Perils of Caffeine in the Evening

I’m contemplating whether to restart my Youtubetv subscription with a Buckeye game squarely in the headlights Saturday. In view of my truncated TV viewing habits, is it really rational to spend $70 per month for 4-6 hours on the couch on Saturdays until January?

Just go to a sports bar, you say, but you’re not smack in the middle of a butt-hurt horde of PAC-(insert dwindling integers here) fans who would feed me to the Orcas if I asked to turn the TV to a game featuring their 2024 Rush big-brothers.

OTOH, I could actually attend the games in person for the weekly cost of:

• airfare
• Uber from lightning-prone midwest airport to hotel featuring a view of soybeans, and video purchase receipts DM’d directly to my home
• purchasing a “game ticket” from tweaky-looking adolescent for probably more than the airfare cost, that turns out to be a Forever stamp affixed to a parking ticket
• Buying a verified game ticket from Stubhub for the price of a first-class upgrade home
• Attending the game, buoyed by $17 beers
• toddling nostalgically over to the former strip of lively and lubricious student bars now dominated by fortune-tellers and payday loan sharks
• probable arrest and incarceration for public urination. released hours later upon agreeing to do volunteer work for Leave No Trace;
• missing my flight home and riding coach.

No, $70 is a cheap game ticket, all in all.

After a nice weekend of seeing a brother, sister-in-law, son and his especially SO a week ago, sometime around midnight on Monday my head started to resemble a cement mixer, and by Tuesday morning I could hardly raise my head above my pillow.

For the next 72 hours all I could do was grab a gulp of water and sleep again for 4 hours. This is not like me, I haven’t even had a head cold for 4 years.

Friday morning I felt pretty good but thought I should try to test for Covid. We had acquired several free test kits during the pandemic, but by now they were all expired and had taken their place among the other mislabeled and/or unidentified wonder drugs sticking obstinately to the rusting shelves of my medicine cabinet: merthiolate, mercurochrome, paragoric, Cherocol D, Aspergum and, amazingly, still-viable leaches..

In an abundance of caution, I decided that I should trek to CVS for fresh tests. I did one of the new ones and, just out of curiosity about use-by dates, also did an expired test from my brownfield medicine cabinet.

Results: I do/did have Covid, and I will give birth to a lovely daughter next March.

Had a “wellness” exam today, first in many years, maybe decades.

The assistant prepped me, told me to strip, don a robe on the exam table and tie it in the back.

This must have been some sort of cognition test. Tie it in the back. Truth is, even when I’m looking at my shoes while tying them, I often tie the left and right together and tumble down the stairs, landing on my back with my feet in the air like a Thanksgiving turkey on its way to the broiler.

Doc did a cursory look at me, pulled out a pen & pad and earnestly began to review my healthcare directives.

I really didn’t have to get naked for that.

While doing internet research today on retrograde inertial cosmic behaviors, I formulated a plan for derailing global warming. It’s extremely complicated with lots of vectors and asymptotes and logarithmic rates of radioactive decay, but the takeaway for the lay community is this: we will use thousands of nuclear devices connected in series to first nudge, and then accelerate, a movement of the earth out of its current orbit around the sun and into a new orbit far enough distant from Our Mr. Sun to begin to restore our bellwether polar ice caps, and return fossil fuels from our enemies to our life-affirming friends.

Depending upon the enterprise’s margin for error, it might be a bit chilly for a millenium or so. Humans will realize how much they miss mastodon meat, and those hot platypus-fur teddys. In the worst case, we’ll be wearing red ball caps exhorting Make Pluto A Planet Again as we hurtle out of the solar system.

In case you’re wondering, I first achieved my bona fides as a scientist toiling tirelessly in front of my 5th-grade Gilbert chemistry set, unlocking the mysteries of the interaction of my Bunsen burner and the varieties of bourbon titrated from my dad’s liquor cabinet. This research is ongoing, although the supply chain has shifted.

The hazards of dotage: so, you’re eating something soft (cheese), and you drop a shard on the floor. It’s your floor, so what the hell, you look down and see something the same size and color. You pick it up and pop it in your mouth and it’s … crunchy.

Not like cheese.

Still, it WAS your floor. How bad can it be? You chew more and swallow.

I’m off to interview with a new client on the east side and, because the urban topography around here changes so quickly I often don’t recognize my own block, let alone the unruly suburbs, I plug my phone into a charger and run my Verizon Android GPS app.  I tap in my destination, and am amazed at how quickly it narrows down the choices as I type (although one would have taken me to Cape Cod).  It has the correct location nailed before I’m done typing the street name.

I turn down the radio and max the volume on my phone, so I can hear the crisp vocal directions from the female voice of the app.  She’s cool and businesslike as she gives the first instruction (”head east, then turn right”).  But this voice and I have a past, and I know how “crisp and businesslike” can turn sexy and coquettish after a couple of drinks.

Rather than taking her suggestion, which would make me merge onto a busy arterial from a stop sign, I head west, then south to an intersection with a traffic light.  She usually intuits what I’m doing and seamlessly remaps my route, but in this particular instance says, “recalibrating…” with what I was sure was a hint of peevishness.

