Is the average American sitting in their high chair, watching mainstream news outlets and Facebook, while waiting for the pablum to be delivered? It would seem so, after seeing all the Russia / hacking / DNC / stolen election news lately. Getting lost in all of that are the facts, however inconvenient they might be. So here’s a few things I think should be mentioned:
Hilary lost the election. Period. Why? Because not enough people voted for her. Why is that? Maybe because she did not go out seeking all voters (no visits to Wisconsin, among other places). Maybe people didn’t approve of her mishandling government documents and wiping servers, then getting a “Get Out of Jail Free” card from a friendly FBI head. Maybe they didn’t like her selling State Department access and favors in return for donations to the Clinton Foundation. Maybe they didn’t like how she, the DNC, and certain media outlets schemed to take down Bernie Sanders and give her unfair edges in the debates. There were an awful lot of negatives. It was ironic that after all the Clinton push in the debates to get Trump to promise to abide by the election results, it was Clinton that showed signs of not abiding.
Some have claimed the US wasn’t ready for a woman President. Nonsense. The US wasn’t ready for a CORRUPT woman President. Add in a vice president candidate that generated all the inspiration of library paste, and you have a ticket that has no appeal to many Americans. There were no younger candidates, no non-white candidates, no non-corporate candidates, no new faces (except for Donald). “Why vote?” is a question many Americans asked themselves, and stayed home that Tuesday.
This whole business of Russia being the evil global force out to destroy the world is a little ridiculous. In the debates, Hilary mentioned that “17 US intelligence agencies” had agreed that Russia had hacked the DNC. Yet no such decree was ever issued. The problem is that a soundbyte is issued, and major media outlets are either lazy or have agendas, and repeat the soundbyte until be becomes a “fact”.
Then on November 24, the Washington Post had an article decrying “fake news” and listing some 200 fake news sites that were supposedly controlled by Russia. This was immediately spread by other mainstream outlets, and became a rallying cry in some quarters. The only problem? Only a handful of those sites were fake news outlets, and even less were shown to be controlled by Russia. The rest were real websites run by real people, delivering real information. People such as David Stockman, the budget director in the Reagan years. People such as the veterans of the USS Liberty. People such as Ron Paul. This smacks of McCarthyism, where false accusations were trumpeted at truth. Take a look at the PropOrNot group that provided the information for the article. Shadowy members, recently formed. Smells a little fishy to me.
Then just this week, another claim that the Russians had hacked a Massachusetts utility. Started in the Washington Post, it was another baseless claim. So this weekend, we kick out some Russians, to teach them a lesson.
What is left? A public whose attention is conveniently diverted from Hilary’s misdeeds and the Democratic establishment’s misjudgements. Interesting how that worked out, isn’t it?
I am providing some links below to various sites that have more information. Some of the ones on hacking are done by individuals with backgrounds in that area and computers, etc. Well worth reading.
There are more sites and articles on the internet as well, I just ran out of time.
In closing, I want to also mention that I did NOT vote for Trump and am not a certified TIN HAT wearer. Just in case you were wondering. And that concludes my political post for the day.
Driving home from my mom’s last night, with Christmas almost over, it seemed like just another night. Dinner had just been me and her at the kitchen table, due to various family member illnesses and circumstances. As I drove through the neighborhoods, I was struck by how few Christmas lights there were on the houses. Other than the occasional lit up house, my guess is that fewer than 5% were adorned with lights, and maybe only a few of those were completely lit up. No Christmas feel at all.
It was a huge contrast to what I saw when I was a kid. Back then, late 60’s early 70’s, it seemed like EVERYONE had lights. Driving around was like driving through Disney’s Electric parade. Tons of color, some really fantastic displays. A visual all-you-can-eat buffet. Every couple of blocks was a “Whoa, look at that!” Kid nirvana.
It seemed that all started to change when the energy crisis hit. Suddenly Christmas lights were looked down upon as wasteful, as well as being expensive, and gradually over the years there were fewer and fewer displays. No doubt this brought happiness to many a dad (and some moms) who no longer had to do yearly battle with the spaghetti mess of light strings pulled out of storage boxes, unstable ladders, burned out bulbs, and the pitiful look of their display compared to the neighbor down the street.
