Perils of Caffeine in the Evening

In my previous post, I alluded to a depth of generations.  So, for Father’s Day, here they all are, 6 generations of fathers and sons:

Me, my grandfather, my son, my dad (ca 1984).

My dad, my grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great grandfather (ca 1925).  A fine-looking brace of Irishmen!

And, oddly reminiscent of the photos in this post, here’s one I found of my dad and grandpa:

Enough with my organ recital.  I had a nice, but short, visit to my hometown over the weekend.  My youngest brother was there also, as he had business in Ohio the next week.  We did some chores around the house - Mom lives in the house we built in 1961, when I was in the 7th grade:

It looks pretty lush now, but when we built it, it stood in a sea of barren fill dirt.  We couldn’t afford professional landscapers, so I spent a lot of the summer of ‘62 planting grass seed, raking, watering, planting shrubs and trees.  It’s satisfying to walk around the place and remember what was going on in my life when various plants went in.

We took a couple of long walks - Mom has always been an avid walker:

We walked down the main street, recalling the ice cream parlors, drug-store soda fountains, bakeries and greasy-spoon eateries that have come and gone in these venerable old buildings:

and past the municipal swimming pool where Mrs. Perils was a hot lifeguard in high school

Walked past the old Junior High.  One of the classrooms at the right was my 8th grade science class, where Mr. Willmarth held himself out as a handwriting analyst.  About mine, he said, “It shows you’re kind of lazy.  There are other things here, but I shouldn’t tell you about those right now.”  Since he was right about the lazy part, I was sure he could also read the darker things, too, flaws that I didn’t even know for sure, but suspected.  Since the high school building adjoined the Jr. High, and he was maybe 5 years ahead of me, Jimbo Leyland was often the subject of morning announcements and, probably, summonses to the principal’s office.

And, since the previous weekend was Memorial Day, we visited Fort Meigs Cemetery, where 4 generations of us, plus several other family branches, are buried or scattered.  There’s a sort of “Our Town” aspect to a stroll through this cemetery for me.  I see familiar family names, parents and grandparents of people I was in school with, a sense of generational depth that is lost for many of us in the diaspora that our mobility has afforded us.  All four of my generations sacrificed in some way in order to contribute to the richness of life that each of us, as successors, has known, and I am grateful to each of them.

It seems that, regarding my redeye flight Friday, there’s more to it than meets the eye.  I had suffered some eye irritation at the end of last week in my left eye, and resigned myself to a doctor’s visit Friday afternoon.  He said I had a sty on my eyelid, and recommended hot compresses.  It didn’t improve over the weekend, and on Sunday I started to develop a rash on my forehead and scalp, which worsened Monday to a point where my hair hurt.  I slunk into a doctor here in Milwaukee, who told me I have “shingles”.

Shingles!  It sounds so 19th century, like dropsy, quincy, pleurisy, the rheumatiz.  It also sounds vaguely disreputable, like something you might contract by consorting with the livestock.  And, damn, it hurts, especially my eye, which drips tears nonstop.  I’m thinking I have the roofing nails as well.  If I have to be sick, at least give me something hip and modern.

They prescribed some anti-viral pills and some eyedrops, which cost me an eye-popping $250.  How soon can I get on Medicare Plan D? (less than 6 years, actually).  I’ve never really used eyedrops, and it’s pretty comical when I try to apply them.  I’m supposed to get one drop every 3 hours or so, but it turns out to be more like a shower because I keep flinching and missing my eye.  How’d one get into my ear?

A couple of the women at my client’s who are pregnant became jittery when my diagnosis got around (shingles is a derivative of the chicken-pox virus) and, although from everything I can find out there’s not much, if any, chance of me passing anything on to them, I’m bailing this afternoon and flying back to Seattle (all the leper colonies having waiting lists).

I’m off to Detroit on a redeye tonight to visit with my mom and brother this weekend, then I head for Milwaukee Sunday night for a week of cheese and sleaze.  Maybe at the same time.  Perhaps I’ll provide a photo tour of my home town.  Maybe I’ll just sleep the whole weekend.

Anyone else have grand plans?

A little overcast and cool here, but summer is hurtling towards us nonetheless, at least according to the calendar.  As I returned from the gym tonight (the scale is again my friend - 153 3/4!), an ice cream truck was cruising the neighborhood.  As parents, we may have been criminally abusive - whenever one of these trucks came up the block playing their corny little melodies, we’d tell our 3- or 4-year-old son that it was a “music truck”.  No mention of its overpriced, underflavored payload.  I mean, can you picture the first time he’s with a friend or two, and they exclaim, “There’s the ice cream truck!”

