My nasal passages have been conspiring against me for years. What they have against me, I do not know. There must have been some offensive action I committed in my late 20s that turned my sinuses against me. Now, the slightest turn in the weather weighs on my head like a 30 pound dumbbell. My passages so clogged and congested that I’m left a dizzy mess.
This week, what started as my allergies just tickling the back of my throat evolved into a nasty head and chest cold. Did not take the Alleve D in time. Alleve D is a miracle drug that halts the congestion at the first sign, but you have to take it right away. (And another thing – those damn meth heads have made buying decongestants such a task. What up with that?) I started the lovely Alleve D too late, and my sinuses got me.
Work was a fog. Being the super important corporate kingpin I am – I could not take a day off. I could leave early. Damn early. Congestion just made my head so heavy thinking was impossible. When the cough in my chest began to disrupt critical business decisions, I knew it was time to shut my computer and go home.
This was by no means a serious sinus attack…I’ve been clobbered by congestion. Pain so great and head so stuffed I’m dizzy and nauseous. So bad once that I ended up in the emergency room for excessive – hate to be gross – vomiting. The slightest movement would push my balance off course and head me running to the latrine. Then very act of running to the bathroom would set off another vomitous explosion. It sucked.
Luckily, I moved into an apartment with wood floors – opposed to wall-to-wall carpeting that harbored those nasty allergens that set my sinuses off. Then there was the procedure – it involved a long needle, cortisone and my nose. It was gross, painful and it worked. Since then, my sinuses have acted up but have not knocked me out.
So this week I have to contend with feeling kind of eh, a distant notion that something just ain’t right. My chest is phlegmy and my head is hazy—the other day at the gas station, I forgot to put the car in park and started to roll away. I take some more Alleve D, cleanse my sinuses (won’t get into that) and view the world through the white gauze of congestion until my nasal passage have drained.
Ah, my sinuses.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
A Perfect Day For Ramen Noodles
A perfect day to be a Sunday. It’s raining. Sometimes is just some spritzing, then progressing to a steady drenching, not quite a downpour but you still would not want to get caught in it. All the attempts of the past week to get in five servings of fruit and vegetables a day are flushed away like rain down the gutters. I want some Ramen Chicken Noodle Soup. It is hot and soothing and the noodles feel stringy and gooey going down. Yum. I had two cups for lunch. Dinner – peanut butter sandwich.And I don’t feel great. Just that slightly sinusey feel that leaves me feeling slightly eh. Not enough to keep me home from work, but just enough to make me slow and grumpy. Two attempted naps and some Alleve D later, I’m still not feeling perky. And back to work tomorrow after a week off. *Sigh*
Not the most phenomenal way to close a momentous week. Two words -- Wilco Fest. Actually, Solid Sound Festival, I call it “Wilco Fest” – a consortium, of sorts, of like-minded individuals coming together to celebrate in the glory of our great Wilco. Some modern art, cheap festival food and 5,000 Wilcoians – it was heavenly.
Highlights: Jeff Tweedy in the dunk tank; Laminated Cat, Magazine Called Sunset; the most amazing coffee cake at Belles Victorian Inn; Jeff Tweedy in the dunk tank…did I already mention that? Opps, sorry; Jeff Tweedy cracking jokes and signing his heart out; Mavis Staples shaming me for feeling tire.
Lowlights: Poor line control – I got totally screwed out of front row; parents who took up space with their double stroller – four people could have stood there, and where were the earplugs for the kids????; that one group that feels they’ve the right to the front row cos they get it every time – like it makes them some sort of Wilco dignitaries. Sheez.
Now let’s talk about Philadelphia Folk Festival. $300 for a one hour and 30 minute Jeff Tweedy solo performance – and so worth every penny. Before I get to Jeff, I can’t fail to mention the hippies. Hippies hippies everywhere – and a great reminder of why I like my 401k and deodorant. I saw many men in skirts, I know they would call them “kilts” but that wasn’t Scotland and William Wallace was nowhere in sight. Okay, I’m square, I will admit it.
