"No, Maitre d'! I said "Well done" not "Medium rare!"

Even though I was going to school to be an LPN, I took several RN courses.  My Anatomy & Physiology was an RN course.

This class was divided into 2 parts:  A classroom and a lab portion.

I *horribly* flunked EVERY test I had in that the lab portion of that class (17 tests), and I flunked all but 2 tests in the classroom.  We had to learn the the function of EVERYTHING in the fricken human body - down to the cellular and chemical level.

We were graded on a curve. Several other students in this class kept telling me, "Stop it!  You're making the curve impossible for us to get a good grade.!"

Considering that I flunked (an F grade) 32 of 34 tests, I still managed to get out of that class with an "A".  Can you imagine the grades of the other students in that class?

The secret:  Until the last day of this class, not a single student knew that this instructor graded solely on your interest, your class participation - and your attendance.

(In the lab, 100% of our work during the entire semester was dissecting a CAT.  Yes, a 'meow!  meow!' cat!

This class (God forbid!) was "Anatomy & Physiology I", and it was a starting point for many types of degrees, including those going into medical law, PhD's, nursing, and much more.

A young lady, a pre-Med (PhD) student sat across the table from me in the lab.  On lab days, our class was 2 hours long.  Two hours of sniffing a formaldehyde-soaked cat.

The young lady that sat across from me seldom spoke.  She was very quiet, shy and demure.  She had long, flowing beautiful dark hair and she always wore tea-length skirts, heels, etc. I could tell that she 'came from money', and good money, at that.

After the first hour of every lab class, our instructor would come to each table and 'take our cat away' to his desk, grade our work (pins stuck strategically in important parts with labels stuck to each pin), and he would being our cat(s) back to our table so we could continue to work the the last hour of each class.


This was 'back in the day' when John Wood Community College was in the former and VERY brief Lincoln School, the old 'pod' building located at 48th & Maine Sts, Quincy, IL (now the home of The Crossing Church).  This original pod structure did not have windows that opened, and there was no way to circulate classroom air.

Mr. Instructor took Ms. Demure PhD Student's cat away, graded it, and brought the poor thing back to her.  He plopped the dissection pan down in front of her.  With a very uncharacteristic cackling laugh, she suddenly threw her head back, letting her long hair swirl out of her eyes.

Then she told him, with a delightful squeal, "No, Maitre d'   I said "Well done" not "Medium rare!"

I fell off my lab stool, and I honestly was in a tight ball on the floor, laughing until I thought I was going to wet myself.

The instructor suddenly turned on his heel, got the attention of the entire class, and said, "That's it! From this point on out, we will take a 10 minute break OUTSIDE so you won't loose any more brain cells to the formaldehyde fumes!"

- Michael

Daddy's Got Sole - but he's running out of heels 'n' toes!

My 'Prison Boy' sandals socks that I knit, inspired by Japanese Tabi socks.

("Prison Boy" comes from the institutional green and prison uniform orange, and from the chain link pattern that I made up that is on the body of the socks.)

COME ON, SPRING!
Even though my socks are lovely and warm, this pair and the sister pair that I made have a finite life span, and that clock is running out!
Granted, I made this particular pair of toed socks in Feb 2012.  I wear either of 2 pair *every time* I leave the house....so... these socks see a lot of wear and tear, and considering that they have seen most of 2 winter seasons, I've pretty much 'darned myself out'.
On this pair, alone, I have replaced both big toes at least once, the 'mitt' part of one sock once, and both orange heels.
Just this morning, I saw a small weak spot starting to form on the bottom of one of the big toes....again.  I can 'shore it up' to get me through, but time-wise, they weren't designed for this prolonged winter crap.
HOWEVER.... 

When I fixed the 'fast fading sole' problem by making an extra garter-stitch pad to sew on the bottoms, and I knit the new bottom pads with white twine and string held together.  Those new soles have worn for 2 winters and haven't worn out yet.