The truck tonight was playing “Daisy”, the song that HAL crooned to Dave in Kubrick’s “2001- A Space Odyssey”.  That song has a special place in Philobelia, as it was one of my early attempts to cover songs with substitute lyrics of dubious poetic value.  Here it is, kinda apropos of the anniversary post below:

Daisy, daisy, give me your answer true
I’m half crazy, all for the love of you.
It won’t be a stylish wedding
I can’t afford the bedding
But I’ll be damned
If I’ll be crammed
In a sleeping bag built for two!

OK, as Rocky used to say after Bullwinkle recited some execrable piece of doggerel, Here’s something you’ll really like.  It’s a little premature, but let’s declare it summer.  Here’s a video snippet featuring local hip-hop duo Blue Scholars and some unartistic cut-and-paste from MC Perils.

Last night we once again attended the weekly gathering of liberal wishful-thinkers known as Drinking Liberally.  It’s a confluence of local journalists, bloggers, politicos and, sometimes, candidates or officeholders in a sort of raucous pub setting.  We’ve become somewhat acquainted with some interesting local bloggers and several  journalists that I’ve been reading for years.  It makes for some lively discussion.

In observation of my diet, I had hit the gym before we went (weighed in at 154 1/2!), and nursed one glass of wine through the whole evening.  Drinking Stingily, more like.

As we were walking back to our car, I espied this car, and it’s bumper sticker, and simply could not pass up the photo op:

I mean, it has to be tongue-in-cheek, right?  Maybe it belonged to someone at the tony restaurant in the same block as our ratty little pub.  But probably not.

This article from yesterday’s paper:

Congressman weds girlfriend on bike trail

THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

DAMASCUS, Va. — U.S. Rep. Rick Boucher and his longtime girlfriend tied the knot on a bicycle trail, and for the wedding, shared a burrito and a piece of coconut cake.

had a familiar ring to it, and one of the few brain cells still working in my favor prodded me to check my calendar.  Sure enough, it turns out that, 32 years ago today, Mrs. Perils and I were married under similar (though surely less opulent) circumstances:

You can read details of the nuptuals here.

This would be an opportune time for me to take a firm stand against same-sex marriage.  It should improve over time, as ours has.  Thank you, dear, for putting up with me for another year!

Another lovely night for a walk down to Gasworks Park, fueled (not) by my reduced-portion, no-wine dinner.  I know, we’re boring.  We’re going to have to drop in and see this movie before it leaves:

A store on 45th had a lamp that Mrs. Perils forbade me to even look at, much less consider purchasing:

Once at Gasworks, we encountered a troupe of clog dancers whom we think were rehearsing for the Fremont Solstice Parade.  Amusing video click here .

I have more to say, but I’ve become too weak to type.

In an interesting twist, tomorrow is National Hunger Awareness Day, and for the first time in its 5-year history, I’m going to be aware of it.  Might be a nice touch if I contribute the food I’m not eating.  Except that bag of chips.  It’s under the desk for emergencies.  Hurricane season’s upon us, after all.

Anyone want to join me in a weight-loss challenge of some kind?  I’ve been carrying around between 5 and 15 extra pounds for the last 3 - 4 years, and I’m kind of fed up with it, fed up with picking around clothes in my dresser and closet that either won’t fit or make me feel like Chris Farley.  I have shirts that are disintegrating because I’ve been avoiding shopping for new clothes.  Also, it’s just unhealthy.  It’s harder on my joints when I run, I’m sure it adds something to my blood pressure.

When I returned from my last out-of-town business trip, I was nudging right up against 160, which is like a 20-year high.  I’ll take my shirt off again in broad daylight at 145.  I know that sounds pretty light to some, but I’m very small-boned, and this stuff just hangs on my waist.  Today at the gym, I weighed in at 156+.  I’m not going to use anything fancier than Mrs. Perils’ “Quit Chewing And Swallowing” diet- just cut back on between-meal stuff and portions, alcohol, the usual suspects.  No more bags of chips squirreled away under my desk.

I have another week at home before I go on the road again (where a lot of unhealthy transgressions occur), so I have a chance to get a good running start.

I know I’ve whined about this a couple of times before, and gotten nowhere.  Anyone else game?  Suggest a comparative goal (total pounds, % of body weight, etc) and something fun for the winner (besides more and better sex and lustful stares at the beach).

I haven’t eaten since dinner.  I wonder how much weight I’ve lost since then.  I’m dyin’ here!