It's Not So Much the Heat, as it is the Humility

Hello again blog-readers.  Well, it's Friday the 13th, and if you were of a mind to believe in such nonsense as bad luck and numerology, you would be quaking in your boots right now.  The numerologists tell us that, not only is this the one Friday the 13th this year, but the digits themselves add up to...13!  Oh my, we're all doomed!  Then again, you may start to believe it as you read the rest of this entry, because I'm in the mood to grouse and wring my hands.  So buckle up!

I don't know about you, but my faith -- or the strength thereof -- seems to waiver, and that causes me much distress at times.  In the few days right before I met with Father Bach (from the Bishop's office), I began to convince myself that I was acting foolish, and was totally unworthy of the priesthood.  I told myself that I was too old, too debilitated, too sinful, and too weak of mind and spirit.  I nearly cancelled our meeting altogether.  I was listening to the wrong voice.

But it's strange how sometimes I feel parted from God's presence.  The feeling was especially strong in those days before the meeting.  I would pray, or say a Rosary, and the words just fell out like names from a phonebook.  I couldn't "feel" what I had felt so many times before.  This presumed abandonment was strange and troubling.  It only served to stoke the fire of self-doubt that was consuming my belief in this journey.  But through the grace of God, I was able to find the patience to set those feelings aside long enough to meet with Fr. Bach and plead my case.  I felt better for having done so, and the warmth of God came rushing back, afterward, like the blood to your arm when it's "fallen asleep."  It was just like that, and it felt so good.

Thomas A Kempis wrote something about this (Oh, you knew I was gonna quote him sooner or later), which helped me feel a lot better about these moments when we feel parted from God.  He said:

"I have never known anyone so religious and devout who has not sometimes had a withdrawal of grace or felt a diminishing of fervor.  Never was a Saint so greatly enraptured or enlightened as not to be tempted at some time.  For no persons are worthy of high contemplation unless they have suffered some tribulation from God"

There's something I've learned about temptation, also.  It strikes at your weakest points.  I've noticed that a lot here lately.  The evil one really knows my hot buttons -- fear, pride, sloth, anger, and every guy's favorite sin: lust.  And these are the faults that seem to catch me off-guard every time.  It happened this very morning.  You know, it's kind of weird to be mad at yourself for being mad at someone else.  It's easy to blame the devil for your sins, but he only presents you with the poison cup; you drink from it of your own free will.  And then you feel like you've failed...again.

As I was sitting out on the porch, flogging myself for this morning's transgression, the mail came.  Among the bills and political junk was our Diocesan newspaper, the Messenger.  On the front page was a story about the upcoming ordination of Deacon Nicholas Rottman.  That's 27-year-old Nicholas Rottman.  Twenty-seven!  I'm ten years past twice the age he was at the trail-head of his faith journey.  In fact, I was a freshman at NKU the day he was born!  Oh boy, do I feel old and foolish.  Should I really be attempting this so late in the game of life?  Am I simply trying to rcapture time that has clearly passed me by?  I fear that another quote from Thomas A Kempis might apply to me:

Speaking as Christ: "There are some who are not sincere in their conduct with Me, but, led by curiosity and pride to search the mysteries of God, neglect themselves and their spiritual welfare."

I hope and pray that this is not who I am.  I search my soul every day, for fear that my motives in this are merely selfish ones.  This remains a struggle, and I humbly ask for your continued prayers for clarity of purpose.

On a happier note, today is the feast day of Our Lady of Fatima.  If you're not familiar with the miracle of Fatima, Google it and check it out.  It's a great, true story, which occurred not all that long ago.

Okay, that's it for today's sighs, moaning and weeping.  Please keep me in your prayers, as you will remain in mine.

- Dave

A Little "Face to Face" with the Lord

I stopped by and had a little talk with God today.  This afternoon was my first shift celebrating a Holy Hour in the perpetual adoration chapel, at our church.  The concept of perpetual adoration is for someone to always be in the presence of the exposed Blessed Sacrament.  Part of the reason this is special is because the Blessed Sacrament (a large Eucharist in a special, gold holder called a monstrance) is usually kept in a hidden area called the tabernacle.  As Catholics, we believe the Blessed Sacrament to be the true presence of Christ: body, blood, mind and spirit.  Okay, enough with Theology 101 -- you can Google "Holy Hour" to learn more.  The point is that today was my first day, and it was...awesome!

The main reason I'm mentioning this is because of what I found upon entering the little chapel.  There were four statues there (other than the crucifix).  There was a statue of Mary, one of Joseph, one of Jesus carrying a Roman soldier...and one more.  And that one really caught me off guard.

On the left-hand side of the alter, stood a statue of The Infant of Prague.  Now, ordinarily, that fact wouldn't seem very unusual.  And it wouldn't be terribly noteworthy, if it weren't for the fact that The Infant of Prague has shown up three times now, at times when I was beginning a new chapter in my life.

I first met The Infant when a dear friend of mine gave me a medal with his likeness, as a gift, when I had my tracheostomy tube removed -- thus beginning a new life, free from that burden. 

The second time he showed up was the day I first rolled into a church for Mass, after an absence of many years.  And I was wearing the medal my friend had given me, at that very moment.  I took his presence there, on that alter, as a sign that God was welcoming me back to the Church.

And now today, as I experience the power of Eucharistic adoration for the first time.  I think the little squirt is following me around!

Seriously though, all these "coincidences" have to make you wonder.  It's kind of nice really.  It makes me feel like I'm on the right track.  Just hoping this old engine has enough steam to get over Pine Mountain.  ;-)

I tried to get The Lord to give me a hint as to what was to become of my quest for the priesthood; but alas* he wasn't talking.  We had a nice long talk about it though, so I think we're on the same page.

Keep me in your prayers...you will remain in mine.

[Oh, one more thing.  If you like, you can subscribe to this blog feed.  Not that what I have to say is all that noteworthy, but at at least it will save you from having to check back for new posts.  The tab to do this is down on the right side of this page, below the archive.  Just a suggestion.]


*I like to work "alas" into everything I write.  It makes me sound like I studied Shakespeare -- other than in the 8th grade, where I put forth a memorable reading in the part of Tybalt.  Alas...they killed me.

A Wayward Christian Pets the Lion

Hello again, my (precious few) blog readers.  As most of you already know, I may be on the cusp of the greatest adventure of my life -- in fact, of a new life itself.  So I'm bringing out the blog to begin keeping something of a journal of daily life in my little world.  It could happen that none of what I am hoping for comes to pass.  Actually, in this beginning stage, it's quite likely things will all fall apart.

If my journey does continue, I want to use this space to write about it.  It will serve as a way to update those who are interested on what's going on and how I'm doing.  But even more so, it will be a means of catharsis, as I try to make sense of all the changes, decisions and trials that are swirling about like an F5 tornado -- with me sitting here like a trailer park.  If this doesn't work out, I'll use this same space to moan and grouse and drive you all nuts like I usually do.  After all, what are friends for if you can't lick each other's wounds.  (Okay, that's just weird.  I was stuck for a good metaphor -- but you get the idea.)

I will probably (haven't decided yet) detach this from posting itself on my Facebook account...if I can figure out how to do it.  As I  see it, there's no sense in shoving this stuff down the throat of people who aren't that interested.  So I'll keep my updates confined (as best as my ego will allow) to this blog.  I hope those of you who were in the prayer group, started for me by my nephew, Garret, have found your way here and are following along.  You guys supported me in the darkest of hours, and I'll never forget you for that.  If you're reading this, and aren't part of the Facebook prayer group, I'd be greatly in your debt if you signed up for it.  It's listed under "Pray for Dave."  There, you can also catch up on the background of this joyful event. Notice, I didn't say "luminous event" - that would be presumptuous.  (A little Catholic humor.)

While I'm here, I wanted to share something cool that happened this afternoon.  I was out on the porch reading a book, when an email came in to my cellphone.  I looked at it, and saw that it was an ad from a Catholic Supply website.  The ad went in to great detail on the virtues of a particular little book they were selling.  Here is some of what they said about it:

St. Thérèse of Lisieux began reading this book
when she was only fourteen years old.
She always kept it with her and memorized long chapters.
At this young age she said,
"It was the only book which helped me
for I had not as yet discovered the treasures
which are hidden in Sacred Scriptures.
I carried this little book around with me at all times."

Originally written in the 1400's, this little book
has grown into a literary giant!
It has been read by Catholics and Protestants alike,
by saints and sinners around the world,
and across hundreds of years.
The Imitation of Christ is beloved, studied, and quoted
by St. Thomas More, St. Ignatius of Loyola, and many more.  

It is rare to find one book which speaks
clearly and completely
to your entire being.

A book that can answer questions
you didn't even know you had.

A book that can give you solutions to problems
that have vexed you for years.