A couple weeks ago, I had to replace the heels.  Once again, I held kitchen twine together with the yarn, and those heels should last for an extended period of time.
Double-knitting the toes and the mitts would make them cumbersome, so I'll have to keep either replacing or patching them up.
COME ON, SPRING!

- Michael

Sting, Sting, Sting went the Trolley!

'Bee on an Iris'
She was still sleeping when I took this pic early in the morning at the
Missouri Botanical Gardens.

The 'Bee sting' allergy is also another chapter in that huge book.  As a child growing up in Hannibal, MO / Quincy, IL and playing outside as much as possible to avoid the people INSIDE, I can remember several individual instances where I got stung by yellow jackets, HUGE bumblebees, wasps, honey bees, etc.  Those are the stings that I can remember, and I know I was stung much more than that.
 
One time, in particular, I can remember playing in a spare storage room that was actually a part of the house that we lived in, and it was the original kitchen.  Years before we lived in this house (in Hannibal), somebody blocked off this original kitchen from the rest of the house.  It had an outside door of it's own, and a small porch.  This door was usually agape, and any and all wildlife could enter at-will.  I was playing in this room one summer day, and I accidentally disturbed a nest of HUGE bumblebees.  Three of them flew up my shorts, and all THREE of them stung me on the behind!  I also stepped on wasps - while barefoot, etc.

I never had a reaction to THOSE bee stings. (:::Fast-forward 11 years:::)

I was at my Ex's sister's house when a wasp flew by.  I raised my arms to let the thing fly by, BUT I dropped my arms to my side too quickly.  I trapped the wasp between my bare arm and my body.  The wasp stung my arm.  The ensuing welt grew much larger than normal....it was 4 - 5 inches across.  Over the next several days, the center of the sting actually turned black and developed a rotten looking pit in it's center.  My entire arm ached - throbbed, actually - for several days.  The pain was so bad that I couldn't sleep for several nights. Hindsight being 20 / 20 (and with a little age on me!), I now know that I should have gone to the ER immediately.

(:::Fast-forward 6 years:::)

I was gardening in my yard in Quincy in the summer of 1993.  I had a VERY small garden, probably 5' x 5'.  As always (and currently!), I was gardening barefooted.  I stepped on a honeybee.  My Ex's mother was in the kitchen cooking our supper.  She heard me yell, and she looked out the back door and asked me, "What happened?  Did you step on a (garter) snake?"

Honey Bee

I answered her, "No, I'm not allergic to garter snakes.  I'm allergic to bees!"

We lived 4 blocks from Blessing Hospital in Quincy, IL.  And I was a nursing (LPN) student at the time.  I knew that 'ice reduces swelling and slows down circulation.... heat increases circulation.)

Supper was on the table, and I was hungry!  I went in the house, made myself an ice pack, and put it on the floor, resting my foot on the ice pack as I ate supper.  The developing welt went from side-to-side across the entire sole of my foot, but AT THE MOMENT, it didn't spread any more than that.  I ate supper.

I knew that ultimately, I was going to have to go to the hospital to get epinephrine shots, SO, after I ate supper, I took a (HOT!) shower because I didn't want to be covered in dirt from gardening when I went to the ER.   Remember... HEAT increases circulation.  Before I could get out of the shower, and to the ER (just 4 blocks away!), from the sole of my foot to my knee, my leg swelled 2 - 3 times it's normal size.  I couldn't even get a flip-flop on my foot, and I definitely couldn't walk or stand on this numb, huge club that was dead-to-the-world.

When we got to the ER, my Ex got a wheelchair.... I jumped in, and we entered the reception area.   A personal friend that knew me well was an EMT, and worked at this ER for probably 45 years.  He looked down, and saw my elephant-like leg, and yelled, "My God, Michael!  What did you do?"
My answer:  "I got stung by a bee, and I think I waited too long!"  His yelling, "I need a room open NOW!" got us nowhere, so they brought a gurney out of a storage room, and put me on it, and started my treatment in the hallway in front of the nurse's station.