So while time marches on, it does so in the darkness this night……
It’s all around me, broken only by the sound of the tapping on the keyboard as I write this. Of course, it helps if you’re doing that writing at four in the morning…….. 🙂 As I’ve grown older, my hours have moved solidly into the “early to bed, early to rise” range. One advantage is that you gain some quiet time if you are up before anyone else. No TV, no phone calls, no errands to run or household chores to do. Just a peaceful, relaxed atmosphere.
If I have paperwork from the office to do, especially if it’s complicated, I try and save it for that time. It’s amazing how efficient and clear thinking you can be with no distractions. Solutions that I have struggled to find sometimes pop in to my head unannounced, like a welcome visit from a friend. Other times, when I’m lucky, it’s time for quiet contemplation. Time to sort out thoughts and emotions, make decisions, and change directions.
Some might say it’s similar to when they sit down and reflect over a morning cup of coffee. Although I can picture this, it still seems a little strange from a non coffee drinker’s perspective. Ingesting caffeine as you sit and relax sounds like a culinary oxymoron to me. I prefer to have a slower awakening, although the long lines at the coffeehouses put me in the minority.
I was reminded of this idea of “quiet” this past week as I listened to NPR (National Public Radio, for those that may not have heard it before). There was a local program on that dealt with police, in the wake of everything that has gone on lately. The host stated that both the police officers association and the police department had turned down an opportunity to be part of the program, so he encouraged any law enforcement personnel to call in (even anonymously if they wished). Everything was low key, reasonable, and somewhat polite.
It was a drastic difference from what is on commercial talk radio, where shouting seems to be the order of the day, and the hosts “talk” to people by cutting off discussions and channeling everything into a repetitive delivery of the opinion of the host. Dialog becomes diatribe. No room for meaningful discussion, no room for an exchange of ideas, and no quiet time for people to perhaps work toward solutions. Just as I can’t solve problems with a ton of distractions and pressure, we as a society can’t solve problems with a ton of noise and yelling in the air. No solutions mean more of the same, and often a hardening of the positions on each side. Wash, rinse, and repeat.
The commercial news, often starved for budgets or limited by corporate policy, has devolved into an attention seeking entity fighting for eyeballs and ears in a noisy world. Evening TV news has a heavy slate of police and fire related stories, accompanied by a surface-deep rendering of the news of the day. Very little that actually provides analysis and understanding, or gives readers and viewers an awareness of the background on events. There’s an old saying in reporting,that you have to tell people the five W’s in your story – Who, What, Where, When, and Why. The general media seems to have left the Why sitting by the wayside, abandoned. While some books and magazines will provide more in depth answers, it’s tougher to find that in the electronic arena (TV, radio, and internet).
With a little more discussion and listening, and a little less talking and noise, we might actually end up with a little more quiet time and thoughtful solutions. Just the thing to go with your morning cappuccino expresso latte…. 🙂
Reading a recent post by Sala, on her grandmother and food, got me thinking about pancakes. Like most boys, my brother and I weren’t really that interested in cooking. We could do cereal in the morning, sandwich at noon, but anything else was strictly in the “where’s Mom? I’m hungry” category. Except for pancakes, an occasional weekend treat at our home. Maybe because it involved a hot griddle, maybe because we’d get to help my Dad cook them, maybe because we’d been up since 6am watching cartoons on a Saturday morning and couldn’t understand why the parental units didn’t jump up out of bed at 7am to get breakfast going (Geez, the nerve of those people!).
In any case, we’d jump to help with the preparation. Flour was first up. That had to be sifted through a hand sifter that had a handle you squeezed to rotate blades inside. There were screens inside the sifter, to not only sift the flour but also probably to protect the fingers of curious kids like us. The flour was sifted onto wax paper to collect it, as well as on to other parts of the counter, the floor, and the “chefs”. Looked like a White Christmas sometimes in that kitchen. Then it went into the mixing bowl with the other ingredients, to be mixed with a hand held electric mixer. Since this was a power tool, and we were guys, we did our duty and tried out all speeds and angles. The mixer would occasionally become our “six shooter” that we lifted out of the mix while it was running, and pointed toward our partner in crime in a classic high noon shoot out. Mom usually failed to realize the beauty of our cinematic re-enactments, and we’d soon hear cries of “what are you doing?” and “put that back in the bowl!” ringing out. Having her counters and cabinets decorated by flying dough was an added benefit that she didn’t seem to appreciate either. Go figure…..