A book that can not only help improve
your relationships with others,
but also increase your peace of mind,
deepen your spiritual life,
form a deeper reverence for the Eucharist,
and teach you how to pray.

The more I read about this powerful little book, the more I couldn't wait to hear its title, so as to jump on Amazon.com and buy it. This book sounded like it was exactly what I need to hear at this moment.  It seemed as if the answers to all my questions might be found in whatever this book of wisdom was that they were selling.

But then I came to the book's title - The Imitation of Christ.  At that, I closed the email, put my phone away and went back to reading my book....

Can you guess the title of the book I was reading?  ;-)

Just one of those little moments.

That's about it for now.  I'm waiting to hear from the bishop's office.  Please keep me in your prayers.  You will remain in mine.  There's no greater gift we can offer our friends.

- Dave

Do You Trust Your Own Judgment?

A New Hampshire lawmaker resigned Monday amid criticism for suggesting to a constituent that the state ship people with disabilities to Siberia.

Rep. Martin Harty, a 91-year-old first-term Republican in the state’s House of Representatives, drew fire after it became public that he told a constituent that “the world is too populated” with “too many defective people.”

“I wish we had a Siberia so we could ship them all off to freeze to death and die and clean up the population,” Harty continued, according to the constituent’s account. He specified that he was referring to “the mentally ill, the retarded, people with physical disabilities and drug addictions.”

When questioned about the comments last week, Harty was unapologetic and told the Concord Monitor that he was “just kidding.”

Link to Full Article

You're thinking, this is just the ramblings of some crazy old man.  That's what I thought.  But who are we to judge this man?  We don't know him -- his mental state -- his history.  If we pass him off as a harmless, senile old man, are we not, in some way, following his lead?  Perhaps he is in complete possession of his faculties, and really holds the beliefs he espoused.

What's really scary about this incident is that an entire legislative district (or at least, the majority of it) saw this 91-year-old as the right person to speak for them in their state's legislature.  That such ideas could exist today is truly frightening -- and eye opening.  Was 1939 so long ago that we are insulated from the evils of marginalizing, objectifying, and exterminating our fellow man?

Then again, maybe he was "just kidding."

Is each of us guilty of his kind of thinking in our own small (or big) ways?  We see a homeless man drinking from a paper bag.  We fill in his life story in our own mind: he's lazy, a drunk, crazy, a thief, a doper.  He's not like us, and damn, we could never be him...we convince ourselves.  At least it gets us to the next block. 

Maybe those things are true.  I'm not suggesting we should give the guy our wallets; but compassion is free.  A little warm food never got anyone drunk, or high.  Whatever action we take or don't take is a choice made in the moment, and I certainly won't claim to know the right answer.  But I know we can't judge them, or turn away, sending them to Siberia in our own heart.

Say we pass a person on the street, and we just know they have to be gay.  Our gay-dar is highly tuned to such things, and we've got this one pegged!  Why do we even have a gay-dar?  What are we afraid of?  Why do we need to decide whom people are without even trying to get to know them.  Again, not suggesting you strike up a conversation; shoot, they'd be thinking you were the kook.  But we can't know for sure how a person lives their life, or how they got to where they are, so it's a bad idea to attempt a guess.

If we see a profoundly disabled person, do we talk down to them?  Patronize them?  Treat them like children?  I've been guilty of such an approach...and been the recipient of it.  We can't know what kind of beauty, intelligence and humanity is hiding inside that deformed visage.  Would you talk down to Stephen Hawking, if you didn't know he was among the most brilliant minds of our time?

Growing up, I had a friend who was...well, less than masculine.  I never thought of him as gay or straight.  It never crossed my mind; we were just best friends.  In the months after I told him that our family was moving away, we both went silent.  We didn't exchange a word, and there was never so much as a "see ya."  Our family moved and that was it -- I'd lost my best friend. 

I think we went silent in those final months because we were both fifteen, and knew it marked the end of our childhood.  We were both what you might call "misfits" in school, and maybe we each judged the other as a traitor for leaving us without that one connection.  Besides, we probably figured we could renew our friendship after I moved across town.

We never did. 

I learned something from him, about judging, about the value of best friends, and friends in general.  Then, many years later, I learned that death is not a "lifestyle choice."  You can't always choose who you are: you have to accept yourself "as is." And sometimes acceptance has unforeseeable consequences.

Wouldn't it be great if we could set aside judgments and treat people with the respect they deserve, at least until they prove they don't deserve it.  And maybe we could worry less about labeling people.  After all, our labels might be stuck to the wrong person.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that we shouldn't be too quick to trust our own judgment, when it comes to our fellow man. While we're wishing someone or some group was removed from society, someone out there might be wishing the same thing about us. Then...who's left?

Just FYI: I don't do well in cold climates.

A Dateline NBC Christmas Special

Remember me?  Yes, it's been a very long time since I took this blog out for a ride.  Lord willing, I'm hoping to be a little more prolific in the coming year.  Thanks for your continued support and prayers.  The following is just something goofy that started rolling around in my head this afternoon.  I have to give my friend, Gracia Zink credit for the comedic inspiration for this tale.

--------------------

[Santa lands on the rooftop...slides down the chimney...carefully lays out little Cindy Who's presents...turns around and...there sits Chris Hanson from Dateline NBC.]

Hanson:  Why don't you have a seat. Claus is it?

Santa:  Uh...yes. That's my name -- Santa Claus.

Hanson:  Mr. Claus, is it true you came here tonight to meet an underage girl?

Santa:  No! I don't want to see her or her to see me.

Hanson:  Can you honestly stand there and deny that you two have had an ongoing relationship for the past five years, involving letters, and intimate rendezvous at the mall? Do you deny that you were also here on 25 December of last year?

Santa:  I visit many children all over the world!

Hanson:  So, you admit you have a problem.

Hanson:  Now, is it true that the two of you discussed having dinner and drinks this evening, and that something really fun would be unwrapped thereafter?

Santa (Quietly):  But...but..I meant cookies, milk, and a Barbie Dream Home.

Hanson:  Ah! I suppose that's some sort of Internet chat slang. And while we're on the subject, perhaps you can tell us what exactly is meant by "feeding cupid" or "tyeing up vixen?" Oh,you are a sick one!

Hanson:  Why don't you show us what you have in the bag there. Did you bring co...

Santa (Interrupting):  I really must be going now! I have so much work to do.

Hanson:  You're free to go; we're not stopping you from walking right out the front door. Don't use the side door, the cops are....uh, I mean, yes you're free to leave, Claus.

[Santa lay a finger beside his jolly red nose as he flew up the chimney in a flash. He mounted his sleigh and, as he flew off into the night, he called out, "Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night...I didn't think I was doing anything wroooooooooong......"]

Yard Wars: The Nut Stops Here

I’ll take you back just once more – this time to July 2009. The Squirrel Nation was ratcheting up its tactics to a disturbing new level of aggression. It's one thing to have a squirrel threaten to jump on your face, but now they were lobbing sticks at me from well-hidden sniper nests. They even attacked an innocent banana tree, which was living peacefully in our yard. The assailants dug up the plant, threw it on the ground, and left him for dead. Happily, after a difficult four months, the little plant made a stunning recovery from its injuries. In what some in horticultural circles called a "miracle grow," the tree came back to full health, and since then, has even surpassed some of its neighbors.

When asked how he was coping with the attack by the (still unnamed) assailants, the banana tree responded, "Even though the search for the dirtball who attacked me has been fruitless; I have strong roots in this community, and would be nuts to leave."

All this was bad – very bad – but the worst was yet to come. I was about to experience a coordinated attack by a combination of ground-based, tree-based, AND paratrooper forces. It’s been over a year since this happened to me, but I was too shaken to discuss it…until now. Here's how it all went down:

I was sitting on our front porch, minding my own business. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and I had no reason to suspect any kind of nefarious rodent activity. At some random moment, I happened to glance to my left – just in time to catch my enemy making a sniper-like approach from the far end of the porch.

He froze...I froze.

He knew he'd been discovered; so, of course, he tried to play it casual. He swaggered right up to me, and passed by as if I wasn't even there. He took a left turn and ducked under the front bush. Next thing I know, he’s wandering out into the yard as if he were just an innocent civilian. But I wasn't buying into his lame little foraging ruse. Still, I wasn't prepared to make an aggressive move at this point. I allowed the would-be assassin to make his escape.

This incident, while disturbing, was not the first of its kind. I'd been stalked in that spot before. Each time, a clumsy claw on concrete, an involuntary tail twitch, or inadvertent nibble foiled the plot. But this time, it bothered me enough that I decided to relocate to the safety of the backyard. It was just what they were hoping I'd do. I rolled right into their furry trap.