I got an extended release shot of epinephrine in one arm, and an immediate-acting shot of epinephrine in the other arm.

I had to sit in the ER for several hours under observation.  My friend, the EMT, would pass by my gurney every half-hour or so, and ask me, "How do you feel, Michael?"  I answered him, "If I could get off this damned gurney, and drag this heavy, dead club along, I know I could run laps around this hospital!"  (...a result of all that epinephrine in the blood.)

Ultimately, they sent me home after the emergency was averted.  As I was waiting by the door of the hospital in the wheelchair, waiting for my EX to drive up to pick me up, my friend / EMT bent down and whispered in my ear, "Michael, the next time, don't stop for supper - get your stubborn ass to the hospital!"

It took at least a day and a half for the swelling to go down in my foot / leg.


(:::Fast-forward 19 years:::)

I was tending to the potted plants that were spending their summers outdoors this past summer - in 2012.  I didn't know that a nest of yellow jackets made their home in an abandoned chipmunk burrow beside one of my pineapple plants.  I didn't even see it coming.  These little bastards didn't like me invading their perceived space, and one particularly worked-up defender stung me on the calf.  If you have ever been stung by a yellow jacket, you will know that the sting can effect the nerves in the entire leg / arm, etc, sending shocks that are not unlike painful electrical shocks up and down that appendage.

Through the pain, I took several deep breaths.  We had just got home from shopping, and Mark was just a few feet away from me, unpacking the car. I calmly told him, "I've just been stung.  Prepare yourself to take me to the ER at St. Joseph's Hospital (or Barnes Hospital - whichever he thinks that we can get to the fastest!)

At the time, I didn't own an EpiPen.  I now own 2, one stays in my home, and the other is in a bag that I take with me everywhere.

A typical EpiPen

HOWEVER....other than itching for several days, I had no systemic reaction to this sting, whatsoever.

The 19 years that passed between stings was enough time for my immune system to 'forget' it's allergy to bee stings.

The clincher:  If I get stung AGAIN within the next 20 years, and I don't have an EpiPen within my reach, it could result in anaphylactic shock.

The moral of this story:
Every-other sting will produce only a local, normal effect, and every-other sting can most likely kill me if I don't have an EpiPen on me.

That could be bad news for a person that loves the outdoors, and loves gardening.

I visit the Missouri Botanical Gardens at least twice a week - sometimes more - from early spring through early summer.  I cut my visits down to once weekly during the remaining summer and fall seasons.  ANYBODY that is even relatively observant and goes to the Gardens will affirm that the place is, rightfully so, swarming with pollinators - including their own 2 maintained hives of honeybees.

An outsider would think that I should bee terrified of 'flying things that sting'.  Not so.  If I am driving my truck, and a bee flies in, I simply roll down both windows, and let him find his way out.    When many species of trees go into full bloom, they are absolutely swarming with happy bees.
I will stand directly under one of these swarming trees, watching these natural pollinators do the work for which they were designed to do, and that that they do best.

I'm not afraid of bees.  I'm not afraid of wasps.  I know the behaviors of those insects, and under normal circumstances, they do not want to waste time or precious energy on humans.

Long live the bees.  Long live the wasps.  And I'm keeping my EpiPen handy!

- Michael          

"Nice Things:

Recent comment on FaceBook: 

"When you work 2 jobs AND go to school you deserve to reward yourself with nice things, because you have EARNED them, no-one can take that from you!!!"
One response: 
" I wish I had that mentality. Nice things tend to make me feel guilty."

The Great George Carlin

MY reaction:

George Carlin said:
"Surround yourself with what you love , whether it’s family, pets, keepsakes, music, plants, hobbies, whatever. Your home is your refuge."

In the immortal words of drag star and world supermodel RuPaul, "Gurl, you don't have to tell me twice!"

I shared this philosophy decades ago, but there ain't nothin' like having the power of one of my favorite people - George Carlin - blowing a hurricane-force wind under my feeble, struggling wings!

