Unfrozen caveman demographic

On the eve of this 2008 election, I am very curious to see one thing (aside from the results): the senior citizen turnout. I've been thinking about it a lot in the past few months. Historically, this age group, rapidly expanding in range and overall number, can be counted on to vote in high percentages. But what happens when their main choices advertise themselves as the Democratic Candidate for Change and the Republican Candidate for Change? Where does that leave the (large) portion of the electorate that is most resistant to change?

Last summer my father's Medicare provider switched to Humana, and we attended an introductory seminar. Despite the company's repeated assurances that nothing would change, at least for the rest of the year, you could tell from their continued line of questions that the audience members felt alarmed and betrayed by the company switch. (We kept quiet.) Just receiving an insurance card with a new company name on it made them extremely nervous. So they attended these meetings and had their questions addressed, but were still uneasy.

Now, these seniors may be as representative of their age group as I am of mine -- which is to say, not very much -- but they inspired me to think a little about how both major party candidates may very well scare the crap out of them. They don't want change. Not even a little bit. Change confuses and frightens them. They are the Unfrozen Caveman demographic, trapped in a mindset of an earlier time we can't revisit: definitely concerned, probably intelligent, not always well-informed. Most will vote according to established party affiliation, but they can't feel as included this time.

I suspect the big story this week -- other than the winners -- is the intertwined successes of the youth movement and the early voting period in many states. And maybe that deserves to be the big story, if it happens. But I think it's also important to see if the senior vote was not as reliable this year because they were taken for granted, and if the losing candidate will see that exclusion as a campaign misstep.

Va-va-voom!

It's been a while since I've been singled out by another blog, but recently I received dual distinctions from Nathaniel Rogers, author of The Film Experience. A few weeks ago he awarded me a DVD Guide for The X-Files, in which various episodes are compiled to prepare the viewer for the upcoming movie sequel. But this week I've ascended to even more rarefied air when my reply to this post made it to the main page.

A mighty honor, given his readership. But more importantly, this kind of attention puts me in elite company with other admirers of the curvy female form: painter Peter Paul Rubens, director Russ Meyer, and rapper Sir Mix-A-Lot. Well, I guess there's Buffalo Bill from The Silence of the Lambs, but we try not to talk about him at our monthly meetings.

The extraterrestrial highway

To sort of celebrate the Roswell UFO incident 61 years ago this week, I thought I would recount a drive along the Extraterrestrial Highway that I took earlier this year. It's been a while since a photographic travelogue has appeared in Brevity. (My apologies; these days, my only trips have been to weddings, and who wants to take pictures to remember those?)

Obviously, I don't live anywhere near Roswell, but the rough location of the alleged Area 51 is the next best thing. The truth is out there, and it starts about 2 hours north of Las Vegas.
(All photos taken personally. Copyright 2008.)

Even the GPS recognizes its uniqueness. No "Nevada State Highway 375" here!

Did anything strange happen? As a matter of fact, yes.

1. Within the first 5 miles, I suffered a nosebleed, NOT prompted by rubbing my face or sneezing or anything. Classic alien abductee material. While there is some health precedent for this, it was still very, very weird.

2. We came across an unusual natural phenomenon just off the road, on the eastern side. I remember saying, "Take a look at that smooth rock up ahead... no, that's sand, NO, that's WATER!" It was a small reservoir of perfectly milky, seemingly clean, tan-colored water.

3. Miles later, also on the eastern side, we saw a mini-sandstorm that looked like it would cover the sky, but as we got closer, it kept getting further away. Then, when we thought we had to be passing it, there was nothing there.

We eventually reached the town of Rachel, Nevada, the only (public) stop on the Extraterrestrial Highway. Not much to it -- some houses, no gas station -- but it does boast the Little A'Le'Inn. Total tourist trap, but I mean that in the nicest way possible.

We had no reservations about entering this fine establishment.

Though some species aren't as comfortable with exiting through the same door. (Note the American flag. Proof positive that the United States is now the most awesome country in the universe. Take note, Stephen Colbert!)

We took a bathroom break and scanned the souvenirs with amusement. While we took our leisurely time, we had to get back on the road. But I couldn't help but feel like we were leaving something -- or someone -- behind.

Semi-related note: last weekend I revisited The X-Files, specifically a two-parter airing on TNT. They were the Morris Fletcher episodes, in which a time/space rift causes Mulder to switch bodies with Michael McKean's character, an Area 51 government tool. The episode is set in Rachel, Nevada and showcases the Little A'Le'Inn, or a larger version of it.

I'd forgotten how funny it was. When it chose to be light in tone, The X-Files was the funniest show on TV. The closest thing we have to that now is Dexter, which is similar both in its haunting instrumental music and in its darkly comic approach.

Injury report

How to explain my greatly reduced web presence? Well, the simple answer is that I spend a lot less time online.

The more complicated answer is that I twisted my ankle, and try to limit my walking. I'm starting to heal, but for a while it was sheer, uh, Misery.

