Dear Gentle Reader(s), doesn't it make sense to identify humanity as, essentially, agnostic?
We don't know.
Many of us believe, but that's not the same as knowing.
The phrase, "In my heart I know" is actually meaningless. It is a virtual admission a topic unknowable. All this brouhaha about atheist, agnostic, and believer is just so much smoke.
One might hope, but one cannot, as this stage of the development of the human mind, know.
Agape.
Sphere: Related ContentDear Gentle Reader(s), does anyone really buy the kinoki foot pads?
How does the company keep on advertising? Who pays for the ads?
Foot pads? Cleansers?
Sheesh!
Dear Gentle Reader(s), time for a giggle provided in part by the highly esteemed Andrew Sullivan. Under the title "Peeing On A Bug" Sullivan offers this:
One memorable example of the power of choice architecture comes from the men's rooms at Schiphol airport in Amsterdam. There the authorities have etched the image of a black housefly into each urinal. It seems that men usually do not pay much attention to where they aim, which can create a bit of a mess, but if they see a target, their attention and accuracy improve. Spillage at the airport decreased by 80%!
Now, if they could only figure out how to make the ersatz fly move around a wee bit, that spillage would decrease even further!
Sphere: Related Content
Dear Gentle Reader(s), our favorite conservative, Andrew Sullivan, has penned a brief on his view of the problems facing America today. You can catch the drift of it here.
As loyal reader(s) of these maunderings, you are well aware of this writer's unhappiness with Sullivan's treatment of Senator and President Clinton. He freely, virtually with glee, uses many forms of hate in his writings of the Clintons. One might, and often has, protested the word does not belong in a civil, public discussion of political ideas, but so far, to no avail.
In this particular piece, Sullivan is trying to account for his "own massive misjudgment over Iraq and near-disbelief at what has happened to limited government conservatism in the past decade." That is to his credit.
What is not to his credit is that the possibility never seems to occur to Sullivan that his perception of the Clintons is another "massive misjudgment."
Think on't, Andrew. Disagreeing with a political posture is one thing; hating is quite another.
Don't let, Mr. Sullivan, another massive misjudgment come back to nip at your posterior. Take the high road.
Sphere: Related ContentWell, Dear Gentle Reader(s), it's been 11 days since landing at Gatwick Airport, south of London. There've been many miles, kilometers, recorded on these old feet. There've been paintings galore, statues galore, street scenes galore, a near miss with an Olympic protest (as usual, just missed out--so many times), churches a-plenty, a basilica or two, unusual architecture, all sorts of human beings, good food (in Paris), mediocre food (in London), the smallest hotel room in all of Christendom, astonishing excess viewed at the Louvre, and snow, and sleet, and the common cold knows no geographical bounds.
An astonishing accumulation, considering who accumulated it. (And drinking buddy Marlin (Bud) made it all possible.)
Three more days to go.
Wish me, DGR(s), good luck.
Sphere: Related ContentOn a Tube, returning to the hotel last Friday night, in a somewhat crowded car, a nice young lady look up, one supposes; saw a rather pitiful sight, one supposes; stood and offered me her seat. Astonishment, momentarily, ensued!
One supposes one has arrived at a particular moment on the continuum of one's life when a young person, after a long day, feels the need to offer aid to said young person's elders, even an elder who is a total stranger.
Chivalry is not dead, nor is it entailed to the male sex.
Sunday morning in London. It's been snowing for two hours. It's April 6. It's been snowing for two hours. Of all the weather possibilities one anticipated for London weather when the sonne is in the ram, snow weren't included.
Sphere: Related ContentTuesday morning, Dear Gentle Reader(s), is the date. There might not be any postings for the next couple of weeks.
Be happy. Be aware.
Sphere: Related ContentHie thee, Dear Gentle Reader(s), over to this column by Diana West over at the Townhall muckroom. She's my newest BFF (not really, she truly doesn't know I exist) of conservative pundits. She's the voice of reason and clear vision of the right. She's what Andrew Sullivan should be if he could only get a grip.
Diana West
Andrew Sullivan
Iraqi War
OK, Dear Gentle Reader(s), here are a couple of quotes for you.
This is what Geraldine Ferraro said to The Daily Breeze of Torrance, California, a few days ago: "If Obama was a white man, he would not be in this position," she continued. "And if he was a woman (of any color) he would not be in this position. He happens to be very lucky to be who he is. And the country is caught up in the concept."
Here is a quote from Andrew Sullivan's blog on the brouhaha which has arisen over the comment: My deeper point is that Obama's virtues as a politician - his ability to unite, his capacity for reason, his solid judgment and even temperament - have nothing to do with race at all...Of course, Obama's race is a salient issue. We're human.