Now Jeff. I realized at Wilco Fest that I am on the low end of the Wilco Crazy Fan Meter, but I’m not crazy enough to let a chance to meet JT pass. Even if he was standing outside the high-end Port a Johns. In my defense, I was not standing outside the door waiting for him to finish his business. He was waiting for Jason, the road manager. I approached him and he greeted me with a smile and hand shake. There was a brief conversation about the success of the Solid Sound Festival and he asked me the greatest question. Not, “Wanna make out?”, but, “Is there something you would like to hear?” YES – of course, “You’re Not Alone.” “Oh, I’ll think about it.” And I pouted. I had underestimated the power of my pout because he relented and sang “You’re Not Alone” beautifully. In reality, it was probably on the set list, but in my world it was the power of my pout that did it.
So, I’m in a good mood. I’ve got the post-concert blues at bay, but the jonesing for the next show will begin soon. Jonesing for the next opportunity to have those blue-green eyes looking down at me. (They are more green in real life, and more blue in pictures.)
But, tonight’s the last day of my Wilco high. Back to work tomorrow. Time to step up and be a leader – get that promotion and more money. And save up some bucks for a Living Room Show.
Yes, it’s a good day for Ramen Noodles Soup.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The Squisher
The gynecological exam can be the most feared—and briefest— moment in a woman’s year. For my visit, I was lucky enough to get the new chair. The new chair tipped me backwards until I was are almost vertical, with my head pointing down and my knees towards the ceiling. I assume it gives the doctor a more optimal view.
From below, the doctor had just down her checked and chirped that everything, “looked good” from her vantage point. She eyed me from behind her clipboard. “I see you’re37,” she said. “How about a mammogram, just to get a baseline.”
As a very conscientious, mature woman, I knew this was the right thing to do. “Yup!” I agreed, and the doctor handed me a prescription and was gone. The entire episode, the breast exam, the pelvic, the prescription, was just about 10 minutes long.
But I was proud. I was doing the mature, responsible thing. Thirty-seven had been a hard hill to take, but I was oddly proud of my age and was enjoying some of the tasks that came with it. Even a mammogram.
Two days later, I arrived right on time with my date with “The Squisher.” I was immediately shown to a small changing room by a broad, yet pleasant woman in cranberry-colored scrubs. She handed me a cranberry-colored hospital gown (I guess cranberry serves as some sort diversion) and told me to change.
After I stripped from the neck down and donned the cranagown, I was ushered to a small, warmly-lit room decorated with calming caramel tones and dried flowers. In the center of the room was “The Squisher.”
The technician in cranberry—I think her name was Lisa—positioned me against the “Squisher” and started to manipulate my breast into place. As barely a B-Cup, that was not easy. She pushed, pulled, and mashed my teeny breast into place, then smushed it between two plates. When I thought it could not be smushed any more, Lisa turned a cranked and proved me wrong.
“Don’t breath,” she said, and disappeared behind the wall.
Don’t worry, I thought.
Lisa appeared, moved to the other breast, and followed the same procedure. Then two more times for the side view.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Lisa chimed.
Not so bad!!! I thought, How could you do this to other women!!! You … you… TRAITOR TO OUR GENDER!!!!
But, it was over. Much like my gynecological exam – it was a thankfully brief ordeal. I was told to go home and wait for the results. But why worry – this was for the “baseline” and there was no history of breast cancer in my family. Besides, nothing bad ever happens to the Morrisons, so I had nothing to be concerned about.
Three days later I was holding a letter that requested “Additional Evaluation” and calling the imaging center for a second appointment. The receptionist cheerfully assured me, “Oh, we just need to take some more pictures.”
I knew what it was all about: body lotion.
I was told not to wear deodorant, perfume, or lotion the day of my mammogram. That morning, I forgot and put some of my “Tupelo Honey” lotion on my legs. That must have interfered with the ex-ray.
I had to sit through a weekend before my next appointment, but I was not worried. It was the lotion, right?
But those two days gave be a lot of time to think about my breasts. They’re cute, but no one would call them “spectacular.” I was barley a B-cup and proud of my perky stature. I could wear cute little t-shirts or low-cut sweaters without looking ridiculous or slutty. I would never sag, unlike my sister, Liz – a Double-D who had to do numerous chest presses to keep her girls off the floor.
