia, Fred X says, "Long time readers [of his blog] know exactly what I think of this bitch - who got out of prison due to yet another get-out-clause (Battered Woman Defence) that exists for women-only."

I am, by no means, suggesting that this woman should have gotten out of prison. She did, afterall, commit murder and in a particularly sadistic fashion; there are people incarcerated today for having done much less. However, Fred Flintstoned completely ignores that (1) Ahluwalia's husband brutally beat and raped her for a decade and (2) she is the recipient of the "get-out-clause" and not it's architect. The venom for this questionable piece of legislation should be directed at those to wrote it and passed it; not those who benefit from it.

1st Place: Bella's Former Owners

Chicago talk radio host and part-time animal rights activist, Mike North, featured the following Adopt-A-Pet story on his website: "Bella is a ten year old female Chocolate Lab. She was found wandering by the police, who tracked down her owners. When they took Bella home, her owners told them that they didn’t want her anymore and had turned her loose, hoping the coyotes would kill her off."

My guess is that these are some pretty poor folks. Not only didn't they have the means to keep the dog, drive it to the humane society or to put it down, they couldn't afford common decency, and that stuff's free, and if you can't afford free, well...

It Defies Logic... and the odds.

by Jer

Now, 0 for 50 would be a historic achievement on any other team, but on the Cubs it is usually called September. - Bernie Lincicome, Chicago Tribune

Growing-up a baseball fan in, outside, or anywhere near Chicago was a tall order as a kid. Unlike most cities - save LA, the Bay Area or New York - Chicagoans get to choose between two baseball teams. Generally speaking, your geography decides for you. Cubs fans live on the north side and White Sox fans live on the south side.

But for those of us who actually took the time to make a conscience choice between the two, we eventually found ourselves wondering, "Is there a third a option?"

Between the two franchises, the Chicago Cubs and the Chicago White Sox, they have 238 years of history and a grand total of 5 World Series, four of which came before the year 1918. That's a championship winning percentage of 2.1%.

Truly, it defies logic.

Like most kids, I loved baseball. I played it. I watched it. I collected baseball cards. And in spite of the lack of winning baseball in the city, I still benefited from its long history.

But my apathy turned to passion in 1984. That's the year the Cubs started to win again. And it wasn't just the winning that was fun, it was the players. For the first time in a long time, Harry Carry, wasn't the only personality on the team. There was Gary, 'the Sarge' Matthews, Rick 'the Red Baron' Sutcliff, Ron 'the Penguin' Cey, and many more whose cards I had to have and whose games I had to watch.

The Cubs won their division that year and went to the playoffs for the first time in 39 years.

They won the first two games against the San Diego Padres in a best of five series. They were one game away from their first World Series since 1945 and they had three opportunities to win it.

In spite of Cy Young Award winning Rick Sutcliff starting game five, they blew all three chances and San Diego went on to represent to National League in the series where they eventually fell to the Detroit Tigers.

I quite literally, cried.

A few years later, the south siders got themselves a new first baseman. His name was Frank Thomas, but they called him, 'The Big Hurt'. He was kind of a moody bugger, but could he hit the ball and hit it far. Not only was he one of the best hitting first basemen in the league, he was the best hitter, rivaled only by a Ken Griffey, Jr of the Seattle Mariners.

With the help of a new stadium, some decent pitching and new black retro uniforms, Frank Thomas helped turn the Chicago White Sox into a more compelling team than their counterparts to the north.

That is, until 1994.

As painful as 1984 was, 1994 was, in some ways, worse. Baseball was engaging that year for the Chicago fan. Individually, the unspoken Griffey and Thomas race were fun to follow. As a team, the White Sox were in a close division race with the Cleveland Indians and Kansas City Royals. Not a single division race was locked down by one team.

And then it abruptly ended. On August 12, 1994, the Major League Baseball players went on strike. The season was eventually canceled as was the World Series.

The worst part of the strike? It was, in large part, what led to the steroid era. So many jilted fans - angry at both the owners and the players - gave-up on baseball. Myself included.