I strolled down the driveway to the parking pad that covers most of our backyard. At the far edge of the parking pad is a small grassy knoll. There, a small stretch of grass leads quickly into the wooded area separating us from the next street. In this grassy area, we have a garden box situated on the left side. At that time, the garden box was enclosed with a Fort Knox of chicken wire to keep out deer, raccoons and, of course, squirrels. From the box, grew a long and winding tangle of pumpkin vines about a mile long – containing one tiny pre-pumpkin. To the left rear of the garden box, a tool shed sits precariously propped up against a tree, hoping not to slide any further down the hill into the next yard.

Well, as I said, I strolled down and situated myself near the garden box and its wandering little pumpkin patch. The tree line was no more than four feet away, across the grass and vines. The trees formed a canopy that loomed over my head, more than 30 feet above.

As I sat there, I suddenly became aware of a gentle rain of some sort of fine debris: it was such a curious site. What could this sawdust-like material be falling from? Before I had the chance to ponder the question another second, a cacophony of tree rustling, twig snapping, and some sort of high-pitched yelling of unperceivable commands exploded from above. I had no clue what was happening. Then – with no warning – it happened...

BLAM!!

Right in front of my feet, a bomb of some sort crashed into the middle of the pumpkin vines with a tremendous thud! It was a sound, which I can only describe as a catcher receiving a 90 M.P.H. fastball. It had fallen more than 30 feet from the walnut tree over my head, and landed inches away from killing me!

A flash of gray shot out from the impact crater. In the blink of an eye, the squirrel scurried to the safety of the woods. Realizing the incredible event I'd just witnessed, I decided to examine the area more closely. As I peered carefully into the vines, I saw another small, gray body lying motionless on the ground. He blinked; I flinched. He moved one paw…and then another. Slowly, the stunned para-rodent gathered his wits and staggered off into the woods. He sat there for a moment, falsely believing he was out of my sight. After some recuperation time, he gingerly climbed a tree and collapsed like a throw rug.

At that moment, just for a second, I actually felt bad for the little booger. He obviously had been on the bottom of a failed tandem jump, and had taken the worst of it. I almost felt like The Grinch, with my tiny heart starting to grow and warm by the second...until...

I suddenly became aware that I was, at that moment, surrounded by enemy rodents. This was obviously their landing force. There were two in the trees above – one in a nearby tree – the original two, still on/near the ground – and one stationed atop the tool shed. I wasn't about to let them take me. So, taking advantage of their apparent concern for a wounded comrade, I beat a hasty retreat to the safety of a nearby potted banana plant.

The attack was over; however, it will go down in history as one of the best conceived, albeit poorly executed, operations in all of yard rat history. It was a very narrow escape for yours truly. Had those paratrooper squirrels not failed to account properly for windage, they would’ve easily taken me out. Let’s just say they were aiming for something a lot more soft and squishy than a pumpkin patch – my head.

If this story had come from anyone else, you'd probably think I made it up. But, outside of some “creative interpretation,” I swear it's all true. You know if you get on Google right now and research the chance of being hit by both a meteorite and lightning simultaneously, I bet you'll find that the odds are about twice that of being aerially bombarded by Siamese squirrels.

Kidney Beings

I had planned to post another episode in my “Yard Wars” series this week, but then I went to get a haircut yesterday, and I need to talk about what happened there. We’ll do the Yard Wars thing next week – provided, nothing more worthy comes to mind this week.

Yesterday, my dad, uncle, and I made our monthly visit to Rick Weinel’s barbershop in Newport. Rick is an old fashion barber with an old fashion shop. Going there is always fun, as Rick is a master at deadpan humor. He’ll launch into the news of the day, or an intriguing story, and you’ll never know, until it hits you, that the whole thing was an elaborate set-up for a joke. Rick’s only failing is that he tends to forget to whom he told which joke, so you sometimes have to sit through a repeat…or two. Somehow, they’re just as funny, because you get to observe the master working his craft.

We filed into Rick’s little shop and dutifully lined up in the wooden chairs, stained a deep mahogany, which line up along the right wall of the shop. The chairs are interrupted only by a space where a vent belches freezing cold air in the summer and scorching heat in the winter. Well, I can’t make use of one of the comfy chairs, so guess where I get to sit. I’d just as soon sit in the yellow racecar-chair, where he cuts the hair of pint-sized NASCAR champions.

This day was a little unusual. For one thing, the place was unusually empty, save for one young man and a boy of about 10 years, who was getting something of a burr haircut. It’s the first time I’d ever seen a kid in there. Usually, it’s nothing but old geezers…and me.

We greeted Rick, and exchanged some brief pleasantries with the man, who was standing (supervising, I suppose) in front of the boy, seated in the barber’s chair. The man was chatting with Rick, but I was focusing in on a particularly intriguing headline on a Popular Mechanics magazine cover, and had no idea what they were saying. Then, I caught a word that immediately brought me into their conversation.

The word was, “dialysis.”

Without any provocation or questions from the assembled, the man began relating his story. He explained that he was missing his normal treatment time that day, and would have to make it up the next day. For the past two years, he has reported to a dialysis center, and sat for hours while connected to a machine that cleans his blood.

Having been on dialysis for a short time myself, I couldn’t help but engage him on our common experience. At the same time, I felt completely unworthy to pass myself as any sort of peer to this unfortunate fellow. My experience, although terrible, spanned only a blessedly short few months. Nevertheless, we shared some common misery. I was astonished to hear how he had put up with it for these past two years.

He showed me a long device that was implanted under one arm. They used this port to attach the dialysis tubing, and it was huge! It looked like a row of size C batteries. I felt ashamed that I had ever complained so much about my own little port, and the chaos that ensued from my deciding it no longer pleased me. Here was someone living with a flashlight in his armpit, and not complaining a bit.

The man went on to tell us that, not only was he in kidney failure, but his brother had been in the same boat for four years, and his sister was on dialysis as well. One of his nieces was just diagnosed. I could see the boy looking at him with troubled eyes that sank to the floor as he reeled off the list of stricken family members. The boy, he said, was not affected — yet. I know it seems inappropriate for him to bring this up in front of his child, but they both seemed quite accepting of the situation. This is their reality. It is what it is. They were both very upbeat and determined, but you could tell that the man was trying to present a strong front. Maybe it was for his son’s benefit — maybe for his own.

We went on talking about how awful dialysis treatments are. As treatments begin, his blood pressure skyrockets, but before it’s over, his pressure drops out the bottom. The treatments make him chilled, sick, tired, weak, and miserable. It doesn’t get much better in the short interval between visits. And he has to go through this on Monday…then Wednesday…and then again on Friday. He has been doing this crap for two years: are you freaking kidding me? I did it for a couple months, and almost didn’t survive it a few times. Then I spent the time in between treatments wishing I hadn’t survived. How do you do this for years?

The man’s only hope is a kidney transplant, and he hopes to get on the transplant list after some upcoming tests. His brother has been on the list for years, with no luck. See, these guys have a blood type of A-negative. It’s rare, and limits the pool of potential donors. They’ve had some donation offers, but the donors all turned out to be incompatible.

Now seated in the chair, he proudly pronounced his determination to live into his 50’s. He’s in his 30’s now. At that, the room fell silent for a moment; Rick stopped cutting and stood motionless. To break the icy stillness, I jumped in and semi-cheerfully stated that he was “going to get that kidney this year and not have to worry about all that anymore.”

Soon, the man’s haircut was finished. He and his boy walked off into their tenuous future. They left me feeling thankful for deliverance from my own dialysis hell, yet frustrated that I couldn’t solve their crisis. I’ll never know what happens to the man we met yesterday, and that is frustrating. I hope and pray that he finds a donor…or even better, a cure. Moments like this make it so clear that your life, no matter how screwed up, could always be worse. There will always be someone out there, worse off than you. Just be thankful for every new day.

I could never offer to give that man a kidney, since I have only one, and it’s pretty much “damaged goods” anyway. But maybe I can help in a tiny way by encouraging all my friends and blog fans to join me in becoming potential organ donors. It’s easy to do: just sign the back of your driver’s license, or carry a donor card. And notify your family too. It’s amazing how many different body components doctors can use to help other people: organs, bone, corneas, skin, veins, valves, tendons and more. I have bone in my spine right now, which was the gift of someone who signed his or her donor card.
Offering to become a live kidney donor is a big commitment, but an even greater honor. It’s not exactly easy, but it isn’t terrible either, from what I’ve heard. And living without one kidney is not too much of a problem, as the remaining one will compensate for the loss. You will be someone’s real life hero. Look into it and get answers to your questions at this site: http://organdonor.gov/.  Donating blood is another way we can help others.  It’s almost painless…and you get some semi-tasty orange juice out of the deal.


Look at it this way: Signing your license doesn’t increase your chance of dying, but it does increase the chance of someone else living.