Isn't it possible, DGR(s), that Mrs. Ferraro was speaking of the saliency of Senator Obama's race? It certainly doesn't necessarily follow that she's claiming race is Obama's only strong point. What race does for him is to offer an extra fillip to his other quite strong, and quite equally salient, points.
Sullivan, and those who choose to interpret Mrs. Ferraro negatively, do disservice to Obama's unique talents and the enhancement his mixed-race background give to those talents. That background was interesting enough to afford the senator some extra time to learn to hone his presentation into the effective campaign persona he has become.
Geraldine Ferraro
Andrew Sullivan
Barak Obama
Surely, Dear Gentle Reader(s), one hopes you never have to experience the "Don't Strain!" syndrome. Should it happen, though, there is good news.
From experience, one is able to say that a combination of suppositories and Metamucil will do nicely. As a matter of fact, the internal swelling seems to have reduced along with the regimen of bran flakes, bran drink, lots of cantaloupe, and, an occasional suppository.
The yuck factor might be high, but this is information which is not clearly available in post-op instructions. Would that it had been.
As a side note, should you ever have to have radiation seeds implanted, expect to note an occasional sensation of warmth. Doubtless that sensation is purely mental, but it's amusing to think that one feels the little buggers doing their job of burning away the bad cancer cells...how they do it without also burning away the good guys is unexplained--actually one suspects they simply burn away, willy-nilly, but what does one know?
Available literature about what to expect after this procedure is rife with references to incontinence. For that, one is well prepared.
There were absolutely no references to constipation, except for the stressed: "Don't strain!"
Seems simple enough? Well, here's the problem: There is a virtually constant message to the brain caused, one supposes, by swelling, that constipation is present; and that message is saying, "Do something about this now!"
"Don't strain!" "Fix this now!" Repeated sans cessation. Aaaaugh!
One is ready for the occasional unplanned drip, as well as a deep red ejaculate.
Perhaps one wasn't warned about the "Don't strain"/"Fix this now" dilemma because there isn't any way to prepare?
No. That doesn't compute. A little prior knowledge, even a hint, might be enough to prevent a 2 a.m. panic.
n.b. One gains a more complete understanding of the various pressure points endured by pregnant women. (Mom, I didn't know. Sorry.)
There's a song lyric which goes something like "everything old is new again."
The "wet spot" once again means something it meant before it meant what it meant a day ago. Alas. Sigh.
In the meantime it's spring-like in Palm Springs.
Ah, Dear Gentle Reader(s), there's a good deal of...um...er...voiding associated with brachy therapy. At 4:00 p.m. on the afternoon prior to the procedure, one is instructed to ingest 10 ounces of Citrate of Magnesium (n.b. It's a lot easier to take than the Milk of Magnesia my mother used to use with draconian mein, "I'm tired of standing here. DRINK IT! NOW!!!"). Then one waits.
A nurse said to expect results in 12 hours; it began to "work" in 8. It continued for 3. Oh, well. Consider the alternative.
The first stop at the pre-op room was a pleasant young woman who issues the uniform of the day, assigns a "facility" in which to change clothing, and, as a parting gesture, says, "Oh, by the way. You'll need (her voice dropped to a whisper [Really! She whispered! Why?]) a Fleet enema. Do you want me to help you?"
"No."
The procedure for brachy therapy itself is rather uneventful. At least for the patient. Some major z's. Afterwards, though, more voiding fun awaits.
First, the bladder doesn't realize that the plumbing down the line is temporarily skewed. It continues to send signals which don't get a response which causes more signals and more no responses and then the signals become rather frantic. As an observer of all these signal/response back and forths, one is at first amused, then bemused, then slightly frantic as well.
Drip. Drip. Dropdropdrop.
Drip. Drip...
A 1/2 second prrrrrrt becomes a "consummation devoutly to be wished."
And so it goes for 24 hours.
Then one is encouraged to partake of some over the counter voiding assistant--to prevent the necessity for "strain"--which ultimately produces a perfect storm in a 12 hour process. It begins with a gentle nudge, then there is a recession, then another nudge, another recession, then a veritable hurricane of super nudges, which lasts for hours before receding, slowly, and not without a moment or two of additional terror, to a mere rumbling.
Oh, DGR(s). What joys await the aging. Bette Davis was so on the mark with "Growing old ain't for sissies."
After some three weeks of waiting for Kaiser's approval of the brachy treatment, word finally arrived that the procedure is scheduled for February 11.
Let the games begin.