What brought us back? For starters, the single season home run chase of 1998, which we can now safely assume was juiced. Players, who we once watched with awe, are now vilified. Sammy Sosa. Mark McGuire. Barry Bonds.

A decade later, I have a son of my own and already I look forward to the day that I can take him to a baseball game. Collect baseball cards. Watch him play on his own team. Cheer a professional team.

Or should I reconsider that last one?

With baseball's track record, especially in Chicago, am I just setting the kid up for some serious fandom heartbreak?

Some may argue that the White Sox are the safe bet. Their owner, Jerry Reinsdorf, has brought 7 championships to the city of Chicago, including the 2005 World Series and six NBA titles. It would stand to reason that he's going to bring more.

Others might argue the Cubs are now the safe bet. They have a new manager in "Sweet Lou" Piniella , they are about to be sold into private ownship, and frankly, they're due.

But are all those things enough? Baseball is still baseball; it's a poorly run league and their fans, frankly, get shit on a lot. Ticket prices are high. Baseball cards aren't cheap. Many players are jerks.

Is that what I want to encourage for my kid? Is that the sports I want to role model to my son?

"Stand here son and wait for MLB to crap on your head. It'll be fun! We can do it together!"

You know it's bad when they make NASCAR look inviting.

The One Time It Wasn't My Fault

by Jer

"But why, oh why, do the wrong people travel, when the right people stay at home?" - Noel Coward

In May 2001, I took my wife to Las Vegas for her birthday. I got one of those travel package deals that allowed us to get a flight, hotel on the Strip and some entertainment at a relatively affordable rate. We stayed at the Luxor, ate great food, played the slots and had a generally fantastic weekend together.

At the time, she was pregnant with our first child so I decided to fit-in a trip to Vegas before it became logistically impossible. Additionally, we had tried to get to Vegas four years earlier, but things didn't exactly go as planned...

What I remember most was the heat. July 1997 was a ridiculously hot. Blue skies. No clouds. Plenty of sun. High temps.

Iowa has poured a lot of tax dollars into their interstates. They're not cheap, patched-up asphalt. They're concrete. Solid. Smooth. White. And as my wife and I were westbound on I-80, about 50 miles west of Des Moines, the heat was radiating off that concrete so much so that the reflective mirage effect was perceived well into the distance of the Hawkeye State's relatively flat topography.

Our Honda Accord LX Coupe was four years old. We had bought it just a few months before our wedding and it had served us well. No major work. No big expenses. Lots of good miles.

That would change by the end of this trip.

We were between moves and my new job didn't start for several weeks. I had just resigned my position at a college in southwest Missouri and before I assumed my new responsibilities at a school in St. Paul, Minnesota, we decided to drive out to Las Vegas for some fun. I had been there several times in college and my wife had yet to even drive past the city's shimmering lights. I insisted that she would have a good time and that I could make enough money on the slots to cover the hotel. The latter was the clincher.

On the first leg of our journey - from Missouri to Minnesota - I noticed that the car had been running hot. The temperature gauge was a little higher than I was used to seeing it. I simply attributed it to the increased summer temps, made a mental note to check it more often that usual, and kept on our merry way.

We were on the second leg of the trip - about six hours removed from unloading all of our belongings into a storage unit in the Twin Cities - and headed to Vegas when I started to get concerned.

The Temp gauge was three quarters of the way to red lining and the AC wasn't feeling ACish at all. It was, in fact, blowing warm air.

"Honey, has the car been driving okay for you?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"No problems? Nothing weird?"

"No. Why are you asking?"

"The car seems to be running a little hot. We've got the AC on 'Full' and it's coming out warm."

"That can't be good."

We decided to turn-off the AC and roll the windows down a bit. Seemed like a fair solution, but the problem with rolling down the windows in 90+ degree weather while you're flying down the highway at 65 mph is the hairdryer-in-the-face sensation you experience. It's suppose it's great if you have an oily complexion, but under the circumstances, dermatological concerns were the furthest thing from my mind.

But still, we persisted towards Sin City.

It wasn't too much longer that I noticed the Temp gauge was creeping back towards the red line again.