Alas, I was often teased about their size. When I would promise to lift my shirt for Jeff Tweedy, my other sister, Mary, would comment that he’d wonder why that 12-year old boy in the front row was flashing him. When Liz’s friends would meet me for the first time, they’d give me that what-in-the-hell-happened-to-you look. I’d be a rich woman if I had a dime for every, “She is NOTHING like her sister,” I heard.
Like all women, my breasts—a perky as they were—make me feel attractive and feminine. They are womanly and beautiful and soft. Deep, deep down inside, I even enjoyed when his eyes would wander downward and not meet mine.
That weekend I also thought about probability. I was the sixth of seven children – the probability of all of us leading long, healthy lives was always something I questioned. I had always been on the verge of being a hypochondriac, and concluded that if a Morrison was going to deal with disease, it would be me. Even though I told myself that lotion was to blame, my mind was filled with worst-case scenarios.
My appointment was for 2:00 p.m. on a Monday afternoon. My plan was to leave the office after lunch, go to my appointment, and be home in time for a 4:00 call with my boss, Kathi, and the marketing team. Easy-schmeazy.
But my brain kept throwing up possibilities: What if I’m sick? What if I have “it”? Will I lose my breast? My hair? What if I can’t take care of myself? Will I die? I’ll never fall in love . . . never dance at my wedding . . . never be pregnant . . . never hold my sleeping, little girl in my arms.
My brave front was just that . . . a front.
Kathi, whose capacity to care was greater than that of the entire 2006 Penn State graduating class, assured me that this second date with “The Squisher” was normal. As I left my office that Monday, her compassionate eyes let me now that she was thinking about my breasts, but not in a creepy, I-should-involve-HR way.
When it comes to a mammogram, two words you don’t want to hear are, “Extra Compression.” I had a vision of my nipples popping under the pressure. Why would I need extra compression for my teeny boobies?
But Lisa informed me that this was not the case. I was just ushered into the caramel-colored room with the dried flowers. There was no explanation other than, “extra compression.” Was it a cyst, tumor, water on the knee, body lotion? Lisa just maneuvered me against The Squisher and pulled, push, and mashed my breast into place: two front views, two side views.
“Okay,” Lisa said, “just sit here and I’ll be right back.”
I sat in the comfy chair in the corner of the caramel-colored room and held by cranagown closed over my sore breasts. My mind kept running, What’s wrong, what do they see?
Lisa walked back in the room. “We just need to take a few more pictures.” More compressions and more ex-rays—this time focused on the left side of my left breast.
“Okay come with me,” and Lisa lead me out of the room back to the small changing room. “Now, sit here,” she said, “but don’t get dressed.”
I waited a few more minutes, looking at my watch. . . 2:40, I needed to be out by 3:15 to get home in time for the meeting.
The door opened. “Barbara?” a motherly woman in her fifties was smiling at me. “Hi, I’m Carol. I’ll be doing the sonogram. Come this way.” She held out her arm, and I followed her to another, darker room. I laid down on the examining table and opened the cranagown.
Carol had short, wavy blond-gray hair. She wore blue liner on her upper eyelid and pink lipstick – the typical make-up of a motherly technician in her fifties. Even the white cotton sweater over her blue scrubs said, “I’m here to comfort you, dear.”
“Okay,” she said (they always start with “okay”), “just put your arm over your head. I’m going to up on some gel, it’ll be a little cold.”
The gel was cool and – the best word to describe it was “goopy”. The lump in my throat was beginning to grow, and I turned my head away.
Carol moved the sensor slowly over my breast and hit some keys on the computer. My mind was racing with all the possibilities . . . tumor . . . cancer . . . chemotherapy. . . illness . . . pain . . . hospitals . . . needles . . . tests . . . tears . . . my mom . . . my dad. . . my sisters . . . nieces . . . nephews . . . my life . . . my breasts . . . what did they see?
Carol finished and handed me a towel to clean the goop off. She left the room to study the results. I looked at my watch, 3:15… I’ll have to take the call in my car.
Carol came back, “Okay (always with the “okay”), we just need a few more pictures. Are you pressed for time?”
My mind did a little flip. What more do they need?!?!?!?
“I just need to make a phone call,” I said. I dialed Kathi’s number and heard her chipper voice on the other end. “Hi, this is Kathi.”
