dminmem

dminmem

23 May 2012

Isn't It Ironic?

No. Not So Much.

As often as I see "irony" or "ironic" misused or misappropriated, I thank Alanis Morissette for amplifying the dilution and/or destruction of the word with her whining 1995 ditty, "Ironic." Don't get me wrong. I loved "Jagged Little Pill" for its somewhat "in your face" qualities and how at times it seemed to be filled with empowering anthems for the downtrodden. But most of the examples Morissette mentions in her song are mere coincidences or unfortunate events.


There's no irony here, just ignorance. And stupidity.
These days it seems there's often nothing at all ironic about many things called such.

For instance, I agree with the writer that the tattooed dude in his post is an idiot. But, he refers to the tattoo in the story as "ironic" and says that "ironic tattoos are all the rage nowadays."

Funny, for this tattoo to be ironic it seems to me that the moron who paid for it should have been aware of the scripture that follows closely behind. And, I'm betting dollars to doughnuts this jerk only knows this scripture and maybe a couple of others often used to eschew decency for hatred. And, I'll go double or nothing on whether or not he was even aware of the text in Leviticus 19:28.

No, this isn't irony at all. I can think of a more appropriate and seemingly endless selection of adjectives for this comedy and/or tragedy.

Just like the ghetto-girl with a rotten attitude, an overly bedazzled manicure (on nails that look as if they belong in the Guinness Book of World Records), booty shorts and an atrocious weave fronts with all that and calls herself "Diva."

Nope. Don't think so.

21 May 2012

Denied

In light of North Carolina's recent travesty where the citizenry allegedly voted to deny rights, which should be inalienable unless we're living in times reminiscent of Hitler's Europe, I thought finally posting this thought -- which has been languishing in "draft" mode for quite some time -- may be appropriate now more than ever.

Imagine that you and your family has just boarded a ship for what promises to be a vacation of a lifetime. Imagine, then, that while your partner, a happy, healthy 39-year-old, is snapping photos of your children that he/she collapses on the deck.

The sad story.

I don't understand why the ignorant cannot use sound logic or good judgment. Clearly, the victim(s) here provided every legal proof of their relationship with the patient. Yet, the hospital workers didn't respect those contracts. And, now, the victim is living with the guilt of letting her partner down in her last moments on this Earth.

Support gay rights. After all, they are your rights, too, lest we forget:

First they came for the communists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.


Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.


Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew.


Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak out for me.

-- Friedrich Gustav Emil Martin Niemöller
1892 – 1984

Time Flies

Whether or not we're having fun seems inconsequential. I can't believe It's been three weeks since my father died.

In that time I've logged 2,304 miles between here and home: 1,920 on interstate highways and 384 in the air. That's three round trips. The road time amounts to about 30 hours give or take a couple. My last road trip north was finished in 4:48, but the trip back to Memphis took more than six hours. Starting out, lane restrictions due to construction made passing through Louisville ridiculously tedious. Later delays in Nashville for the same reason -- where six lanes dwindled to two and a "must exit" situation -- made the trip unusually long and tiresome.

I've been to the Floyd County courthouse more than a few times, just like I had the day before driving home. Leaving there, I pulled away from my curbside parking space only to immediately pull into a metered space. An offensive bird left an ugly, lumpy intrusion to cook on the windshield, squarely in my sight line, while I was indoors. Further, I'd spent $30 for a wash/detail at St. Matthews Car Wash the day before. (I know, it's a bit uppity for a car wash but if you know me and had seen my car it was a rare occasion to behold: suicidal insect carcasses plastered on the front, rain-enabled road grime everywhere else, filth on the floor mats, grimy windows). Crusty bird leavings on an otherwise sparkling car were an affront to my OCD nature. The turd had to go. Windex from the cargo box and a napkin from the glove box changed my focus.

Workers busy eradicating evidence of roads too often traveled.

Finished with eradicating the offending splotch, I pulled back out onto Market Street where I was reminded of an incident that occurred when I was very young.