"Honey, the car's getting hot again."

"Do you think something's wrong?"

"Well, something ain't right!"

I wanted to get to Vegas. I was not going to be deterred. I had an idea...

So there we were. Two people. Flying down the interstate. Windows open. Under the blazing July sun. The mercury pushing triple digits. And our car heater on high.

I figured if I rolled the windows all the way down, cranked the heater to 'High' and pointed the vents outward, it would cool the engine down enough to keep it from overheating.

It worked... for about 20 or 30 minutes.

"Honey. It's getting hot again."

"Pull over."

"But Vegas..."

"Pull over!"

I drove a couple of more miles, in a feeble act of defiance, till I found the next exit, pulled onto a frontage road, turned-off the car and popped the hood.

Like most men who know nothing about cars, I looked around the under the hood hoping to find something obvious, like a gaping hole or a bunch of tubes that looked disconnected or a missing engine. But I no more knew what I was looking at than an infant knows how to program a VCR. I just stared into the mouth of the beast, hoping it would tell me what was wrong. I knew just enough to not open the radiator cap to see if it had fluid. I didn't want to add 3rd degree splatter burns to my list of frustrations.

"Honey, I have no idea what I'm looking at."

"See, this is why you should learn more about cars."

"Is that really a conversation you want to have at this particular moment?"

Silence.

A few minutes pass and a local law enforcement officer pulls up behind our car. The open hood must have been a dead give-away.

I'm always confused why many rural mid-westerners have a southern accent when they're not from the south or living there; but often times, they do. Go figure.

"Canna help ya, folks?"

"I don't know. Our car keeps over-heating and I don't know why."

He walks over the front of our Accord, and peers about for a moment.

"Well, now, I see your problem!"

"You do?!?!"

Astonished and perplexed that it took him no time at all to figure it out, I rush to his side to see what he saw.

He points down to the area in front of the radiator and says, "It's that, right there."

I look where he's pointing and I see the edge of a piece of plywood firmly wedged into a space directly in front of the radiator, clearly blocking the vehicle's air intake and thus limiting its ability to stay cool.

"Who the hell put a piece of plywood in front of our radiator!" I exclaim.

I look over at my wife, expecting to see the same look of bewilderment. Instead, I see a sheepish, almost apologetic smile that, without words, communicates, "Opps!"

Apparently our car wasn't getting hot enough for her liking during the cold winter months. Over the previous Christmas break, she laments this fact to my car savvy brother-in-law and he suggests that she force the issue by putting some plywood in front of the radiator. Then he takes it a step further and with her blessing, gets the wood himself and places it where our officer hero finds it six months later along Interstate 80; all done completely unbeknown to me.

Needless to say, she forgot about the wood.

The end result of the driving hundreds of miles in 90+ degree weather with sheet of plywood in front of our radiator? $1200 in repairs and a canceled trip to Las Vegas.

For the first and only time in my marriage, it wasn't my fault.

Outweighed by the Needs of the Few

by Jer

Republicans are against abortion until their daughters need one, and Democrats are for abortion until their daughters want one. - Grace McGarvie

I hate the abortion debate. I really do. I think most folks who get loud on both sides of the argument are morons and frankly, I just wish they would go away. Perhaps to Canada or France or better yet, Florida.

I think the Bible-thumping, judgmental, pro-life, evangelical types who say the most vile of things protesting an abortion clinic wouldn't know Jesus if He was standing right next to them.

And I think the button wearing, entitled, pro-choice, liberal types who act so enlightened their shit don't stink are ignorant to the fact that it actually does.

Now that I've leveled the playing field by pissing everybody off...

A couple of weeks ago I was trying to enjoy a cup of over-priced Starbucks coffee when I read an editorial by Cindy Richards in the Chicago Sun-Times titled, Nix parent notification law for abortion. Under normal circumstances, I don't spend a whole lot of time outside of the sports section of the Sun-Times. Clearly, they have the best sports coverage in Chicago (my hometown), but I find the rest of the newspaper - of any newspaper - to be too depressing and slanted to keep my attention for very long.