(Note:  Just out of curiosity, I just counted the things that George said we should surround ourselves with, and I have 6 of the 7.  Not a bad average, if I do say so myself!)

Good God, I'm glad that I don't have that complex! (Nice things making me feel guilty.) If I did, I would need the entire range of resources from Dr. Freud, Dr. Phil, Oprah Winfrey and Jesus to cure me, because I do, indeed, like "nice things!"

Growing up, the people that share my gene pool tried to tell me that I wasn't worthy of nice things, I had no talent or skills, nor did they instill the value of taking care of one's appearance or possessions.

(Hindsight being 20 / 20, and having a few decades of age on me, I now realize that jealousy and laziness on their part is, indeed, more insidious than any cancer, especially considering the fact that they are jealous of a disabled person. The laziness is another show, entirely.)

I told them to rot in the self-inflicted Hell that they are currently STILL rotting in, and I plodded on, in a *forward* direction.

1) Even though I definitely do not live in a 'Ladue house', I have a Ladue address. I live 8 miles from St. Louis' city center, in the suburb of Ladue, which is the wealthiest zip code per capita in the state of Missouri.

2) I *neva, eva* leave the house looking less than I do in my profile pic.

I don't care about religion or personal beliefs. Nobody has ever come back to tell you 'what it's like on the other side.' This life ain't no dress rehearsal, baby. Live it like it is your last - because it probably is. I have picture proof (and not of myself!) of the fact that "regret" is, indeed, a bitter pill to swallow.

Since we are on the subject of final farwells, this, my friends, is the result of 'liking nice things':

This is the grave of Rudolf Nureyev, a legendary ballet star.  He was an avid collector of beautiful carpets and antique textiles.  His grave features a tomb draped in a mosaic of an oriental carpet.  This 'carpet' is actually an intricate tile-work mosaic, in phenomenally matching colors to a faded 'Oriental' rug.  This, my friends - is HOW YOU DO IT!
 

For other close-up photos of this fantastic monument, click here:
http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=pv&GRid=4047&PIpi=130208

(Now the question picques my interest:  I wonder which carpet pattern the craftsmen / artists used for this mosiac tile masterpiece?)
- Michael

Getting A Ticket to the Freak Show

Escaped Family, Been there, done that!

I love George Carlin.  I second his motion, and I will add this amendment:

My general philosophy is this:

Since America - and most Americans - are from a HUGE melting pot of cultures, then why not take advantage of that face, and enjoy as many other cultures as it is humanly possible to explore?

IN NO WAY would I want, just as one quick example, an Asian Indian (from India) to muddle, mix or or otherwise generalize their customs or culture, including art, clothing, food, religion, etc with any other culture. Anybody that has ever experienced Hindu (or other Indian) culture with an open mind would be the first to admit that any 'watering down' or mixing this culture would be a great loss to this world. The beauty lies in a purity that took place literally thousands of years before the first European ever set foot on the land that would later become The United States of American.

The same can be said for many other world cultures, including but definitely not limited to: Chinese, Japanese, Mongolian, Moroccan, etc.... etc... etc...

So..... Since we are all 'mutts', then take advantage of that 'muttness' by sampling the entire world. If somebody (Hindu, just as one example!) is bound to their culture by ancient tradition and ties, and they will never even temporarily break those binds to sample the rest of the world, then it would be in our best interest to NOT let their sacrifice be in vain.

Now - go forth and SAMPLE! (And much in the same manner as visiting a National Park, etc, "Take only memories... and leave only footprints."

Well.... let me amend that rule: "Take only genuine hand-made souvenirs that were made by natives of that land that were made possibly for sale but NOT for the tourist trade."

(People that buy souvenirs in Paris, for example, that were "Made in China" or people that are visiting Beijing that buy souvenirs that were "Made in the USA" should burst into flames!)

- Michael

"Michael, you MIGHT want to Come here to me! This is Conrad. I'm just a bird!"

"Michael, you MIGHT want to Come here to me!  This is Conrad.  I'm just a bird!"