Once the prep work was done, the artistry began. Ladling the batter on the grill, we’d vary from big circle to small, long finger to attempted shapes and letters. Any mistakes could be eaten away, and we never seemed to have a shortage of those. When we were full, two hours and 437 pancakes later, we look down at the concrete ball that was now inside our stomach and think, “You know, I think I’ll just sit here at the kitchen table another hour or two until I regain consciousness.”
On some weekends, we’d be at my grandparents’ house (Mom’s side) for breakfast the following day. Accompanied at times by the leftover batter from the pancakes the day before. For THAT, my friends, signified another important event. Second Day pankcakes.
My grandfather was a simple cook, in a way. Having lived through the Depression, he could throw a couple of things in a pan, add some seasoning, and come out with something that was simple yet tasty. Soups or sausages or eggs or beans. Didn’t matter, everything was good. It was relaxing just sitting in the kitchen watching him work, and then eating the result.
For pancakes, he would take our batter, and make pancakes on his own grill. My brother and I kept up a constant commute between the griddle and the kitchen table, waiting for them to cook, and trying not to drool on the floor. He was slow and methodical, or maybe just methodical as I’m sure we were wanting those pancakes done in 15 to 20 seconds. I can’t remember if he ever added anything to the batter, but I still remember the taste of those pancakes to this day. They never tasted like the ones we made at home……Never. They were always better. Whether other pancakes were eaten at restaurants, camping trips, or friends’ houses, they never came close to my grandfather’s. While he’s long gone, those pancakes and memories will occasionally be served up in a Sunday morning breakfast of the mind.
Across America, and perhaps a few other parts of the world, thousands and thousands of families are gathering today to pay homage to the shining light they grew up around. One that always provided comfort and advice, taught them about the world, sent them love and laughter, heartbreak and tears.
Uh…….no, it’s not the family TV……….now get away from that thing and put down the remote!
As drivers everywhere try to remember just exactly where she lives nowadays, after fighting through the line at the flower stand, they look at their watch and wonder how long this is going to take. Then they remember…….they forgot the card!…….Damn,…..back to the store…….
Next, it’s time to bundle dear old Mom up into the car and take her to a overpriced, not so good Mother’s Day Lunch or Dinner, at a jammed restaurant full of other people with THEIR mothers.
As the offspring disgorge their gifts, Mom smiles and says thank you.
Underneath, she’s gritting her teeth. You know what she’s really thinking?
“I want my 20 something vagina back, along with a Chippendale with a hard-on the size of Manhattan.
“I can’t believe I gave birth this person. Is it too late to send them back?”
“I wonder if I can try and trade with one of these other families?”
“Did I remember the teeny bottle of brandy in my purse?”
“Uh, oh, is that spilled water or are my Depends leaking?”
“Wonder when I should tell them I blew their inheritance in Vegas?”
“I should have forgotten about having kids and just had a few more dogs.”
“At least if I have to visit them I can steal some extra Xanax from their medicine cabinet.”
“To hell with flowers, I need a good set of earplugs for this bunch.”
If I think back on dear old Mom, one incident stands out. My sister was fully into her headstrong teenager years, and in a full blown argument with Mom. At one point, dear sweet Mom got so mad she picked up a pound of hamburger and threw it at my sister. Now, being the athlete that she was, her arm sent that hamburger about two feet from her before skipping across the kitchen counter toward Sis. My brother and I, usually the troublemakers, watched in amazement. “Wow, Mom’s never done THAT before!” Years later, none of us remember what the argument was about, but all of us remember that hamburger skipping across the counter. Forever embedded in the family lore.
She was also quite Don Quixote-like in her eternal optimism that our family could have a “nice, quiet, peaceful family dinner”. With two teenage boys at the table……..oh yes, a monumental challenge. For us, at times, it was not dinner, but instead an opportunity to work on our class clown routines. My Dad was a relatively easy mark, as he had a good sense of humor and could easily start laughing. My Mom,…….well, that was a tougher nut to crack. First there was usually a polite plea from her to “settle down and let’s have a nice dinner”.
Now, for us, that was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Game On! The next level was to force her up to a Level 2 response, which consisted of her trying to keep a straight face and remain a stern disciplinarian. As the seconds went by, you could see her straining as you increased your rapid fire delivery of jokes and remarks. Sometimes you went down in a ball of flame, but other times you saw the veneer cracking and falling away, then the smile and laugh, and you zoomed off into the stratosphere, another notch on your wings.