Yard Wars: Deleted Scenes

Okay, so I wander out back onto the deck...guess you can see this coming.

Went out there with the dog, one fall morning in 2008, to get some fresh air and enjoy the exceptionally warm weather we were having that November. I happened to glance up into a walnut tree that stands in the middle of the little forest that marks the end of our backyard. Up on a broken off branch, sat a little squirrel. About a foot behind that little tree rat was yet another. Nothing too odd about that; our trees are always filled with the little nibble-heads.

Without provocation, the latter squirrel approaches the first. They make contact, exchange words, and I prepare myself for what looked as if it would be an epic battle...or even a chase! You know I don’t like the little boogers, but I will concede that their daredevil jumps at high speed can be first-rate entertainment. Instead of fighting, the squirrel in back reaches up, grabs a hold of, and starts doing something strange to, the front squirrel. Now, I'm no zoologist, but I can say, with relative certainty that these two were not…umm…"fighting." Nope, that was not fighting right there.

What is this world coming to? You wander out into your own yard, expecting a relaxing moment of communing with nature...and instead you're exposed to blatant and shameless rodent sex! My poor dog, Casey was clearly traumatized by the whole incident, and I'm not entirely sure how I'm supposed to explain it to her. She’s been fixed, and knows nothing of such things. Honestly, I wasn’t all that comfortable with it myself — and I haven’t been fixed.

After the disturbing display finally ended, the squirrel that initiated the encounter casually gathered his nuts, and wandered off as if nothing had ever happened — leaving his girl hanging out on a limb. This is so typical of these irresponsible creatures. You know, he probably didn’t even call her in the morning.

I can't be sure, but I would almost swear that a few little puffs of smoke drifted up from a nearby branch.

Health Care-less

This week, I want to return to a serious topic. I want to talk about…

…healthcare.


Okay, for those of you still here, I’d like to talk about something very frustrating that I learned about one of our local doctors the other day. It’s just another bit of evidence that an over-inflated bureaucracy does nothing but get in the way of its true purpose and stated goals.

This doctor uses innovative and somewhat non-traditional techniques in treating her patients. These people often have long-term illnesses and/or conditions. So the care they need, while aimed toward cure, is focused on daily life issues. It’s about making their life “today” better — while still working toward the possibility of cure, tomorrow.

The doctor does not ignore, in any way, the concept of ultimate cure. However, she understands better than most doctors, that the patient has to live in the real world. They need treatment that will help them live a decent life with their condition, as they strive toward ridding themselves of it. This “palliative” care is a concept that many doctors brush aside. This physician, however, listens to her patients, and becomes familiar with their day-to-day needs, desires, and goals. She takes the time to learn how her patient lives, and does all she can to enhance their quality of life.

Many of her patients have life-long issues, such as diabetes, amputation and various other disabilities. Treating these patients ( who often have chronic and persistent wounds), requires a pragmatic approach, which focuses not so much on ridding them of their malady, as it does helping them to live with it. This is her mission, and I can tell you without reservation, that she does it well, and her methods work!

The government, on the other hand: Well, they’re not so sure.

The good folks at the bureaucratic red-tape capitol of the universe, which we lovingly call “Medicare” have been hassling this good doctor, and refusing to pay her for her work. They’ve been drowning her in pointless paperwork, and generally giving her a hard time. Apparently, they feel bad that she’s been helping her patients to feel good. According to their various computers, data sheets and policy books, “feeling good” is not a billable service. I guess they don't consider quality of life to be durable medical equipment. It’s okay to try to cure your patient, but if you try to make their life a little more pleasant in the “now” —well, they just can’t cover that.

The pencil pushers claim her treatment methods are unproven, and unapproved. Yet they, in fact, are approved for other circumstances. And the scientific evidence clearly shows that the methods are also beneficial when used in the way she's using them.  Her patients are a clear testament to the fact that they do work.

But Medicare can’t put a code on comfort, fill a spreadsheet with security, or pigeonhole peace of mind. So they shake their little fingers and turn up their noses. They can’t see past the end of their desks, nor do they even want to try. Thinking outside of the box is not in the Federal Register. So anything that comes along that shakes up their confined, mundane world is immediately dismissed and, if necessary, dispatched at all cost.

I won’t pretend to have any answer for this; but it seems like they could work the human condition into the equation somehow. Some value could be placed on living a good life — not just a long one. I understand that the government, and the taxpayers are averse to wasting money, and that’s as it should be. However, is it wasteful to provide comfort, dignity, and security to our neighbors for whom our tax dollars are meant to help? Is it unwise to ignore alternative methods, which might just help people? Is it good policy to let people suffer, simply because you can’t completely cure them within the confines of some arbitrary timeline? In the end, aren’t the increased costs of treating patients for complications, avoidable accidents, and illnesses brought on by years of misery, going to cost the taxpayers even more?

The folks at Medicare should sneak away from their paper cages and venture out into the real world. They should make an investment in finding out what really works well, and what people really need. I won’t begin to dive into the murky waters of the healthcare reform debate. But it just scares the hell out of me to think that the system may soon become even more bureaucratic, with exponentially more decision-making power given over to policy wonks and number crunchers. I don’t want my quality of life determined by some guy who flunked out of MIT because his solar robot exploded.


Next week: Another episode of “Yard Wars!”

Yard Wars: The Acorn Strikes Back

Believe it or not — and you probably won't — it happened to me again. Less than a year after the frightening encounter that I discussed last week, I lived through yet another run-in with terroristic yard vermin. Here is my side of the story:

One July morning in 2008, as is my routine, I wandered out to our back deck, seeking a peaceful moment of alone time. The scorching sun was burning through its blanket of fog…but having no luck in clearing the fog from my brain. While I was sitting there, half asleep still, my eye caught a glimpse of movement to my left. It was…

…a squirrel.

He was sneaking down out of the tree, and onto the deck railing. At first, he approached slowly. But as soon as he saw me watching, he bounded wildly over from the side rail to the front rail — completely bypassing the more traditional route over the wooden gate leading to the back steps. This provocative gesture was clearly meant to intimidate.

Next thing I know, he’s no more than five feet away from me. At this distance, I was an easy target. Suddenly realizing the absurdity of the situation (and that it was happening again), I started to laugh nervously. My sudden lack of fear apparently threw the squirrel off his game, and he scampered back to the safety of the tree. But it wasn't over…oh, not even close!

Next thing I know, he's climbing across the wall of the house.  He approached from my extreme left, clinging to the bricks like Spider-Man®. I think he was going for the wooden trellis I was sitting under, in hopes of an overhead, “banzai-style” attack. But I spied him, and quickly foiled his scheme.

Back to the tree, my furry foe scurried.

Moments later, it was déjà vu all over again. This guy was completely obsessed! He charged along the rail again, bounding wildly over the lamps, which were affixed to each deck post. He was trying to intimidate me with his jumping prowess. He landed, once again, right in front of me.

Thus began, a stare down.

I stare at him...he stares at me. It was like the YouTube video, “Dramatic Chipmunk.” Although in this case, I was playing more the role of the chipmunk than he was.

Suddenly, he made some very suggestive bounding motions, as if to indicate that he was fully prepared to employ his finishing move. At that point, I honestly thought he was going to jump right on my head. And you know, I'm thinking that wouldn't have been a particularly titillating encounter for either party. He likely would have found himself catapulted a considerable distance, before landing on the unforgiving concrete far below; and I would be on my way to the hospital...with squirrel rabies.

Can you imagine how hard it would be for me to get a date in that situation? I mean, if you've got bad breath — poor grooming — even a grating personality — you still got a chance with the ladies. But just once, mention that, “oh by the way,” you happen to have squirrel rabies. Well, that’s going to be a deal-breaker with most women.

Our grand standoff ended when the squirrel turned-tail and ran in a blind panic toward safety. Okay…okay. Actually, that was the human.  But the commotion of my clumsy retreat scared the little booger enough to send him scurrying back to his lair.

Another frightening squirrel encounter had come and gone without casualties. But these near misses could only go on so long before something terrible happened. This constant ramping up of tensions would soon lead to collateral damage, casualties, and a coordinated ambush that would defy all previous biological theory on rodent aggression.

Stay tuned.

Yard Wars: Im Telling You This for Your Own Protection!

On this Independence Day, I feel it's my patriotic duty to warn you, my fellow Americans, about an insidious danger...lurking in our own backyard.

A certain, previously friendly, population appears to be taking a militant stand against the peace loving citizens of America.  I fear it could signal an attempted world take-over, ala Planet of the Apes.  We should all be very afraid!  To prove my theory, allow me to relate an incident, which took place in the summer of 2007.