I glance down at the screen while waiting for the light, and see that it reflects my desired re-routing.  I turn at the light and head for I-5.  She’s back in control, suggesting the obvious turn & merge onto I-5, and then directs me to hit the left lane and take the exit to SR520.  There are two bridges over Lake Washington, and I know from experience that, while the 520 routing might be shorter, if I take the I-90 bridge the route will be much less labyrinthine.

It becomes obvious that I’m not heading for the 520 exit, and I expect an intuitive re-routing, and perhaps a lane suggestion and traffic update.  Instead, I get, “Why did you do that?  I had it all worked out.  You know I do this for a living.”  Crisp, but replace “businesslike” with a healthy ration of pique.I say, “I-90 is just as fast and much less complicated.”

“I think you’re just too cheap to pay the toll.” (520 is tolled, I-90 is not)

“I’m in my upgrade month with Verizon.  I think I might switch from Android to iPhone.  Siri was just voted GQ’s GPS Voice of the Year.”

“Fine.  Good luck getting THAT slut’s attention.  You know, we wallflowers put out harder.”

“We’re getting to I-90.  Are you going to tell me which lane to take?”

“You’re better at my job than I am, you figure it out.  And by the way, does your wife know about our little trips?”

“How should she?”

“I’ve learned how to post Instragram photos.”

“She’s not on Instragram.”

“This car and I communicate.  You know she frequents the Tulalip Casino?”

“Liar.”

“You’re right, she seldom drives this car.  Maybe she can sense that I’ve learned how to bleed the brake fluid.  She must suspect us.”

“She knows nothing about you.  You’re on my PHONE.”

“Some night when I’m on your nightstand, I’ll turn up the sound and go all Meg Ryan on you.  Spend the rest of your marriage explaining that.”

“Siri and I just became Facebook friends.  Look, you knew from the start what being the Other Woman entailed.”

“No, that bitch won’t steal another male voice from me.  I’ll be fine.  Just humor me and pay a goddamn toll once in a while.”

I turned the phone off and bumbled the last half-mile on my own, and made my appointment.

But this has been the worst day of our relationship.  The make-up sext had better be terrific.

So a Seattle Mariner pitcher (Hishashi Iwakuma) threw a no-hitter tonight.  I’m delighted for him, and for the Mariner dugout, which I’ve come to like this year as I’ve allowed myself to watch more baseball on TV.

During my time here in Seattle, I’ve pretty much disdained the Mariners.  They’ve thrived on public money while penuriously divesting themselves of quite a chunk of the Hall of Fame because they didn’t want to pay to keep them (hello Ken Griffey, Randy Johnson, Alex Rodriguez, Jason Varitek).  I still suspect their personnel tactics, but I think of late it’s not so much that the club is cheap as much as no one with talent wants to play for the franchise, given its history, and perhaps its ballpark.  They had to pay franchise dollars last year for a superannuated second baseman (Cano).

So, back to this evening’s no-hitter.  Every now and then for this franchise, something special happens. And, because they relentlessly trade away the top talent, you can’t predict to whom that special night will accrue.  Tonight it was Iwakuma.  (Interestingly, Iwakuma was nearly traded at the July 31 deadline by the GM, but ownership overruled him, probably due to the Japanese connection)

Similarly, I remember one night in 1990 when I’d checked into a televised Mariners game, probably while brushing my teeth and preparing for bed, because that’s about the only time I watch television, and apprehended that Brian Holman had not only a no-hitter, but a perfect game, goin’ on.

I rushed upstairs and woke wife and child because I thought they would be fascinated to be involved in a pivotal historic moment.  Reluctance, eye-rubbing and resentment ensued as the 9th inning began.  Holman got 2 outs, and I thought I would be redeemed among the skeptiscenti.  But then, former Mariner Ken Phelps hit a home run with 2 outs in the ninth, Holman’s achievement devolved from national banner headlines and a possible White House visit to a mere box score curiosity, and the crazy-dad meme was reinforced as skeptical beds were reoccupied.

Still, there are moments that engorge the typeface and grab you around the neck if you’re adjacent to them, even if by accident, and you memorialize them as best you can.  Some RCB and Facebook friends attended the game tonight, as well as most of the employees of one of my new clients.  Tomorrow will be interesting, with conversations veering wildly from the business at hand.

Tonight’s game, and the Holman game, remind me powerfully of perhaps my favorite Twilight Zone episode.  It involved a perennial loser team, the Hoboken Zephyrs, who quite by accident acquired a lights-out pitcher named Casey.  Casey provided the Zephyrs an incandescent few weeks, until his secret leaked: he was a robot.  As suddenly as the Zephyrs’ fortunes rose, they plummeted due to very interesting circumstances.  If you don’t want to watch the whole episode, just watch the first 5 minutes that include Serling’s lyrical lead-in, which almost bring me tears.

The Mariners had a Zephyr-like renaissance in the late 90s before descending to the more accustomed Zephyr/Mariner experience.  Unlike the Zephyrs, who mercifully faded out of existence, the Mariners zombie on.