Mother had taken Daddy's bright yellow, hot rod 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible to the same place for something or another and -- per his instructions, I'm sure -- backed into the metered parking space. She couldn't see over the trunk through the back window, and a side mirror is no help in such a situation. She hit the meter, bending it backward and earning a traffic citation and fine. I can't recall any damage to the bumper but I'll bet it wasn't spared. Needless to say at the very least, yelling ensued when she picked him up after his shift at Pillsbury.

My traveling days aren't finished, but I need to stop and take a breath. Catching up on paying work, housework, and yardwork sounds like a nice way to start what I expect to be a full week at home. If I can manage to kick-start my gym work in the process I'll be aces.

05 May 2012

I Don't Like This Ride. I Want To Get Off.

To say that the last two weeks have been an emotional roller coaster would be an understatement. Hell, the last two years have been such a ride, but these last few days the ride feels as if it's about to derail if it's on the tracks at all.


I suppose the first screaming, hands-in-the-air downhill rush started with waking up on my birthday, hungover and considering a really bad math equation: martinis + Facebook = bad. Mind you, I didn't get obliterated by any stretch of the imagination. But...


I got my coffee spent a few minutes enjoying the birthday greetings I was reading from friends and family. At the same time I thought to myself, "these people saw your idiotic rant from last night."

Adding to my embarrassment for the foul-mouthed tirade I posted over Papa John's latest alteration to their $10/7-topping pizza deal -- which went up a dollar initially but now robs the customer of two toppings and two bucks -- I felt inexplicably odd and was unhappy that Cameron wouldn't be home for the non-celebration of my day. But those things wouldn't have been the reason for the uneasy feelings I had that day.



The offending reduction in value that sent me into a lunatic tizzy.

I wanted desperately to get some long overdue tasks done both in the office and around the house. My ADD seemed to be on overdrive and I felt as if I was doing nothing more than running in circles, accomplishing nothing. But I did manage to get the air conditioner coils cleaned, upload files for production, confirm delivery of other pieces and finish a bit of accounting. 


In the early afternoon, while in the garden transplanting ornamental grasses, wondering jew and dusty miller, my plans changed drastically. My youngest sister, Tina, called with the news that Daddy had "coded" after coming out of what was to be considered minor surgery for colon cancer, detected extremely early. In fact, we were told there was absolutely no reason for concern let alone a trip home.

Apparently, this heart attack was a big one, and it took somewhere near thirty minutes to resuscitate, leaving him in a coma.
At 24 hours, we were told that the neurologist was going to wait until the 48-hour mark to perform a CT scan to determine the severity of damage his brain no doubt suffered in the time it was starved of oxygen.

Before we could hear the results of that scan, though, he began to leave us.

Since 5:18AM, Saturday, April 28, we have been in shock, angry, sad, confused but at the same time know we must stay motivated to make arrangements for his cremation, memorial and graveside services while taking care of his business. Mowing the lawn, killing weeds, changing locks, sorting files, talking to his neighbors and friends who call or drop by, sorting photos, taking inventory, throwing out expired and sometimes exploded or leaking canned goods, clearing out the freezer, corralling what I think is
around 18 utility knives, myriad flashlights, gallon upon gallon of Pine-Sol and collecting what I think is now around 40 assorted pairs of glasses in sun, reading and God-knows-what varieties is only the beginning.


Daddy, cropped from a family portrait, 1969.



We've had a few laughs with each other trying on those silly glasses, particularly the ones with the lighted temples. I know he must've used them when he was working in a dark environment and couldn't spare a hand for a flashlight. But they're still comical to see. And, we're truly perplexed about the Pine-Sol. I think we've counted more than ten gallons. What on Earth could he be cleaning that he needed an institutional supply of the stuff in original scent and what I've been calling "grape?" (I think Lisa said it was lavender but grape sounds funnier to me).

It's strange learning some things we never knew about the man. Being in his house without him and rifling through his stuff is unsettling at times. I'm grateful for the help we're getting and I have faith that we'll get through this intact.

But, I'm ready to lift the restraint and step off.