Here's what went down early that morning:

As I casually strolled out onto the back deck, I suddenly became aware that I was not alone.  About ten feet in front of me, under a large over-hanging tree, sitting among the ceramic bears and squirrels, was a REAL squirrel — usually, not a problem.  However, this guy had allowed me to approach dangerously close, and he wasn't moving away. I slowly approached, expecting the timid little forest creature to scurry away, as they always do.

Not this one!

This guy jumped through the air at me like Hulk Hogan off the top rope, and landed on the deck railing, not five feet away.  Then he raises the ante by jumping onto the deck chair right dagone next to me!  I’m thinkin’ the next stop...is my face!

I backed off.  He wasn't moving, so I backed off some more.  At that, he leapt back to his original position on the wall.

I slowly tried to again approach him, not sure why.  This time, I avoided eye contact while pretending to graze on nearby vegetation, per instructions of Animal Planet's Jeff Corwin.

He attacked again!

Again, he sailed through the air in a provocative advance to the chair…adjacent to my facial area.  He had a mean look on his little face, and I was sure he fully intended to eat me.  And I'm not talking about any cute little nibbling here either.  I swear he had his beady little eyes fixed directly on my jugular!

I retreated toward the patio door.  He reciprocated — returning to the wall.  Now we had a standoff on our hands.  I was not about to sink to the level of being forced inside by a glorified little yard rat!  So we just sat there, staring at each other — each afraid to blink.

I decided to resort to measures, generally recommended for anyone in imminent danger of consumption by lions, or tigers, or bears...oh my!  I made myself seem as wide, tall, and ferocious as possible.  Now I figured, with my girth, I already had "wide" pretty well covered, so I went for tall.  I waved my arms, clapped, and launched terrifying roars toward the little monster.

Thankfully, these drastic measures were effective.  He gave me that tilted head look, like a bewildered puppy, as if to say, “What the hell is your problem?”  He then scampered back up the trellis and into the tree.

Aww, I didn't want to have to get tough with the widdle fellow; but he left me no choice.  No, I wasn’t the least bit frightened, for even a second.  Hey, I always shake like that after too much coffee.

Since that day, it’s quite likely our neighbors think I’m a raving lunatic.

Feeling Crabby

I'm happy to report that nothing particularly interesting has happened in my life since the last update. So this week, I'm reaching into the mental archives to share one of those goofy moments in life, which serve as evidence that God has a sense of humor.  I realize that this is an excercise in public self-humiliation; but they say a true artist must suffer for his/her work. And I couldn't think of anything better. So here's this weeks glimpse into my strange little world.


This particular moment of humility began a few years ago, while my family was in Sarasota, Florida to watch the Reds prepare for yet another spectacular losing season. While there, of course we tried out all the typical beachside seafood places.

Now, before I proceed any further with humiliating myself, I want to make it clear that this incident was completely the fault of one John Schrode, who purports to be my best friend. John is on a never-ending quest to corrupt me into a clone of himself — I’m guessing, for spare parts. With all his heart, he longs for me to love what he loves (excluding Mrs. Schrode), to hate what he hates, and to generally see the world through his eyes. Sometimes, his zealousness leads to trouble…for me.

Before we left for Florida, John suggested (insisted) that I try Alaskan king crab legs for the first time. It's one of the few types of seafood I’d never sampled — frankly, the damn things always scared me. I have a problem with any food that:

A. Requires proper training to eat

B. Looks at you while you consume its flesh

One night, we ate at a restaurant with the very appropriate name of, "Sharky's." It was a pretty cool place, right at the base of a long pier. I suppose, if you didn’t like your appetizer, you were welcome to take it out on the pier and use it to catch something you might like better.

I strongly considered chickening out of my quest for crab, and just ordering the half-ton beach burger instead. But, with the thought of incurring “The Wrath of John” in mind, I decided to give them a go.

With an overflowing plate of spiny appendages placed before me, I felt like a walrus on a rocky beach, preparing to devour my kill. It reminded me of a pile of giant spiders, and I had no clue where to begin. Fortunately, our cute waitress took pity on me, and offered to crack the first appendage.

After much cracking, digging, pinching, and semi-pointless butter dipping, I finished most of my monster crab legs. And they were actually pretty good! Way too much work for a meal though. Dinner should not require manual labor. It should arrive in front of me, as if by magic. Hell, I don’t even like making tacos. I’m going to dismantle an armored crustacean — I don’t think so!

On the way home from dinner, we stopped off at Wal-Mart to get a few necessities. Out of curiosity, I took a brief stroll through the seafood aisle. After examining the crab leg selection, I discovered that the restaurant had served me "stone" crab legs, and not "Alaskan king" crab legs. That disclosure was as astonishing as it was disheartening. You’re telling me there are even BIGGER crab legs than those I had just dismantled — that I had not yet experienced the nirvana of true king crab conquest?

I puttered around in the seafood section a while longer, examining all the selections, and re-confirming my personal pledge to never get anywhere near a raw oyster. Why would anyone consume (on purpose) something that looked like snot on the half-shell? In any case, before long, the necessities were in the basket and we headed back to our condo. I buzzed around the grounds a few hours and then headed in to hit the bed.

Just as I was about to hop into bed, I glanced down and discovered that I had somehow carried home an unintended souvenir from the restaurant. Delicately balanced on my right foot, in all it’s pink glory, was an entire (stone) crab leg! It had been proudly displayed there, all through the restaurant — through Wal-Mart — and all around the neighborhood surrounding our condo. And nobody noticed...or bothered to say anything if they did.

You know...I'm just lucky I didn’t get arrested for shoplifting under-sized, armored crustacean appendages in the dagone Wal-Mart seafood section!

The following year, we were hanging out in Panama City Beach (no, not at Spinnaker’s). One night, after returning “home” from an Applebee’s, my (then) nine-yr-old niece suddenly, and totally, freaks out and yells, "Eww! What's that?”

She points at my left foot.

(Can ya' see this coming yet?)

Cautiously, I look down at my feet. There — a good hour after dinner — a smallish, ice-cube-sized chunk of chopped steak (with just a hint of mushroom sauce) sat proudly atop my best dress shoe.

What is wrong with me?

The Case of The Incredible Vanishing Tube

Normally I would use this blog space to talk about things that somehow relate to everyone’s life. This topic, however, is unique to this “lucky” guy. I’ve had so many kind people asking about it, I thought I’d report the latest strange development. If you want more background on the story, read my blog entry titled, “I Got Tube Babe” from May 30, 2010.

Here's the latest twist in the ongoing mystery of The Incredible Vanishing Tube:

So I go to the cardiologist today, and had an ultrasound exam done. The doc says he's been getting mixed signals from the radiologist who read the CAT scan, from my other doctors, and even from my medical records. He couldn't figure out if the tube in my chest had moved, had broken off during last year's removal attempt, or (as some records suggested) may have been there since shortly after its implantation, all the way back in 1998.

It's almost funny seeing the looks of puzzlement on the doctors' faces anymore. What isn't funny is what I saw for myself when they performed the ultrasound.

Up to now, the question has been, "Is the tube in the liver, or is it still adhered to the subclavian vein in my upper chest, where the surgeon left it?" Well, guess what. The answer is ”yes,” to both questions! It’s still adhered to the subclavian with the far end tickling my liver.

Turns out, that cannula (tube) is much longer than anyone imagined. Why the original surgeon chose such a long tube for me is a mystery. Not only is it exceptionally long, but my torso is shorter than most, because of scoliosis and just the usual traits of a person with Spina Bifida. So apparently, it goes all the way from one end of my guts to the other...nice!

You might think this takes things back to status quo, wherein we were just going to leave it, assuming it would grow into the vein and be harmless. Well, that was when we thought it was a little short tube -- and not the Alaskan Pipeline. Now, we can’t just assume it’s safe, and do nothing. The danger comes mostly from clots forming on the tip that sits in the hepatic (liver) vein.

My doctor ordered a second ultrasound, to get another look at it. With those results in hand, he made some calls. Nothing concrete was decided, so he’s going to gather as much of my past medical history as he can find. Then he’ll convene a sort of roundtable discussion, with a vascular surgeon, a hematologist and whomever else he can think of, to come up with a risk/benefit analysis for surgery. Removing the tube would now be a very dangerous venture. However, leaving it in there might be just as dangerous. The saga continues.

Sometimes I wish I hadn't signed up for cable. :-(

Yeah, But...Why?

Well, it's been over a week since I've had the opportunity to spill my guts in anything more than a few paragraphs, painstakingly poked out on my cell phone keyboard. So, since I have this nice big keyboard and relatively gi-normous monitor, I'm going to take this opportunity to stretch my rhetorical legs a bit -- if you'll indulge me.

This past week was quite a trip. It started in such a frightening way. I was rushed to the hospital from my doctor's office and directly admitted. After surgery (the following day), things turned into more of a low-key, endurance test.