You know when you’ve been holding back the tears, but as soon as you speak, the tears overpower you and your voice is several decibels higher and much faster?
“KathiitsBarbandI’mnotgoingtobeable tomakethe4:00meeting,” I rushed before I started to cry.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yup.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yup.”
“You’re sure.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Really?”
“Yep,Gottago.Seeyoutomorrow.Bye,” and I hung up the phone.
Back on the examining table, the cold sensor moved over my damn left breast, going back over the same section on the left side over and over again. Carol hit more keys on the computer. This time, my mind traveled to different places.
If the worst case scenario is true, how will I change my life. I’ll say “I love you” more often and “You’re pissing me off” when needed. I’ll give more time to play and less time to TV. I will not be too afraid or lazy take a chance. I will finally take the sabbatical from work to follow my favorite band, Wilco, across the country. And if I ever meet Jeff Tweedy–by God—I’m kissing him on the mouth!!!!
“We’re done,” Carol said. I think she saw my fear and finally decided to give me an explanation. “Looks like you have a few small cysts. Nothing bad, we just want to make sure. We’ll just get the radiologist to confirm.”
A few minutes later, the radiologists, an older Asian man with graying hair, confirmed three small cysts in my left breast. (Cyst: a fluid-filled mass that is usually benign. Can be removed for analysis.)
The lump in my throat vanished, and I wanted to laugh. But, I also felt a little ridiculous; there are many women who receive much worse news, and I was crying over some cysts.
Kathi, who I called from the parking lot, assured me that my worry was righteous. “That was sooooooooooo scary, Babs,” she said. “You were right to be worried. Don’t ever deny your feelings – and don’t ever scare me like that again!”
Did my dates with The Squisher inspire me to change my life? Well, I’ve not increased my “I Love You’s”, but I call my mom more often. I don’t tell people they piss me off, just remind them how they make me happy. After work, I run to the gym, not to the couch. I’m not traveling across country for Wilco, but will be seeing My Boys in soon.
And Jeff Tweedy had better pucker up!
From below, the doctor had just down her checked and chirped that everything, “looked good” from her vantage point. She eyed me from behind her clipboard. “I see you’re37,” she said. “How about a mammogram, just to get a baseline.”
As a very conscientious, mature woman, I knew this was the right thing to do. “Yup!” I agreed, and the doctor handed me a prescription and was gone. The entire episode, the breast exam, the pelvic, the prescription, was just about 10 minutes long.
But I was proud. I was doing the mature, responsible thing. Thirty-seven had been a hard hill to take, but I was oddly proud of my age and was enjoying some of the tasks that came with it. Even a mammogram.
Two days later, I arrived right on time with my date with “The Squisher.” I was immediately shown to a small changing room by a broad, yet pleasant woman in cranberry-colored scrubs. She handed me a cranberry-colored hospital gown (I guess cranberry serves as some sort diversion) and told me to change.
After I stripped from the neck down and donned the cranagown, I was ushered to a small, warmly-lit room decorated with calming caramel tones and dried flowers. In the center of the room was “The Squisher.”
The technician in cranberry—I think her name was Lisa—positioned me against the “Squisher” and started to manipulate my breast into place. As barely a B-Cup, that was not easy. She pushed, pulled, and mashed my teeny breast into place, then smushed it between two plates. When I thought it could not be smushed any more, Lisa turned a cranked and proved me wrong.
“Don’t breath,” she said, and disappeared behind the wall.
Don’t worry, I thought.
Lisa appeared, moved to the other breast, and followed the same procedure. Then two more times for the side view.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Lisa chimed.
Not so bad!!! I thought, How could you do this to other women!!! You … you… TRAITOR TO OUR GENDER!!!!
But, it was over. Much like my gynecological exam – it was a thankfully brief ordeal. I was told to go home and wait for the results. But why worry – this was for the “baseline” and there was no history of breast cancer in my family. Besides, nothing bad ever happens to the Morrisons, so I had nothing to be concerned about.
Three days later I was holding a letter that requested “Additional Evaluation” and calling the imaging center for a second appointment. The receptionist cheerfully assured me, “Oh, we just need to take some more pictures.”
I knew what it was all about: body lotion.