But for some reason, I found myself flipping through the entire paper on this particular day and Ms. Richards' piece caught my eye.

As the title might suggest, the author is of the pro-choice mindset and would like to see a not-yet-enacted Illinois law repealed; a law that requires parental notification anytime a girl 17-years or younger is seeking an abortion. Ms. Richards concluded her thoughts with the following:

Meanwhile, a bill that would take the edge off the parental notification law is winding its way through the Illinois Legislature. The bill would allow a teen who doesn't believe she can confide in her parents to instead tell another responsible adult about her plans to have an abortion. In the saddest of all cases, a teen who has no trusted adult in her life still would have the option of seeking permission from a judge.

If the goal of the parental notification law is to ensure a girl has sufficient support in her time of need -- and not simply a way to keep her from getting an abortion -- this bill should speed its way through the Legislature.

I'm not in the least bit interested in debating the morality of abortion. I'm not in the least bit interested in debating the reproductive rights of women. It's not that I don't care; it's just that it would be an exercise in futility. On both sides of the issue, there's nothing I can say that hasn't already been said. This is such a polarizing topic; I would imagine there are few who consider themselves "undecided."

However, I do have a problem with this Illinois law that is "winding its way through the Illinois Legislature" and any law that would remove the need for parental notification prior to any kind of non-emergent medical procedure.

So I have some questions about this proposed piece of legislation: Exactly who will determine that a teen has parents in whom she cannot confide? What's that process look like? Who makes the determination that the parents cannot be informed? And based on what criteria? Are we taking the teen's word as evidence enough that the parents should be kept in the dark?

When I was a sophomore in high school, I was playing a game of co-ed, tackle football with a bunch of kids from my church. If you've never played the 'church' version of co-ed tackle football, it's simple. Boys can tackle boys. Girls can tackle girls. Girls can tackle boys. Boys canNOT tackle girls.

The problem with co-ed sports? Boys always think they can do it better than the girls. I was no exception. While on offense, our QB threw the ball to a girl. Thinking I could do bigger and better things, I stepped in front of her, caught the ball, and started to run up-field. I didn't make it too far before Raul Cantu - a future serviceman in the first gulf war - tackled me from the left, pile driving my right shoulder into the ground.

My clavicle broke in three places. I know this because (1) it hurt and (2) with the bone being in such close proximity to my ear, I heard it break.

In the ER, the pain was so excruciating, I kept passing out. Because they needed my name, phone number and other important details, each time things started to go black, the nurse would hold smelling salts under my nose so she could finish taking her report. It was during one such episode that she asked for my home phone number so they could notify my parents. Whatever number she heard while I was starting to fall over was not mine and as a result, they couldn't reach my folks.

So there I sat, in pain, waiting for them to get permission to treat my injury. Without the parental notification, they couldn't even give me Tylenol. (After about two hours of no one answering the phone, they decided to ask me for my number again).

Getting back to the topic at hand, if Ms. Richards gets her way, a minor can have an elective surgical procedure without telling her parents; a procedure with a higher complication rate than a couple of Tylenol capsules.

I applaud her desire to protect those teens who have such short-sighted, untrustworthy parents that they can't turn to them in their greatest hour of need. Chances are a young girl's choice to not protect herself in the first place can probably be traced back to a dysfunctional home.

But those teens are the exception, not the rule, and a law like this outweighs the need of the minority (teens who cannot turn to their parents) over that of the majority (teens who can trust their parents and ultimately are better-off doing so).

And let’s also not lump-in the parents of a pregnant teen who are bound to become angry and/or disappointed (which will be most) with parents who will become abusive and unsupportive. It’s only natural that a parent would be hurt and angry in such situations; that hardly warrants a law that would enable their teen to keep them in the dark. In most cases, the anger will pass, forgiveness will settle in, and together, parent and child can make an informed, well-thought out decision that isn’t motivated by fear.

Finally, a law like this cannot be enforced with any level of equity or dependability. For that reason alone, it should stay off the books. It would simply give teenagers the freedom to abate the consequences of their actions; consequences that - in the short-run - may prove painful, but in the long-run, may pale in comparison to the result of an uninformed, unsupported, knee-jerk choice of a young girl whose body has matured faster than her ability to make a good decision.