I try to learn something from every struggle that comes along. Taking something meaningful from utter chaos makes life seem logical and manageable. But sometimes the search for a strand of meaning is futile, and we just become frustrated, depressed and distant from any sort of faith in a higher order. It's in those times that you have to hold most tightly to your faith.

So, I've spent this week trying to make sense of my circumstances -- both now, and over time. Many of you know (because of my windy ways) about things I've struggled with over the past year or so; so I won't go into all that. This one however, came as quite a shock, and really made me struggle to find that elusive bit of meaning.

I've concluded that God has his own way of getting our attention.  And I believe he is trying his best to get my attention right now. He tried once, a few weeks ago, with a one night hospital stay. Admittedly, I shrugged it off as dumb luck. It was a couple days after I'd marked 10 years of hospital-free living; so the significance should have been obvious.  It took something much stronger to wake me up.

I think we all have a reason to be here. We all have a purpose to serve in the grand plan. If we ignore that purpose -- whatever we believe it to be -- how can we live truly fulfilled lives? If you're a person of faith, you have to believe that you can't please God if you're not heeding his gentle call. And maybe that's why he sends us a little push now and then: to get us off our tuckus.

I think this explains what happened to me this past week. I'm pretty sure what I have to do...but have procrastinated terribly in getting it done. For that matter, I haven't gotten much of anything done. So God decided to abandon the gentle tap on the shoulder, and opted instead for the not-so-gentle kick in the butt. I need to get busy, re-focus on what matters and get things done. I'm going to try. Hopefully, no further "reminders" will be necessary.

Learn from my lesson.  If you have something you know needs to get done or something you want to accomplish...just get to it. Our time is precious: we need to make the best of it. Don't wait to fulfill your destiny.  Don't wake up having never chased your dream.

I'll just close up this little philosophical tirade by saying, again, how much I appreciate the support I've gotten from so many friends and supporters -- many of whom, I don't know, and never will.  Well wishes and prayers I've received from family, friends, strangers, prayer groups, prayer chains and more, have helped make the long days of waiting and worry go by a lot faster.  Thanks and God bless.

I Got Tube Babe

Many of you have followed my adventures, the past several months, with the mysterious piece of "inner-space junk" that's been wandering around the inside of my person. The doctors believe the object is a long plastic tube, which was once providing IV access through a vein in my chest. The tube broke off during an attempt to remove it surgically, back in Sept. 2009; however, they believed it had permanently attached itself safely to my shoulder – thus preventing its removal.

However, it may not be that particular tube at all. It may actually be some other medical debris, which has been sitting there for decades. Hell, maybe it was put there during that brief time I can't account for while driving down Route 8 that one dark night. There was this real bright light, and... Okay, that part's not true -- nobody in their right mind drives on Route 8 at night.

In any case, the tube (or something like it) was last seen on a CAT scan in May, resting near my liver and stretching up through my heart like a giant plastic gummy worm. The roller coaster of positive and negative news regarding this "mystery tube," over the past several weeks, has been the cause of much stress, worry, and frustration.  I know it really shouldn't bother me; the doctors seem sure (more or less) that it’s harmless. But the idea of some sort of debris inside my body is completely disconcerting.

Just the mention of the heart sends most people into a panic. The heart is our core...our life force...the metaphorical home of our very soul. It's who we are at the most primal level. Messing with one's heart, in any sense, is a very bad thing. And now mine has been turned into some kind of macabre shish kabob.

What makes it worse is that I have a little touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder. Oh, not so as you might notice it; but it's there. I don't like a messy room or desk; I don't like things out of alignment; never been a fan of odd numbers, and have a pesky need to do things just a certain way. I've even been known to fold the occasional piece of scrap paper before throwing it away. I know: goofball.

So now, the guy who can't stand bits and pieces lying about has a giant piece of biological waste running right through his body -- and it's probably not even sitting there straight! Oh, and it's not just this tube. I've also got broken bars and snapped wires in my back from a less-than-successful scoliosis surgery. I even have some poor dead guy's bones in there, from that same event. At various times, I've enjoyed the company of dialysis tubes, catheter tubes, nephrostomy tubes, oxygen cannulas and the late, great tracheostomy tube -- I'm a rolling Med-Mart! Thankfully, most of that is just a memory.

This crazy, inexplicable tube was just the last straw on a giant pile of aggravation, built up over the past year or so of medical misadventures, illnesses, moments of panic, and times where it all seemed pointless. But that's nothing new; the urge to just give up the struggles and call it a life, is a semi-regular visitor to most people with disabilities. It's like that creepy cousin who shows up unannounced, and you just have to put up with him until he's out of your hair. But you sure as hell don't let him move in! The blues come and go, and you deal with them. You know you have to work your way through the funk and come out on the other side. Faith in God and the realization that there exists that "other side" keeps you going in the hard times.

With all this stuff going on, I was having one of those brief trips through the funk the other day...feeling quite sorry for myself, thank you very much. Then an email showed up in my box that changed everything.

It was a notification of a Facebook posting from a woman who had just tried to kill herself.

She posted on a Facebook group to which I belong: desperate, frustrated, hurting and full of self-loathing. Without going into detail, it was clear that this poor woman was suffering from a physical malady which strikes many people like me, who have Spina Bifida. Her pain and mood changes were easily recognizable as symptoms of the condition. I wasn't sure what to do. The woman doesn't even live in America; it's not as if I could rush over there. She needed medical treatment; but first, she needed to hang on emotionally (despite the mental tricks the condition plays) long enough to receive it. I did the only thing I knew how; I tried to reason with her.

Suddenly I found myself arguing the case against the very action I had entertained myself, not that long ago. It was as if I was looking in a mirror and seeing how awful...how useless...how foolish such thoughts are. Here was a woman in a moment of crisis far worse than my own, and I was reaching out to pull her from the brink. I almost felt like a hypocrite. After all, hadn't I looked over that same edge with just as slippery a grip?

I gave her every reason to hang in there until she could receive help. I assured her a sunny day awaited on the other side of the funk. Beyond that, I could only pass her on to some folks I know in her country who are far more qualified than I am to deal with such things.

I guess, sometimes you can only see how foolish you look when you see someone else dressed the same way. How ridiculous it is, to consider such a defeatist attitude. How pious of you to judge what you think best for those around you. How ultimately selfish you are to deprive those who care for you, of a loved one: leaving them behind, in a barren prison of confusion and guilt. For some, suicide is the ultimate expression of cowardice. To most, it seems the only way out. Regardless, it's a tragedy.

I lost a friend to that choice, not long ago. I remember how it left me feeling. And I hope I've learned my lesson. Running away -- in any form -- is never the answer. There is always a strand of hope to hang on to, and sometimes you just have to tie it around your hand.

A dear friend of mine suggested I write this blog post. She said, "You need to work out your frustrations; and writing about it is just how you're wired." She was, as always, right. So I dedicate this rambling post to you, Lisa. You are truly an awesome friend.

Oh, and she suggested I do one other thing as well. So, at her suggestion (and to lighten up the gloom in here a bit), I present the following:


I GOT TUBE BABE

An original parody
Based on "I Got You Babe" by Sonny & Cher

They say It’s done and it won’t grow
We won't find out until the X-rays show
Well I don't know what all it’s through
But the thing broke free and baby I got tube

Babe
I got tube babe I got tube babe

They say this thing won’t get all bent
If all else fails, they can use it as a stint
I guess that's so, they don’t say a lot
But at least I'm sure of exactly what I got

Babe
I got tube babe I got tube babe

Don’t need staples or a string, I got tube to hold my spleen
And when I'm clad, but in a gown
And if I’m scanned, its always around
So let them say my health’s all wrong
'Cause I don't care, it’s been in me far too long
So even if I hate this line
There ain't no pill or treatment they can find

Babe
I got tube babe I got tube babe

I got tube to hold my glands
I got tube, to beat the band
I got tube that moves quite free
I got tube that walks through me
I got tube to fill with lights
I got tube to see at night
I got tube, it won't let go
I got tube that loves me so

I got tube babe
I got tube babe
I got tube babe
I got tube babe

I got tube babe

Maybe I should have gone with Don't Worry Be Happy. ;-)

It's been a very long time since I've added to this dusty old blog.  I was blogging on copywriting, marketing and general writing stuff.  But let's face it; who wants to read about that?  What people enjoy reading is a good story -- true life, fictional, or even true life with, as Andy Griffith once said, "a little extra jam on the bread."  In any case, the best stories spring from real life, and those are the stories I love to tell. 

Well, the other night, I had one of those unique episodes of "real life" and just couldn't resist the primal urge to share.  Here's what happened:

It was a dark and stormy night. Okay, it wasn't actually "stormy," but it was fairly dark, and the wind was blowing more then really necessary. I was sitting at home, in my bedroom/office (please don't tell the IRS). I was alone, but for my pathologically timid dog, Casey. Being nothing worthwhile on the idiot box, I was flipping back and forth between the movie, Cursed and The Larry King Show. So I was already kind of creeped out.