I was told not to wear deodorant, perfume, or lotion the day of my mammogram. That morning, I forgot and put some of my “Tupelo Honey” lotion on my legs. That must have interfered with the ex-ray.
I had to sit through a weekend before my next appointment, but I was not worried. It was the lotion, right?
But those two days gave be a lot of time to think about my breasts. They’re cute, but no one would call them “spectacular.” I was barley a B-cup and proud of my perky stature. I could wear cute little t-shirts or low-cut sweaters without looking ridiculous or slutty. I would never sag, unlike my sister, Liz – a Double-D who had to do numerous chest presses to keep her girls off the floor.
Alas, I was often teased about their size. When I would promise to lift my shirt for Jeff Tweedy, my other sister, Mary, would comment that he’d wonder why that 12-year old boy in the front row was flashing him. When Liz’s friends would meet me for the first time, they’d give me that what-in-the-hell-happened-to-you look. I’d be a rich woman if I had a dime for every, “She is NOTHING like her sister,” I heard.
Like all women, my breasts—a perky as they were—make me feel attractive and feminine. They are womanly and beautiful and soft. Deep, deep down inside, I even enjoyed when his eyes would wander downward and not meet mine.
That weekend I also thought about probability. I was the sixth of seven children – the probability of all of us leading long, healthy lives was always something I questioned. I had always been on the verge of being a hypochondriac, and concluded that if a Morrison was going to deal with disease, it would be me. Even though I told myself that lotion was to blame, my mind was filled with worst-case scenarios.
My appointment was for 2:00 p.m. on a Monday afternoon. My plan was to leave the office after lunch, go to my appointment, and be home in time for a 4:00 call with my boss, Kathi, and the marketing team. Easy-schmeazy.
But my brain kept throwing up possibilities: What if I’m sick? What if I have “it”? Will I lose my breast? My hair? What if I can’t take care of myself? Will I die? I’ll never fall in love . . . never dance at my wedding . . . never be pregnant . . . never hold my sleeping, little girl in my arms.
My brave front was just that . . . a front.
Kathi, whose capacity to care was greater than that of the entire 2006 Penn State graduating class, assured me that this second date with “The Squisher” was normal. As I left my office that Monday, her compassionate eyes let me now that she was thinking about my breasts, but not in a creepy, I-should-involve-HR way.
When it comes to a mammogram, two words you don’t want to hear are, “Extra Compression.” I had a vision of my nipples popping under the pressure. Why would I need extra compression for my teeny boobies?
But Lisa informed me that this was not the case. I was just ushered into the caramel-colored room with the dried flowers. There was no explanation other than, “extra compression.” Was it a cyst, tumor, water on the knee, body lotion? Lisa just maneuvered me against The Squisher and pulled, push, and mashed my breast into place: two front views, two side views.
“Okay,” Lisa said, “just sit here and I’ll be right back.”
I sat in the comfy chair in the corner of the caramel-colored room and held by cranagown closed over my sore breasts. My mind kept running, What’s wrong, what do they see?
Lisa walked back in the room. “We just need to take a few more pictures.” More compressions and more ex-rays—this time focused on the left side of my left breast.
“Okay come with me,” and Lisa lead me out of the room back to the small changing room. “Now, sit here,” she said, “but don’t get dressed.”
I waited a few more minutes, looking at my watch. . . 2:40, I needed to be out by 3:15 to get home in time for the meeting.
The door opened. “Barbara?” a motherly woman in her fifties was smiling at me. “Hi, I’m Carol. I’ll be doing the sonogram. Come this way.” She held out her arm, and I followed her to another, darker room. I laid down on the examining table and opened the cranagown.
Carol had short, wavy blond-gray hair. She wore blue liner on her upper eyelid and pink lipstick – the typical make-up of a motherly technician in her fifties. Even the white cotton sweater over her blue scrubs said, “I’m here to comfort you, dear.”
“Okay,” she said (they always start with “okay”), “just put your arm over your head. I’m going to up on some gel, it’ll be a little cold.”
The gel was cool and – the best word to describe it was “goopy”. The lump in my throat was beginning to grow, and I turned my head away.
Carol moved the sensor slowly over my breast and hit some keys on the computer. My mind was racing with all the possibilities . . . tumor . . . cancer . . . chemotherapy. . . illness . . . pain . . . hospitals . . . needles . . . tests . . . tears . . . my mom . . . my dad. . . my sisters . . . nieces . . . nephews . . . my life . . . my breasts . . . what did they see?