One other thing I remember from those high school years is the time I was involved in a school fundraiser. There were about 30 kids in the room, kicking ideas about what food to offer at a benefit dinner. Spaghetti came up at one point, and the amazing thing was that almost every single kid in that room said something to the effect of “My mom makes the BEST spaghetti”. Almost EVERY kid. I still feel that response is maybe less indicative of how well the moms cooked, and more indicative of the love that was served along with that spaghetti over the years.
So Mom, Happy Mother’s Day, and you too, make the BEST spaghetti!
A few weeks ago, my wife and I had the chance to fly through Toronto on vacation, and all I can say is “What’s up with those Canadians?” Every time we stopped, looking up and around at signs or deciding what direction to take, up popped a Canadian telling us, “Follow me”, and leading us onward. They were popping up like gophers, every couple of minutes, complete with wide smiles and friendly voices. Walking out of one area, we found one of those terminal golf cart limos stopped directly in our path. Not to fetch us, mind you, but the driver stopped along her way just in case someone (like us) needed a lift to where she was going next.
It makes me think that if Canada were ever invaded, the intruders would be met at the shore or border, with a pot of hot tea and some scones and cookies, along with maps, blankets, and a chorus of voices asking “is there anything else we can do for you?” This stands in stark contrast to some other areas of the world, where the natives treat those that need some help as either lunatics, idiots, or cockroaches that have crawled out into the light.
The downside of this vacation was air travel, and lots of it. Taking an hour or two hour flight is pretty fun, sometimes even exciting. Taking a 5 to 10 hour flight is quite a different story. Walking off the plane, you pass row after row of empty cups, food wrappers, bottles, newspapers, pillows and blankets, all strewn about. It looks like you’re passing through a war zone. And in a sense you are.
It starts early, with the enemy booking those precious aisle and window seats. The next step is boarding, where various combatants attempt to stuff suitcases the size of Cadillacs into the overhead bins, delaying your entry and in some cases risking damage to your carry on luggage. Once in the air, the enemy will slowly lower their seatback into your territory. Do not let this transgression go unchallenged. Either start pushing the touchscreen in their seatback repeatedly, or lean close to them and say “Where the hell are those air sick bags? I think I might have to throw up”. Victory will see that seatback raised soon after.
You will also have to fight off so called allies, that will smile and sit next to you, but before you know it they are staking claim to the armrest between you. Judas is alive and well and sitting in 22B.
After a few hours, your legs and butt will start to revolt. To stop the pain, you try and shift in your seat, move your legs, stretch…….all to no avail. Waterboarding begins to look like a more comfortable alternative. So you decide to head back to the restroom. Unless you’re lucky enough to be on an aisle, you need to begin by tapping your neighbors on the shoulder, and pointing a finger indicating you need to leave the area. Be sure to avoid using the middle finger, however tempting that may be, as it tends to result in black eyes and spilled drinks. Upon receiving your signal, your neighbor begins the long process of moving out of the way. Drinks put down, earphones removed, seat belt unfastened, book tucked away or video put on pause, blanked removed, pillow placed on seat……it may take 5 or 10 minutes for the process to be completed.
You then proceed to the restroom, hoping to find some refuge, but instead you find remnants of the monkey cage at the zoo. Scraps of toilet paper, fluid on the seat, and maybe a momento in the bowl. Reality crashes down hard. So you clean up a little and do your business. Flush and get up to wash. Glancing down, you see toilet papaper stuck in the bowl. So you flush a second time, and see the tissue stay exactly where it was. Somewhere down on earth, you know the toilet bowl designers are laughing their heads off at your plight. Fighting the temptation to reach down and move it, you wash up and exit. Only to have the cute girl in 17C be standing in line next, entering as you leave. And you know her first thought is, “What kind of pig was in here?”. You find yourself wondering if those emergency exits work in mid air……..
On the plus side, inflight movies are a lot better now, with more choices and individual screens. Except when they’re interrupted by announcements by the crew. About seat belts. About flight time. About food service. About drink service. About duty free shopping. About the weather. About the crew. In English. Maybe in French. Maybe Spanish, Russian, German, Portuges, Italian, Chinese, Japanese, and 10 or 20 other languages. Accompanied by the drumbeat of passengers beating their heads against their screens in frustration.
Upon reaching your destination, you walk off the plane and head toward the local gambling hall, otherwise known as baggage claim. Behind the scenes, baggage handlers are shooting a game of craps. “Snake eyes,….damn….okay, that blue bag gets sent out to Honolulu, and I’ll take your New York bag for the next Cleveland flight…….Let’s roll again…..Hey, send some of yesterday’s flight bags up there so the people have something to look at while we figure out where their bags are.”