At some point, I heard what sounded like a car door out front. I went to the front door, but found no one there. I looked out back where we park our cars, and no lights were on. The security light always announces returning family...and the occasional raccoon.

"Oh well, guess it was nothing," I said to Casey as if she cared. I returned to my room for more boredom.

I guess I got hungry not long after that, and found myself strolling into the living room. Before me, the front door had swung open. Now I was freaking out. I shot over and grabbed the phone off its base in preparation for trying to remember how to dial 911. In my nightmares, it seems that's always a big issue.

Nothing happened. Having not been slashed or decapitated, I finally calmed enough to, once again, return to my room. I decided to do a little web surfng this time. I resolved to stay clear of any of hotly contested political forums, as I was scared enough already.

A short time later, I became aware of water running in, what sounded like, our bathroom. That room is right up against my wall -- which isn't all that great acoustically, if you know what I mean. But it left little doubt where the sound was coming from. The flow sounded too rapid to be a drip, but not as if someone was actually using the water: kind of like when you turn off the shower and some water still runs out.

My ears perked up. For a moment, I wasn't sure what to do. Call 911? Look for a weapon? Running for it was out. I steadied my nerves and started timidly toward my bedroom door.

The sound gone silent, my fear turned slowly into curiosity. Then the thought of an over-flowing toilet or burst pipe crossed my mind.

"Oh crap, what am I supposed to do if it's that!" At this point, I had traveled a good three feet from my origin and had yet to exit into the central square that serves as our hallway -- the bathroom door just to the left.

I slowly rounded the bend to find the bathroom light on, but no sign of overflow or pipe damage. There was nothing wrong, but we almost never leave that light burning. I peered through the doorway, past a wall obscuring the shower. Someone had pulled the shower curtain closed.

In my head, "Norman...is that you?"

Hell no, I wasn't going in there to check it out! I need plenty of maneuvering room when dealing with knife-wielding psychopaths. Well, technically, I need plenty of room to maneuver all the time, but that's an argument I wasn't entertaining in the moment.

I headed for the living room, undocked the phone again, and opened the door to facilitate a quick exit. No, I am not a coward; I just like to keep my options open...and I bleed easy. I let ten or fifteen minutes pass as I sat frozen in mid-living room.

Thankfully (if not obviously), I was not killed. And I think Casey was starting to laugh at me at this point.

Spring ahead another half hour or so; everything was starting to fade out of mind. Suddenly, I hear the gentle tapping of Casey's claws as she stepped through the kitchen. Then...the flowing water sound again!

But wait. This time it wasn't a toilet/sink/bloody shower sound. It was more of a "slurp...slurp...slurp" sound. Then it hit me: that's what I'd heard earlier. It was Casey drinking from her bowl. I felt like such a dork, and had to laugh at myself for my foolishness as I turned my back to start surfing the Internet once again.

It suddenly dawns on me that this is the exact point in the movie where the wisecracking, non-believing, smart-alec gets a kitchen knife in the back of his immaculately white t-shirt. I spun back toward the door (to watch TV of course.)

Moments later, a bang echoed up from the backyard. Now I was just starting to get ticked off. Kill me or not; but quit messing with my head! I buzzed into the living room and gazed out the back door. There was no security light on, so it couldn't be anyone returning home. Yeah...back to the phone. But I was tired of quaking in my boots, so I returned to the bedroom.

Without warning, the back door opens with a bang!

This time, it really was my family, who had to wonder why I seemed so happy to see them home from their long journey to Walmart. It seems, "one of us" had turned off the security light.  My own (in)security light, however, was fully illuminated.

"So, anyone call...anything go on while we were gone?"

"Nah; just took in a movie."

Rules Of The Road...And When To Break Them

Last week, we talked about the importance of compelling, focused copy. We also touched on the idea of speaking in the voice of the reader and approaching them with honesty and a certain level of intimacy. This week, let's talk about the technical aspects of your writing as it applies to your marketing materials. Just as on the highway, there are rules and conventions that must be followed. But in writing marketing materials, there are times when we need to bend or even break the rules. (Notice I cleverly avoided any suggestion of traffic law disobedience.)

The first concept that comes to mind is the idea of "writing tight". By this we mean avoiding overly complex, inappropriate and/or unnecessary words. We're all guilty of this literary sin. We have an unnatural lust for our own creative genius. We fall in love with our own words. It happened to me....don't let it happen to you.

Your only hope for salvation is to cast an objective eye on what you write. When you've finished a piece of writing -- any writing -- go back and find the most concise way to phrase every sentence. Take out jargon, cliche's and words that aren't needed. Just make sure you don't lose the intended meaning. Do this proofreading twice -- at least. In fact, I like to let a writing assignment sit over night. It's amazing what the perspective of time will do for your ability to spot mistakes and clean up your wording. Just try it.

Don't be too concerned about sentence fragments in your advertising copy. Your goal is to communicate your message, not to win the Pulitzer Prize. Write as you speak. The rules of grammar are important; but you should think of them as tools, not as task masters. Oh, and it's okay to start a sentence with a contraction now and then. And I mean that.

As I said above, don't fall in love with your own creativity. And that means not being too clever for your own good. Cute remarks, rhymes, puns and silly humor can get in the way of your message. It's okay to take on a humorous tone at times; just don't let it detract from your goal. And remember, your goal is commercial -- not literary. (Okay, I know what you're thinking. But this rule does not apply to blog posts...at least, not mine.) ;-)

Be concise; stick to the point. The headline of your ad or the "theme" of whatever you're writing should be in your bull's eye at all times. Focus on your main selling point. Stick to what it is that makes your product uniquely suited to solve your reader's problems and make their world more livable. Don't meander off to side points, unimportant features or minor benefits.

Finally, remember that benefits always trump features. Your customer doesn't care that your motor oil has a super-cool additive in it. They care about not breaking down. They care about their engine lasting. Concentrate on how your product or service will have a positive effect on your customer's life. What problems does it solve? How does it make them a better person? How does it protect them or their family? How does it make life easier...or more worth living? Hey, motor oil can make you happy...and you don't even have to live in the desert!

[Next week: More rules of the road.]

Take care.

The Ten Stages Of Weight Loss

The past several months, I’ve been actively engaged in a battle to rid myself of a lifetime of excess tonnage. What possessed me to find the strength to reform at the age of forty-three? Well, I’m not sure; but I think there comes a time when the scales finally tip from the desire to enjoy food to the desire to be thinner, healthier, more active…more alive. For me, that tipping point arrived in the depths of self-loathing this past summer. I may not “know what you did last summer,” but I know what I did -- mostly avoid mirrors and beat myself up. I was a lot like Jim Carrey’s character in Liar Liar.

I am proud to say that I’ve met with a certain amount of success in this journey. My rotund body is starting to transform, a little at a time. As this happens, I’m beginning to realize that, just like there are five stages of grief, there are in fact, distinct “stages” to the weight loss process. I don’t mean physical, medical or even psychological stages. I’m referring to a number of social stages, expressed as a function of the perceptions and reactions of your casual acquaintances. Sounds very clinical, doesn’t it? You think I could make a Master’s thesis out of this?

With that, here are the Ten Stages of Weight Loss.

1. The Good Stage - In this stage, you’re just starting out. You’ve decided to lose weight and you’re determined to make it happen. When you tell people this they usually say something supportive like, “Well, good!”

2. The Great Stage - Now you’ve lost some pounds. When you tell people you’ve lost a number of pounds, they'll say, “That’s great!” But that’s all they say, because they don’t see a bit of difference in you.

3. The Patronizing Stage - This is a subtle progression from the great stage. Now, when you tell someone that you’ve lost a lot of weight they feel compelled to appear perceptive. They’ll turn their head sideways -- like a beagle -- look over your fat, and pronounce, “Yeah, you look like you’ve lost some weight.” They’re lying.

4. The Honest Agreement Stage - This is exactly like the patronizing stage, except they really do see a difference (if ever so slight) now and don’t have to lie anymore.

5. The Recognition Stage - Now we’re getting somewhere. You'll know that you’ve entered this stage, the first time a person walks up to you and says (without provocation), “Have you lost weight?” Oh what a glorious day that is! And I am so happy to say that I entered this very stage just today. My doctor walked in and asked the blessed question on first seeing me. It’s so much nicer than the days when he would walk in and ask me if I needed supplemental oxygen.

6. The Religious Experience Stage - This is where it really starts getting fun. When your casual acquaintances first lay eyes on you, their reaction is something like, “Oh My God! You have changed so much! Lord, how much weight have you lost?!”