Carol finished and handed me a towel to clean the goop off. She left the room to study the results. I looked at my watch, 3:15… I’ll have to take the call in my car.
Carol came back, “Okay (always with the “okay”), we just need a few more pictures. Are you pressed for time?”
My mind did a little flip. What more do they need?!?!?!?
“I just need to make a phone call,” I said. I dialed Kathi’s number and heard her chipper voice on the other end. “Hi, this is Kathi.”
You know when you’ve been holding back the tears, but as soon as you speak, the tears overpower you and your voice is several decibels higher and much faster?
“KathiitsBarbandI’mnotgoingtobeable tomakethe4:00meeting,” I rushed before I started to cry.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yup.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yup.”
“You’re sure.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Really?”
“Yep,Gottago.Seeyoutomorrow.Bye,” and I hung up the phone.
Back on the examining table, the cold sensor moved over my damn left breast, going back over the same section on the left side over and over again. Carol hit more keys on the computer. This time, my mind traveled to different places.
If the worst case scenario is true, how will I change my life. I’ll say “I love you” more often and “You’re pissing me off” when needed. I’ll give more time to play and less time to TV. I will not be too afraid or lazy take a chance. I will finally take the sabbatical from work to follow my favorite band, Wilco, across the country. And if I ever meet Jeff Tweedy–by God—I’m kissing him on the mouth!!!!
“We’re done,” Carol said. I think she saw my fear and finally decided to give me an explanation. “Looks like you have a few small cysts. Nothing bad, we just want to make sure. We’ll just get the radiologist to confirm.”
A few minutes later, the radiologists, an older Asian man with graying hair, confirmed three small cysts in my left breast. (Cyst: a fluid-filled mass that is usually benign. Can be removed for analysis.)
The lump in my throat vanished, and I wanted to laugh. But, I also felt a little ridiculous; there are many women who receive much worse news, and I was crying over some cysts.
Kathi, who I called from the parking lot, assured me that my worry was righteous. “That was sooooooooooo scary, Babs,” she said. “You were right to be worried. Don’t ever deny your feelings – and don’t ever scare me like that again!”
Did my dates with The Squisher inspire me to change my life? Well, I’ve not increased my “I Love You’s”, but I call my mom more often. I don’t tell people they piss me off, just remind them how they make me happy. After work, I run to the gym, not to the couch. I’m not traveling across country for Wilco, but will be seeing My Boys in soon.
And Jeff Tweedy had better pucker up!
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
My Brief Flirtation with Haikus
So – several months ago Wilco had a Haiku writing contest. Below is my attempt at writing haikus. I think they were pretty good – did not win me a guitar. That’s okay; I don’t know how to play. But, think these gems should see the light of day. My favorite line is "With his tools of distortion."
******
Beautiful Tweedy
How your voice, your words thrill us
Sing now, Sing always
*****
Heart, bird, Either Way
Spiders live and Outtasite
Wilco's best by me
******
Just play me Wilco
All the morning, noon, and night
Ipod blares my boys
*****
Oh my Glenn, sweet Glenn
Pound your skins, make my knees weak
So handsome and tall
*****
Nels blows me away
With his tools of distortion
Guitar God, Heaven
******
Mysterious Mike
Sits quietly in the back
In front for Pronto
*****
Pat of the Mod Hair
Struts, vests, and spinning windmills
He's Wilco's style
*****
John brings steady joy
Keeps the bass with warmth and heart
Our friend in the band
******
To Jeff's wool chapeau
Survived departures and drops
Constant as Stirratt
******
Praise for Jeff's neck-eard
Never seen a finer growth
Whiskers of greatness
******
Beautiful Tweedy
How your voice, your words thrill us
Sing now, Sing always
*****
Heart, bird, Either Way
Spiders live and Outtasite
Wilco's best by me
******
Just play me Wilco
All the morning, noon, and night
Ipod blares my boys
*****
Oh my Glenn, sweet Glenn
Pound your skins, make my knees weak
So handsome and tall
*****
Nels blows me away
With his tools of distortion
Guitar God, Heaven
******
Mysterious Mike
Sits quietly in the back
In front for Pronto
*****
Pat of the Mod Hair
Struts, vests, and spinning windmills
He's Wilco's style
*****
John brings steady joy
Keeps the bass with warmth and heart
Our friend in the band
******
To Jeff's wool chapeau
Survived departures and drops
Constant as Stirratt
******
Praise for Jeff's neck-eard
Never seen a finer growth
Whiskers of greatness
Monday, February 15, 2010
What's with the scruffy guy in the wool hat?
