Please admire this headline typo from today's Times home page before they fix it:
41 Yeas Later in Chicago, Tense Days Remembered
Almost as satisfying as finding mistakes in the New Yorker and CMS, but not quite.
June 29, 2009
June 26, 2009
No glove, no love
Welcome to my requisite Michael Jackson post. It can't be helped—I'm a child of the '80s.
Truth be told, I'm not having much of a reaction to the king's death. There's no doubt in my mind that he was nuts, and my only thoughts about him in the last 10 to 15 years were that he looked creepy and terrible, and that he shouldn't have custody of his own kids or anyone else's. I felt sorry for the guy. He became the poster child for the inevitable mental illness of overexposed, obscenely rich child stars in the midst of a constant identity crisis.
But he did have a heyday—a few of them, really—and he could be inarguably awesome. His death feels like one of those cultural moments we'll all recall for our grandkids: JFK, 9/11, MJ. I've never seen everybody on Facebook discuss the same topic simultaneously before.
My Jackson memories are probably a lot like yours: Thriller was one of the first tapes I ever owned (along with Air Supply and Like a Virgin). I had a Michael Jackson doll with midlength curls, a sparkly red jacket, and a sparkly silver glove. It got along famously with my Barbie after I shaved her head and ditched her high heels for some little black boots. She wound up pregnant, and it's a long story but I'm pretty sure Michael came through with child support.
I think the always wise Miss Mobtown summed it up best yesterday:
"RIP, MJ. Hope your life wasn't as awful as it seems like it would have been to the casual observer."
Truth be told, I'm not having much of a reaction to the king's death. There's no doubt in my mind that he was nuts, and my only thoughts about him in the last 10 to 15 years were that he looked creepy and terrible, and that he shouldn't have custody of his own kids or anyone else's. I felt sorry for the guy. He became the poster child for the inevitable mental illness of overexposed, obscenely rich child stars in the midst of a constant identity crisis.
But he did have a heyday—a few of them, really—and he could be inarguably awesome. His death feels like one of those cultural moments we'll all recall for our grandkids: JFK, 9/11, MJ. I've never seen everybody on Facebook discuss the same topic simultaneously before.
My Jackson memories are probably a lot like yours: Thriller was one of the first tapes I ever owned (along with Air Supply and Like a Virgin). I had a Michael Jackson doll with midlength curls, a sparkly red jacket, and a sparkly silver glove. It got along famously with my Barbie after I shaved her head and ditched her high heels for some little black boots. She wound up pregnant, and it's a long story but I'm pretty sure Michael came through with child support.
I think the always wise Miss Mobtown summed it up best yesterday:
"RIP, MJ. Hope your life wasn't as awful as it seems like it would have been to the casual observer."
June 11, 2009
Slow burn
After six weeks of diligently doing uncomfortable hip stretches twice a day, plus giving up all exercise three weeks ago to let the injury rest, I went back to the doctor today to check in. Confused that I'm not healed by now, my original PT had recommended a cortisone shot. But the doc said not yet, even though there's still inflammation. She sent me down to the lab for an X-ray. Everything looks normal.
She diagnosed that the stretching has actually been making the injury worse—great!—and she prescribed a treatment called Active Release Therapy. I spent quality time talking to my insurance company and eventually realized there's no way to avoid paying for these appointments if I want my hip to heal anytime soon. And I really, really do.
Matt, the new PT, stuck some sort of steroid patch on me with a battery attached. It sent tiny pins and needles into the most painful spot. It didn't feel good, but it felt productive.
Still, the whole process took hours. I was tired and frustrated when I finally got to work. Did a few things, then slogged on home feeling very put upon by life.
I was making dinner with Josh called. He's a college friend and one of my favorite people. He lives in Baltimore, so I keep tabs on him via email and Facebook and his in-laws' annual holiday party in Walnut Creek.
He called to tell me that his childhood friend Mark died last night from complications resulting from a long-standing brain tumor. When Mark was diagnosed five years ago, his doctors gave him six months to live. Instead, he finished school in furniture design, started a business, became an avid mountain biker, and got married. I only met Mark a handful of times, but it didn't take more than 10 minutes to be impressed by him. His energy and enthusiasm were palpable.
This morning, the PT teased me about being in my 30s. "I'm sorry, this is just how it goes," he said. "Our bodies start to wear down. It's time." I know people my age who've been seriously ill, divorced, miscarried, lost a parent. We're entering those stages reluctantly but naturally. But it's not time for us to start dying. That's not on the calendar yet.
Now I keep thinking about Mark and his wife. Diving into their very new marriage, they both knew what would happen and the losses they'd have to face. It should have been time for them to wear down, but they didn't.
It's extraordinary what our bodies can endure; even more so our hearts. My stupid little injury suddenly feels like a lucky charm.
She diagnosed that the stretching has actually been making the injury worse—great!—and she prescribed a treatment called Active Release Therapy. I spent quality time talking to my insurance company and eventually realized there's no way to avoid paying for these appointments if I want my hip to heal anytime soon. And I really, really do.
Matt, the new PT, stuck some sort of steroid patch on me with a battery attached. It sent tiny pins and needles into the most painful spot. It didn't feel good, but it felt productive.
Still, the whole process took hours. I was tired and frustrated when I finally got to work. Did a few things, then slogged on home feeling very put upon by life.
I was making dinner with Josh called. He's a college friend and one of my favorite people. He lives in Baltimore, so I keep tabs on him via email and Facebook and his in-laws' annual holiday party in Walnut Creek.
He called to tell me that his childhood friend Mark died last night from complications resulting from a long-standing brain tumor. When Mark was diagnosed five years ago, his doctors gave him six months to live. Instead, he finished school in furniture design, started a business, became an avid mountain biker, and got married. I only met Mark a handful of times, but it didn't take more than 10 minutes to be impressed by him. His energy and enthusiasm were palpable.
This morning, the PT teased me about being in my 30s. "I'm sorry, this is just how it goes," he said. "Our bodies start to wear down. It's time." I know people my age who've been seriously ill, divorced, miscarried, lost a parent. We're entering those stages reluctantly but naturally. But it's not time for us to start dying. That's not on the calendar yet.
Now I keep thinking about Mark and his wife. Diving into their very new marriage, they both knew what would happen and the losses they'd have to face. It should have been time for them to wear down, but they didn't.
It's extraordinary what our bodies can endure; even more so our hearts. My stupid little injury suddenly feels like a lucky charm.
June 07, 2009
Dude, this pyramid is hella big
Reason #742 why I love President Obama: For an exceptionally articulate scholar type, he keeps it real.
From the New York Times, about his recent travels:
A particular favorite seemed to be in Giza, Egypt, where he spent more than an hour and a half marveling at the Great Pyramid.
“This thing’s huge,” Mr. Obama said in amazement.
From the New York Times, about his recent travels:
A particular favorite seemed to be in Giza, Egypt, where he spent more than an hour and a half marveling at the Great Pyramid.
“This thing’s huge,” Mr. Obama said in amazement.
Rahm Emanuel, the White House chief of staff, took a camel ride in the 100-plus degree heat. When the president learned of it, he seemed interested, too, until he glanced over at the pack of reporters and photographers who were standing watch.
“If you weren’t here,” Mr. Obama said, “I’d get on a camel.”
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