7. The Big Chill Stage - This is where your not-so-close friends begin to give you a little bit of the cold shoulder. You’ve lost so much weight that you’re now thinner than they are, and you’re making them feel inferior. They secretly despise you for your cursed fortitude! They crave your precious willpower! They want to BE you…and they hate you for it! But other than that, they’re generally cheerful, pleasant and supportive.

8. The Oh Boy Stage - In this stage, women begin to throw themselves at you. They can’t control themselves. You’re getting more phone numbers than the men’s room at the bus depot. You’re a chick magnet…a rock star...perfection in the eyes of femininity the world over! At least…that’s what I keep telling myself down here in stage five. So?! Hey, we all need a little motivation now and then -- even if it is completely ridiculous.

9. The Metamorphic Stage - This is the end of the road. You’ve done it! You’ve now lost so much weight that, if you were to put on a pair of glasses, nobody would recognize you. For this reason, this is sometimes referred to as “The Superman Stage”.

10. The Good (Again) Stage - Now you’re relishing your victory. You’re celebrating by eating and drinking all the things in all the quantities that you had given up during your weight loss. You start to pack on the pounds again and people begin to notice. You know they can tell, so you feel compelled to say something positive like, “Yeah, guess I’ve kind of let myself go here a little bit. Gonna have to get back in the gym and work it off”. And with that, they nod their head, force a smile and reply, “Well…good!” At least they like you again now. They can once again look down on you and feel better about themselves. You’re a true inspiration.

Giving Away The Store

Call me crazy -- get in line to do so -- but I’m going to “give away the store” in today’s article. Today’s goal is to show you some ways that you can create advertising copy that outshines the competition and convinces your customer that he or she would have to be freakin’ nuts not to avail themselves of your product or service. Today’s goal is also to keep you from strangling the life out of your business with your own words.

Above all things, your advertising copy must be compelling. Correct grammar, punctuation, and spelling might have earned you a gold star in fifth grade English class, but they won’t do a thing for you when it comes to selling with words. Oh, don’t get me wrong; rules are important. But they’re like learning to drive. They’ll keep you alive, but they won’t get you anywhere if you don’t know where you’re going.

Your advertising copy must focus on a single message. Whatever your goal for this copy may be, or whatever it is you want to tell your customer, you must not cloud it with a maelstrom of points and sub-points. What is it that makes your product special? What makes it stand out? What’s the most important reason your customer can’t (or wouldn’t want to) live without your product? Whatever your answer, stick to it…focus on it…drive it home. Don’t dilute your message with minor features and unimportant benefits.

Ad copy must compel the reader to take action -- preferably NOW. In order to do so, your copy must clearly state what that action is. Do you want them to call for information? Return a reply card? Place an order? Request a brochure? Whatever it is you want your customer to do, you must make it absolutely crystal clear. In making your “call to action” clear, you must also make it clear that time is critical.

With your advertising (as with all of your marketing efforts) you want to always be moving the customer along the path to a sale. There are a number of steps involved in any sale. That number is unique to the circumstances of your business. So you have to take your customer by the hand and lead them along those steps and into the promised land. For God’s sake, don’t let them wander off!

Your message must be appropriate for its audience. This seems obvious, but you’d be surprised how many business owners try to take the cookie cutter approach in their advertising. It does your company no good to use the shotgun approach to marketing. In today’s high-tech, cyber-world, the opportunity to target your marketing like a cruise missile presents itself like never before. You can’t afford not to ride the wave -- lest you be crushed by it.

The words you write are an essential part of targeting the right message to the right people in just the right way. Know your audience. Know their needs…desires…dreams. And know what it is that keeps them up at night. Don’t talk over (or for that matter, under) your prospects. Save the technical jargon for trade journals and B2B channels. Conversely, avoid using slang and an overly casual voice when speaking to wealthy or highly educated customers. Know who you’re talking to and speak to them as they themselves would speak.

If you are targeting the public-at-large, here’s a trick that will help you reach a wide audience most effectively. Speak to your audience person to person. Pretend you’re having a conversation with someone with whom you’d be comfortable sitting around in your pajamas. This gives your voice a comfortable, friendly tone with just the right level of intimacy. We all trust our friends. Approached as a friend, we open our minds to what we’re reading.

Lastly, be sincere. We all can detect a phony; so don’t think you’re going to get away with it. Be honest about your product. You have a good product, and it’s worthy of your customers’ consideration -- right? So there’s no need to overstate anything, to play on irrational fears, or to patronize your customer.

Be compelling, be focused, speak in the voice of your reader, and don’t be fake. Do these things and you’ll put yourself a step ahead of the competition, and well on your way to increased sales.

We’ll talk more about “writing to sell” next week. Hey, I didn’t say I was giving away the WHOLE store. Besides, I need to keep some powder dry for next week’s post. Take care.

Five Questions to Ask Before Hiring a Copywriter

Let me begin by saying that this article contains some blatant promotion for my own services. That won't be the norm for future articles; however, I'm doing this, in part, to draw a contrast between good copywriting practices and those that lead only to frustration and poor outcomes. Admittedly, I'm serving my own interests here, so I hope you'll forgive me for tooting my own horn a little. But even if you never use my services, you should still ask these five questions, and make sure the writer you hire answers them to your satisfaction.

With that said, here are five questions to ask before you hire a copywriter:

1. How Good Are They?

For many companies, hiring a freelance copywriter is the only way to get first-class creative talent. But watch out! Not everyone who calls him/herself a copywriter really is one.

As you look for a qualified freelancer, you're likely to meet everyone from moonlighting agency writers to unemployed surfers. Worst of all, you may find a novelist or magazine writer who thinks that, because he has published "real writing," working on your little project will be a cinch.

I am a professional copywriter. I have no other job, and I'm not looking for one. My customers are all repeat customers, for one reason -- my copy works.

2. How Much Do They Charge?

One of the advantages of hiring a freelance copywriter -- instead of an agency, for example -- is cost. Yet freelance copywriters' fees vary widely, and the real cost of doing business with one is often hidden.

Copywriters who charge by the hour may give you a bill for many more hours than you expected. Those who work on retainer will send you a monthly bill, whether they've done anything to earn it or not. And some copywriters charge extra for revisions...in effect making you pay more for work you can't use.

Not only are my fees at or below the average among top professional copywriters, I charge only by the product. Best of all, revisions are FREE for up to 30 days. You always know in advance how much you're going to pay to get the job done right, no matter what.

3. Are They Dependable?

Let's face it. If you had all the time in the world to write a piece of copy, you could try to do it in-house. One of the most common reasons for hiring a freelancer is to meet a deadline when time and on-site talent are in short supply. The last thing you need is a writer you can't count on.

I seldom ask my clients for more than two weeks to complete a project. Rush jobs usually can be completed in a week or less. Sure, I'll fight for as much time as I can get. The more time you give me, the more I can polish your copy for maximum effect. But once I've agreed to a date, it's sacred. I have never missed a deadline, and don't intend to start now.

4. Can They Work Long Distance?

A key advantage of using a freelance copywriter is the chance it gives companies around the country to work with the kind of specialists found only in major metropolitan ad agencies. But that advantage is lost when the the freelancer can't work without frequent meetings, constant handholding, close supervision and repeated brain-storming sessions. You need a copywriter who will grasp your problem quickly and work alone to find the right solution for your unique situation.

My office is equipped to serve you quickly and efficiently, no matter where you work. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, if your company is on the planet, we can do business together!

5. Are They Easy to Work With?

When you judge a freelance writer on the basis of talent alone, you're asking for trouble. You may wind up with one of our profession's famous prima donnas -- people who refuse to take direction from clients, who treat minor revisions as a personal affront, who charge royalties on their successes...and walk away from their failures.

An effective collaboration between client and copywriter takes more than just talent. It takes reliability, courtesy and respect. It takes a willingness to compromise, and an ability to listen.

I am proud of the fact that many of my clients have also become my good friends. But it's no coincidence. It's a direct result of my personal approach to every job. Maybe that's why clients trust me with confidential information and sensitive personal projects.

My goal is to bring copywriting know-how and marketing techniques, that were once reserved for the Fortune 500 companies, to small businesses and organizations. That's why our motto is "global marketing brought down to earth."

Regardless of who you choose to write copy for you, make sure they're qualified, easy to work with and dependable. Make sure that your project will not be lost in the shuffle of a dozen others. A copywriter is trained to find just the right words to reach your target audience in the most effective way possible. When dollars and market share are on the line, every little word matters.

Thanks for indulging me in a little self-promotion this week. Since copywriting is my "thing" I wanted to get this information out there right up front. I think it's important for you to know, as I said, whether you hire me or not.

But please do! I'm very dependable and easy going -- not unlike a golden retriever -- and I won't tear up the furniture.