She came up slowly, like a thief in the night. A hint of a sore throat and fatigue. Just enough to start the alarm bells ringing in the back of my head (and no, there was no echo, contrary to what my wife may have told you). Enough time to make some calls and clear my schedule a bit, for this vixen could not be ignored. As she later settled in, the fun began. Her entertainment with the man in the house consisted of giving him alternating hot flashes and occasional cold sweats. Apparent payback for some comment I undoubtedly made in the past about Mrs. Dolphin’s “change of seasons”. This was followed by demonstrations about how quickly the nose can alternate between its rendition of “A River Runs Through It”, and it’s impersonation of the Hoover Dam.
As the Kleenex flew through the air, and my nose began its audition for the part of Rudolph in the nex Christmas play, I kept thinking there must be a better way. If Instacart can do your shopping for you, and TaskRabbit can run errands for you, why isn’t there something for sickness?…….Wait no more!
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In her kind benevolence, or perhaps just in a confused drunken stupor, J Awkward Prufrock has nominated me for a Liebster award. If you have ever wondered why “awkward”, “dating”, and “relationships” are often found inhabiting the same sentence in life, you’ll want to grab some popcorn, grab a seat, and check out her blog:
Now, according to internet lore, the Liebster originated in Germany, and is an award given by bloggers to other bloggers. Liebster supposedly means “dearest, kindest, nicest, lovely, pleasant, valued, cute, etc etc etc”. Really?
Of course not! If you look in the official Klaus Frankfurter Teutonic German Dictionary, you’ll find that Liebster means Hampster. Yes, hampster. Say it out loud. Liebster, hampster, liebster, hampster, liebster, hampster. See the similarity yet? Think about it. Are you always running on a wheel, never getting anywhere? Of course you are! Would a German use the words “dearest, kindest, lovely, cute”? Of course not. What words would they use?
”Dr. Schneider, I vant to conduct an experiment on hampsters who blog.”
“But Fraulein Muller, vee do not have any hampsters who blog”
“I know Herr Schneider, but vee could use Americans instead. They obediently stare at their device screens, whether at home, work, on the bus, or even walking down the street. Just like those hampsters and the sugar water experiment we did last year.”
“Ah, das is ein excellent idea, Fraulein. We shall call it….. the Liebster Experiment. They will be too lazy to check the name, and it sounds cute to the American ear. If we could only include a picture of a kitten or puppy in the logo, ve vould be in total command. But how will we motivate these bloggers? Ve cannot just send out cheese to every participant.”
“Don’t worry, Herr Schneider, they respond well to things called “followers”, and especially to something called “Likes”. And the NSA and Google are offering huge discounts on monitoring users this month.”…………….
So on to our experiment….. While she did provide a list of questions for nominees to answer, Ms. Prufrock apparently had me in mind with her question #7:
“Describe your writing in three words”. I answered with the first three that came to mind….
not very good……..
Uh, ….hmmm….awkward pause here. Maybe I should move on to my list of questions:
1) Are there any commas or exclamation marks in the Periodic Table? Or just periods?
2) Why is there so much blue sky and so little blue food?
3) How many writers do you know with logorrhea?
5) Please explain why you have not answered question 4.
6) If question 1 was on a westbound train going 50 MPH from Chicago, and question 3 was on a train going 60 MPH north from Atlanta, what topping would be put on an ice cream cone made at 2pm in New York’s Central Park?
7) If you are a writer, please explain in 18 words or less how the Jurassic Period can explain the Roaring 20’s, and how Karl Marx is responsible for Global Warming. Include footnotes.
8) Why have you still not answered question 4?
9) If red wine goes with beef, and white wine goes with fish, what beverage goes with Ben & Jerry’s?
10) Should mastication be allowed in public?
Now,dear readers,…….yes, I’m talking to both of you. Pay attention. The official Liebster rules are:
- Link back to the person who nominated you.
- Answer the questions given to you by the nominator.
- Nominate up to 11 other bloggers with less than 200 followers.
- Create 11 questions for the nominees.
- Notify all nominees via social media/blogs.