Every morning of my long-suffering life, Conrad, my 18 yr. old African Grey parrot yells:

"Michael, Come here to me!" repeatedly and until I feed him, and preferably and specifically, when I feed him scrambled eggs.

This morning, I gave Conrad fresh fruits, including strawberries, blueberries, banana and cereal.  He looked at it with the most disgusted look that a parrot can muster, and wouldn't touch his breakfast.

The minute I walked out of the living room, I heard food hitting the floor.... the LIVING ROOM floor, not the floor of his cage. He was hurling the offending food out of his cage and onto the floor.

I immediately went back to his cage, picked up the food off the living room floor, and put it on a saucer on the floor of his cage. (Once the food is THAT low, he won't throw it out of his cage.)

He looked at Denver, our 6 yr. old Black Lab / Sher Pei, who was minding his own business and happily eating his breakfast, and said,
"Denver, you're just a whore!  
Conrad does change his begging routine up a bit.

This morning, I heard  "Michael, you MIGHT want to Come here to me!  This is Conrad.  I'm just a bird!" until I got our 3 dogs fed (2 require specially prepared food with medication), and got more of my pressing morning routine out of way before turning my attention to him.

I can bear witness to the fact that Conrad is about two steps from being cut back to a specially prepared food that I make him until he gets over his latest "I will eat ONLY scrambled eggs and peanuts"  fit.

I know there are day care centers for children....  There are day care centers for handicapped folk, and there are day care centers for the elderly.  I know that in St. Louis, I can board his bird ass while on vacation, if necessary, but why isn't there a bird day care?

Occasionally, I would like a break from this feathered Napoleon!
(Conrad's last name really is Bonaparte - and for good reason!  :)

- Michael 

"I need the beans! Pass me the Musical Beans!"

When one goes shopping for perfume or cologne, and the shopper has sampled 'one too many fragrances", to reset the snoot,  s/he sniffs coffee beans before continuing to sample more fragrance options. 

For several years, I have used Patsy Cline's "Walkin' After Midnight" as my "musical beans".
  
As is common for most musicians who have memorized sheet music, or has played a song by ear many, MANY times, we memorize 'chunks' of music, rather than specific and individual notes.

If you stop a musician in the middle of such a 'chunk', and ask him the question "What notes are you playing?", or "What chord is that?", there is a really good chance that he won't be able to give you a correct answer without first involving an overload of thought and concentration, and most likely, he will have to go back and play through that section of the music a few times while watching his hands before he can give you a correct answer.  

With the "chunking" process in mind, if I play, say, a Scott Joplin rag that I have had mostly memorized for several years, and I trip over a section, I'll go back and play it again.  There is a really good chance that during the second - or third - or fourth! pass, I'll trip in the same spot.  I will fumble the exact same spot in the music.
You must understand:

The day before I have this 'tripping session', I most likely played through the 'sticky spot' in the same music without incident.   The FOLLOWING day, I will most likely play the same piece - without additional effort.

The explanation is relatively simple, in the fact that the 'bridge' in this particular spot in my memory needs a bit of repair and maintenance. 

Having never had music lessons, I had to find a solution for this problem:
"PASS THE MUSICAL BEANS"

I will often yell out to Mark while I am practicing piano, "I need the beans! Pass me the Musical Beans!", then I will play a totally unrelated song - usually a couple minutes of "Walkin' After Midnight" in a juiced-up, improvisational boogie version that I devised myself... THEN.... I will go back to the particular section of the current Scott Joplin (or other) song that is giving me problems.  

With a near 100 % success rate, after I have 'sniffed my musical beans!', I will breeze right through the troublesome section of the current song that I am working on.    If I'm still having problems - which is rare, at this point - I will 'take another whiff of the musical beans', which usually solves the problem.Kinda like this.... (This me me playing my most common 'Musical Beans'...with very short facial hair!):

Thank you, Patsy Cline, Alan Block and Donn Hecht (the writers!) for my "musical beans!"

- Michael