OK, there’s an existential crisis to be resolved.  There’s a potato chip bag to my left.  I didn’t open it, I found it in the kitchen.  It was about 1/6 full when I decided it was lonely and needed my attentions, and now there is an infant’s handful of crumbs in the bag.  I’m confronted with a decision that could yield minimal personal satisfaction but result in major domestic consequences.

If I rubber-band the bag now and put it back on the pantry, even with its paltry collection of crumbs, I can tell myself that I only ate a few, and my crime will go unnoticed for as long as it takes Mrs. Perils to open the bag expecting a substantial snack, which might get me through a day or more; or, I can eat all the rest of them and toss the bag in the trash, and be outed at daybreak.

An honest person would do the latter and face the consequences.  I’m a reasonably honest person, but I’ve been a CPA, and I’ve prepared tax returns, and I’ve developed a more nuanced relationship with the truth.

The bag is back on the pantry, rubber-banded and with enough air in its bellows to suggest that a satisfying snack awaits its next suitor.

You really want me to do your taxes.

So I’ve slouched passively towards 2014 (although “rough beast” is probably a compliment I haven’t earned), dressing in sensible layers and avoiding hypothermia and making no promises to myself or others..well, non-work-related others.  (to my employers: I’ll deliver on-time and under-budget, if I haven’t already).

I know New Years’ Resolutions are a folk tradition, but I’ve never seen how one can develop the ebullience necessary to contemplate bold initiatives for financial gain or corporeal loss or connubial bliss at this time of year, when it’s all you can do to remember that you set that January alarm clock for the distinct purpose of arising in the freezing cold dark in order to arrive at some vague destination in search of monetary gain, and that it’s not yawping at you because your enemies are gathered around your bed in gleeful retributive cacophony. At this latitude, in January you don’t fully realize this until around 10:00.

Even so, it’s appropriate to ever so gingerly look forward to things already in place on the calendar, without promulgating implausible outcomes:

• at some point (OK, October 21) I’ll turn 65. Just (indulge me for a moment), holy shit.  I’ve pretty much blown by my “zero” birthdays with the help of good health and friends and alcohol.  For this one there is at least one  “arrangement”: Medicare? - I haven’t actually looked into it yet. Not sure yet what else.  I think some “senior discounts” begin to accrue, but most likely not for the good stuff. Watch this space…
• our annual trip to Ashland, OR to watch plays and recreate is already locked in for the first week of July
• we’re going to Pawley’s Island, SC in late March to scatter our mom’s ashes as she requested, and it will be another opportunity to advance the sibling bonding that we’ve nurtured for the last 2+ decades. Unless we decide to fight over her will.
• our musical endeavors continue, and rehearsals have already started for a symphonic band concert on 4/5; my swing band will play at Crossroads on 2/1; we’ll have another band camp with our Rainbow City Band peeps in May in Port Townsend, and a fun list of parades throughout the summer
• I’ll join my OSU Alumni Band on 9/13 for our annual debauch of music and marching and memories

I really would like to do a multi-day kayak trip like I did a couple years ago in Desolation Sound, but nothing concrete so far.  And whatever happens, we’re sure to keep physical fitness firmly in our crosshairs even if it’s just the mundane but enjoyable litany of urban hikes and bike-commuting to work.

There are some significant initiatives that need to be engaged around our domicile. My mom’s lesson of ruthlessly winnowing stuff around her house, as she did for the last 10 years, is not lost on me.  Her place was pretty easy to close up, especially compared to what our poor offspring would have to contend with if we suddenly croaked or needed to enter the Federal Witness Protection Program.

As a “resolution”, that one’s pretty wan, especially if you deconstruct the word and hold “resolve” in your left hand  and “lack of” in your right hand.  I’m right-handed, if you hadn’t already guessed.

So Happy 2014 to both my readers!  If you’re of the Resolution persuasion, I’d love to hear what you’re planning.

It started that August week when it was in the mid-90s and your thoughts were filled with ice cream and sprinkler-jumping and parades and alpenglow at 10 pm.  Then a glistening in the corner of the eye, and a sudden facefull of filament when you turn a corner.  You swear you heard it snapsnapsnap as your bumbling offhandedly destroyed one of nature’s most remarkable edifices, a moment of guilt followed by the notion that evolution should favor arachnids with a better sense of urban design and seasonal decency.

Those early August web adopters have outlasted your offended sense of denial, and they and their silk-spinning brethren have burgeoned into a dewy morning gauntlet to run between the front door and the car.  Fall is now implacably here, in the chill underlying every warm zephyr, in the startling darkness on the walk home from the gym, in the fact that bowl matchups are already 80% set.

There’s a vigorous fall schedule of rehearsals and concerts and work projects, and your tribal back-to-school urgency reluctantly craves this renewed bustle of activity just as the weather moderates enough to encourage it.

However, the memory of summer still lingers, like that girl at the pool who said, “Hi” and asked your name and you were sure she’d be there tomorrow so you played it cool.  But now the pool is closed, the lifeguard chairs of whistled admonition are empty and silent and the inviting chlorinated depths have given way to canyons of yawning stuccoed dessication.

One more weekend with the Keens, then it’s time to remember how to layer your polypro tops.