Or, just lock the doors, draw the blinds, pull out the 12 gauge, and administer frontier justice to the the next award that comes your way. I’m not big on the 11 questions, so skip that if you wish. I think in all seriousness, the nice thing is to promote some of the blogs on WordPress that don’t get so much attention, yet are still worthwhile. Here’s a couple for you to check out, all worthwhile with under 100 followers. I will probably do another post in the future with additional ones, since I don’t want to overload people all at once.
Writings of an engaged, loving, supportive dad, as he journeys through fatherhood.
I stumbled onto her blog after the Baltimore riots, and stayed. Well written, well worth reading.
If you need a laugh about getting older, this might be it. Has me laughing out loud at times.
Happiness is pulling out the iPad, settling down on the couch, and getting lost in one of her essays.
Part history, part crusading social justice warrior. I really enjoy reading her well researched posts.
Now, Fraulein Muller, ……when do I get my piece of cheese?…….
It dawned upon me slowly, like the instant you realize something is different about your wife, but you don’t know exactly what. So you ask her, and hear “You’re just noticing now? I changed my hairstyle 8 months ago?” (Yes…that’s me….guilty as charged). Anyway, I finally realized that the spot on my forehead never really healed. I thought it was just a case of occasionally hitting it on something, and by chance hitting the same spot. You know how you get busy and can’t remember things? I’d think to myself, “Did I hit it again? Or did I hit it 2 weeks ago? Or 2 months ago?” Who knew? So then, in keeping with the glacial pace of all men (page 37 of the man code), I decided I’d go see a doctor.
Looking for a dermotologist reminded me a little bit of looking through the personal ads, trying to figure out the person:
“Are they brusque and short with patients, or do they listen and seem to care?” (I’m skating on a thin line here. Too much caring, listening, hugs, and talk of feelings could get my man membership might be revoked….)
“How is the receptionist? Does the billing dept curse patients who owe money and show up at their door wielding baseball bats? Does the staff laugh behind our backs and post pictures of botched surgeries to Facebook?”
Education and Skill:
“Did they graduate from medical school? Do patients rave about the end result?” Or is there only a mention of how the doc started out at eight years old carving the family turkey, and later deciding to get into dermatology and surgery, with a new nickname of “Scarface”?
Are they fresh out of school, full of excitement and enthusiasm, ready to practice……..on YOU!
Or are they about ready to retire, with shaky hands ready to carve zig zags on your face?
I ended up, like a few other men in history, with my mom playing matchmaker, sending me to her dermatologist. So I went. The first visit was to take a biopsy. Walking into the office, the first thing I saw was the huge wall poster declaring “Certified by Benihana!” It had a picture of the smiling doc, yielding a cleaver the size of Nebraska. It was about an hour later that they finally dragged me out of the closet of the dentist’s office down the hall. They claimed I was screaming and leaving claw marks on the rug, but that’s probably just heresay.
Once the results came back positive for skin cancer (slow moving, limited, so hold off on the condolence cards), it was back for the excavation. I never knew dermatologists were such big fans of Black & Decker. As she dug away, she kept smiling and saying, “It’s just like the coal strip mining we used to do in West Virginia!” Stopping just short of providing me with a full frontal lobotomy, she then cauterized the wound. This is when the assistant puts a vacuum hose next to your scalp, as you notice the faint smell of something burning……YOU!!!!!
Once the fire department had finished hosing me down, she followed with some stitching (now I know why docs never buy new socks), and finally a pressure bandage. For those of you who don’t know what a pressure bandage is, it’s a very, very thick bandage that they tape onto your forehead. Sticking a good 2” up, you officially now look like a Unicorn. Put some white flourescent paint on it, and you have a headlamp. Someone asked if I had a transplant done and if now I was going to be an official dickhead. I felt a little bit like Elephant Man, to tell you the truth.
After 32 hours, it was time for the bandage change. Collecting the official list of materials (Gauze, neosporin, non stick pads, tape, Q tips, hydrogen peroxide, whisky, hammer, chainsaw, the full collection of Encyclopedia Britannica, and a roast beef sandwich), I was ready to begin. You first peel off the bandage and tape, doing the man version of a Brazilian wax. Who knew men could scream in such a high pitch? This is followed by the view of your forehead, when you realize that you are absolutely ready for a Frankenstein Halloween costume. So you clean the wound with peroxide, and your pride with the whiskey. Then some more peroxide on the wound, and some more whisky in you. I still don’t understand it, but when the wife came home an hour later, she failed to see the humor in me wallpapering the bathroom with gauze, and playing army with a horde of Qtips glued to the floor…..