Preparation includes lab tests: EKG, CHEST X-RAY, CBC, PT/INR, PTT, COMPREHENSIVE METABOLOIC PANEL, SGOT. (SGOT? What the heck is SGOT? For that matter, what is CBC, PT/INR, or PTT? Ah the things we learn as we shift chairs here in God's Waiting Room.)
Two weeks prior to the procedure, no intake of any of the various blood thinner, pain relievers and other assorted goodies such as aspirin, etc.
On February 5 there will be a Pre OP Visit at the Arnold Palomer Prostste Center, no less, which is followed hard upon on the 6th by a Pre Surgical Interview by phone with the hospital.
A clear liquid diet begins the day before the procedure; a ten ounce ingestion of Citrate of Magnesium is ordered for 4:00 p.m. on the 10th. (Ugh!)
The Seed Implant begins at 7:15 a.m.
On the 12th there's a Post Op Visit at the APPC.
On March 11 there will be a Ct Scan.
In the meantime, no children upon the lap. Stay 1 meter away from pregnant women. (That'll be easy. There are precious few pregnant women in my senior citizen circle here in Palm Springs.)
And there, Dear Gentle Reader(s), you have it.
As a side note, many people who have heard my tale of the original physician's suggestion for preventive maintenance against prostate cancer (an orgasm a day keeps the doctor away--more or less) scoffed, smirked, or sniggered at the suggestion. Here's another anecdote related by a different doctor, some several years later:
The good doctor (name withheld in case I could get him or myself in trouble), upon hearing of Dr Keith's (I don't mind naming him; he has passed on, alas--charming man) recommendation, said that he agreed. He then told me of one of his patients, to whom he had made the same suggestion, who was a devout Catholic. It seems the good doctor had to write a note for the patient's confessor in order for the confessor to grant absolution during the sacrament of Confession. (n.b. Unbridled Onanism is considered a significant error by some of the RC persuasion.)
Imagine. A note from your doctor excusing you from punishment for masturbation!
Agape. Be in good health.
exactly, the United States will have a new president.
Tempus fugit! (It is to be devoutely wished!)
Over at Trust but Verify, and Take That, RWNS, there has been an effort to take The New York Times to task for various editorial decisions which are felt, Dear Gentle Reader(s), to be deleterious to the health of the body politic.
Today one must laud the Grey Lady for publishing a column by Bob Herbert, "Politics and Misogyny." In it, Herbert delineates the various ways in which women are dehumanized in our society and the boorish and criminal behavior which such dehumanization fosters.
It is a must read.
Money quote, "We’ve become so used to the disrespectful, degrading, contemptuous and even violent treatment of women that we hardly notice it."
Herbert offers evidence of quotidian misogyny and invites a national discussion about the problem.
Kudos to Herbert and to The New York Times.
Let the national conversation begin.
Dear Gentle Reader(s), take the phrase "African American," (please). What think'st thou upon first hearing it?
For me, the first thought is that it is a direct descendant of socially acceptable terms used to modify citizens of the United States whose ancestors were brought over on a slave ship in the 17th and 18th centuries. (A superficial search indicates the slave trade was outlawed in 1808.)
If that particular lineage is most commonly used, then what does one do with Senator Obama, whose mother is a white woman from Kansas, and his father a Kenyan?
Isn't the disconnect a worthwhile element in the senator's current (as of 1.06.08) political successes?
Obama is a living example of the "bridge" between the racial issues of the past and the present cultural shift.
This cultural abridgement is very seldom discussed in specific terms. One wonders why.
The ads on television ("Gotta go!" "Getting up in the night") have a lot more meaning when one knows, really knows, the subject matter intimately.
When the problem is "double voiding," one eventually learns the steps of the danse pissoir. It's rather exclusive, so you might not, Dear Gentle Reader(s), know of its intricacies. Ergo, the lesson of the day:
What to do? What to do? The electric tingle has subsided, but it has not vanished. Should one stay? Should one leave? Should one hop on alternate feet? After a few years, one decides to acknowledge the lessening of the tingle to a vague, slightly, but only slightly, unpleasant reminder of pressing problems by taking a short walk then returning to give egress to the hydraulic pressure on the tingle's switch.
A close friend handles his dance step by waiting in place and humming a slow tune, which soothes the savage beast within, thereby allowing the hiatus to pass, which, in turn allows the tingle to pass.
Which, one might wonder, is the most efficient? One argument is that staying in place and marking time is an efficient use of body energy. Another argument is that the walk away allows another to step in and dance for a moment, with the proverbial wide stance, thereby making more efficient use of the context, or the ballroom, if one will.
Ah, la danse!
Il est heureusement; il est malheureusement. Mais, il est necessaire! Tant pis.