What's with the homeless guy in the hat? That is Mr. Jeff Tweedy ... singer, musician, poet, greatest lyricist of a generation .. and Wilco front man. I mean ... look at him. The unkempt, just-rolled-out-of-bed crumple-ness of him. Check out the disheveled hair, days old whiskeres, rumbled, untucked shirt. And what's with that hat? What am I thinking?
In the real world, I'd avoid him. I'd assume he was here to fix the furnace, and be on my way. I'd think he smelled and spent all his time devouring the lasted X-Men comic.
That's what you say.
Who would guess that when he opened his mouth to sing, out came pure beauty. A voice so sweet and words so luxurious that each word sounds like melting chocolate; songs that greet me like a Grandma's warm hug. He can yearn like no other, and the man can scream...best screamer in rock-n-roll.
I think I'm jealous. I wish I had his gift to make people feel more. That the words I use, phrases I create could put butterflies in folks' stomachs (what the phrase, "The night is dissolving in a cup God lifts to toast the lightening" does to me.)
But I have a plan -- a dastardly plan to show the world the beauty and genius of JT & Wilco. You see... when you call my cell phone, you hear Wilco's Heavy Metal Drummer. And when you hear it, you will think, "Hey, that sounds like a pretty good song. I wonder who it is?"
And I will laugh manically, "Ha Haaaa... you like Wilco. Mua-ha-ha-ha."
And I will convert the world to Wilco -- one call at at time.
And you will get what's with the scruffy guy in the wool hat.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
I don't get it???
I know that I have not exactly embraced technology -- my life is not interesting enough to Twitter or provide hourly updates on Facebook ("going to the gym," "eating cookies," "going back to the gym."). Obviously, there some facets of this online universe that we are all slowly getting addicted to that I embrace (otherwise, I would not be here, right?) but the one thing that troubles me is Instant Messaging. Not chatting with friends at home late at night, but in the office. I just don't think many of my co-workers get it. Or, they've just been so seduced by the wonders of technology that they succumb to it and reject all other forms of communication because IMing is so advanced.
Here's my problem ... this is the message I often get at the office.... "Are you there?" What the fuck!?!?!? If I'm not there, how can I answer you? If you have a question, why not just pick up the phone or walk over to my desk and ask. There's this thing called voice mail -- or, if you are very traditional, pen and paper. You can ask your questions and then I can respond with an answer in a timely manner. The IM "Are you there" can linger for hours if I'm in meetings or just don't feel like responding.
Or there's this one, "Can you talk?" Pick up the fucking phone and find out.
I think what annoys me is the urgency of an Instant Message. There it is -- flashing its importance to me, like your question is more critical than what I'm doing at that moment. And you can't ignore it, whether you are online, in a Word doc, or reviewing a PoerePoint, there it is -- flashing flashing flashing. And when you give in to that beacon of distraction, you get..."Are you there?"
"No."
Here's my problem ... this is the message I often get at the office.... "Are you there?" What the fuck!?!?!? If I'm not there, how can I answer you? If you have a question, why not just pick up the phone or walk over to my desk and ask. There's this thing called voice mail -- or, if you are very traditional, pen and paper. You can ask your questions and then I can respond with an answer in a timely manner. The IM "Are you there" can linger for hours if I'm in meetings or just don't feel like responding.
Or there's this one, "Can you talk?" Pick up the fucking phone and find out.
I think what annoys me is the urgency of an Instant Message. There it is -- flashing its importance to me, like your question is more critical than what I'm doing at that moment. And you can't ignore it, whether you are online, in a Word doc, or reviewing a PoerePoint, there it is -- flashing flashing flashing. And when you give in to that beacon of distraction, you get..."Are you there?"
"No."
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