Big is the New Small

by Jer

"A government that is big enough to give you all you want is big enough to take it all away." - Barry Goldwater

In high school, I went through one of those 'sowing my wild oats' periods. That's code for 'I partied my ass off.'

Yes, I drank like a fish. Mostly cheap beer. There was a guy at a local gas station we identified as "The Hippie" due to his long, unmanaged hair and unwillingness to shave. He would have sold booze to the prepubescent version of Macaulay Culkin from the Home Alone movies. Never carded us. We loved him for it.

Unfortunately for my friends and me, we rarely knew when to stop. Often, we would drink ourselves into confusion and drunken disorderliness. To our credit, we always assigned a designated driver - or 'Double-D' - to play goal keeper each Friday and Saturday night.

During one particular escapade, we made our weekly visit to 'The Hippie' and then proceeded to a party at the home of some kid from another school. After a fair amount of drinking and otherwise raucous behavior, I decided to take a break and relax on a couch. I have no idea how much time elapsed before I decided to pull myself up and find my friends.

Where is everybody? I don't recognized a single face at this party. What did I miss? How did I get here? Is that girl puking in her purse?

I made my way out to the street only to find that the car we came in was no longer there.

Those a**holes left without me! (Keep in mind, this was before the era of the cellphone.)

Thank goodness for the Double-D that night, because he didn't get too far before he realized that he was short one drunken idiot.

As an adult - a term I use loosely - I once again find myself looking around wondering, "What did I miss? How did I get here?" Only this time, I'm in a very different arena and after all is said and done, I may need a drink again.

I'm speaking of conservative, American politics. Not exactly as sexy of a topic as me drinking myself into a stupor, but stick with me.

Studying US Government in Social Studies class, I remember the simplified distinction between conservatives and liberals centering around their ideology as it relates to power and control. Conservatives, traditionally, believed that small, limited government was a good thing and liberals sought to tip the balance or power away from the state and towards the Fed.

Pretty straight forward, even for a simpleton like me, right?

Wrong.

George W. Bush has long since been demonstrating a disdain for economic conservatism and the belief in limited government. This we know. What I didn't come to fully realize - bully for you if you did - that the conservative movement in this country has long since been showing signs of a similar disdain. It was a recent comment on MSNBC by author and one-time Nixon lawyer, John Dean, that served as my 'ah ha' moment (or 'uh-oh', depending on your perspective):

When I first got interested in conservatism, the presidency was viewed as something that was dangerous when it was strong. A decade later, when Nixon came in, it started to swing. Then with Reagan, Bush, and Bush, it has now gone 180 degrees, where the conservative canon calls for a strong president.

Maybe I should call my old Social Studies teacher and make sure they've ordered new books.

Now, I'm not a huge fan of Dick Armey, but even a blind squirrel finds a nut every-so-often. Of big government he says, "[It] violates [our] rights by meddling in our lives, misusing our hard-earned money, and dictating cultural norms to us." If this is the existing modus operandi of liberals and the "new" one of conservatives, what options are left for those of us who think very little of big?

Before I start coming off like an alarmist, I concede that none of what I'm saying here has any basis beyond the anecdotal. These are all based on observations I've made from various media outlets. However, I'm found of saying, "Where there's smoke, there's global warming" and there are enough conservative leaders outside of Washington DC defending the Bush administration to warrant these concerns; which is not to suggest there hasn't been ample reason to be concerned before this point.

Lastly, one other comment made by John Dean has me on edge - this time from an article he wrote for findlaw.com:

... the 2006 mid-term election was not a mandate in favor of Democrats. Rather, it was a mandate against Republicans. It's also a mandate the Republic party is likely to learn from, and respond to, as the Republican Party has historically been very good at learning from its mistakes, recalibrating, and returning stronger than ever. Moreover, nothing that occurred during the 2006 election has dramatically changed the efforts of Republicans to make themselves the permanent ruling party.

The permanent ruling party?

Where's 'The Hippie' when I need him?