Well, okay, the circumstances were slightly different; I wasn't hobbled by my number one fan. Instead, my leg buckled while I was fetching the mail. But if I were a horse, I'd be dead by now.

The skinny on Keira Knightley

By my loose, nobody-knows-anything estimation, Atonement is your likely Best Picture winner at the next Academy Awards, alongside nominees American Gangster, The Kite Runner, No Country for Old Men, and There Will Be Blood. But would I pay to see it? Fortunately, I didn't have to, as I caught a screening Thursday evening.

Good thing, because I feel like a paid ticket is somehow supporting Keira Knightley to keep her scary, alien-like frame. Look at her shoulders in this picture! They are pointy, not willowy. (Memo to the studios: drop the Kool-Aid already, and quit convincing us that this is how women are supposed to look. Hetero men aren't stupid -- well, no, we are -- but we're pretty sure that our gaze was not intended for human hangers wearing stylish clothes.)

So, the movie: it has the makings of a major award winner -- meaty title, themes of war and romance, long passage of time -- but I felt a little cold by all of it. For whatever reason, it plays around with its timeline; usually, I feel a movie is better told simply and linearly, but in this case, the skipping around kept me interested.

For a few fleeting moments, leads Knightley and James McAvoy have a lively chemistry, and might have made more of it in a less heavy-handed movie. The direction, sticking to this overall solemn tone, comes across as appropriately theatrical. Watching the film with a mind toward awards, you see all bases properly covered: music, costumes, makeup, cinematography, etc. I was especially fond of the use of a typewriter (the film's symbolic weapon) as a percussive instrument.

Haven't read the book, but I want to believe that there was more reason to care about what happened. What we're given instead is -- my apologies, Keira -- a very barebones approach.

Overheard in my head

By this I mean conversations that took place in my mind, because they're not quite ready for live public consumption. I don't know if this will be a regular feature here at Brevity, but if it were, it would certainly be this blog's scariest regular feature.

Leaving an office building Monday afternoon, I saw a blue-suited investment banker type who looks remarkably like a former American Idol contestant. Seriously -- shaved head, facial hair, dark features, etc.

I of course said nothing. But, overheard in my head...

"Chris Daughtry! What are you doing here?"
"I'm not Chris Daughtry."
"Are you sure? You look just like him!"
"Yes, I'm sure. Jeez... I hate Chris Daughtry."
"Oh, don't say that, Chris. Self-loathing is very unbecoming."

Gray text for gray matter. Seemed appropriate.

To the discomfort!

PRINCE HUMPERDINCK: First things first: to the death!

WESTLEY: No. To the pain.

PRINCE HUMPERDINCK: I don't think I'm quite familiar with that phrase.

WESTLEY: I'll explain, and I'll use small words so that you'll be sure to understand, you warthog-faced buffoon.

PRINCE HUMPERDINCK: That may be the first time in my life a man has dared insult me.

WESTLEY: It won't be the last. "To the pain" means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists. Next your nose.

PRINCE HUMPERDINCK: And then my tongue I suppose. I killed you too quickly the last time, a mistake I don't mean to duplicate tonight.

WESTLEY: I wasn't finished. The next thing you will lose will be your left eye, followed by your right.

PRINCE HUMPERDINCK: And then my ears. I understand, let's get on with it.

WESTLEY: Wrong! Your ears you keep, and I'll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out, "Dear God! What is that thing?" will echo in your perfect ears. That is what "to the pain" means. It means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever.

So, "to the death" is less than "to the pain," and by extension, both are less than "to the discomfort." (Trust me on this.)

Various neurological issues -- brought about officially and legitimately, with a Rx pad and everything -- rendered me useless over the past week, including the Thanksgiving holidays. Want to know what I wasn't so thankful for? Drug commercials that casually list "general muscle discomfort" as a possible side effect. But there it is, sandwiched nicely between "shortness of breath" and "frequent trips to the bathroom." I can deal with those; I've spent a good chunk of my life being embarrassed or of limited availability.

But people really should heed any warning of discomfort; it's worse than pain, because it's completely unmanageable. I've been restless and exhausted at the same time for the past several days, and it's an agonizing combo. My attention span was shot. I couldn't work on the computer or watch television for more than a few minutes at a time. (Prime example: I got through an otherwise entertaining episode of House in FIVE installments. Without ads, off the DVR.) I have to eat standing up. And forget about ordinary tasks like driving, reading, or carrying on a conversation.

Unfortunately, the aforementioned activities are about 95 percent of what I do while I'm awake. Which leaves, like, cleaning. So I employed a "fight fire with fire" mentality and overmedicated myself to allow for sleep (about 16 hours per day), but now I'm trying to undermedicate -- nothing stronger than Tylenol PM -- in an effort of personal restoration. My muscles are beginning to relax, but my brain is still a bit fried. That I write this past 3 on a Saturday night (check the posting time) lets you know how I'm doing thus far.

I won't say more, as this personal blog rarely gets this personal.

Repeat business

I was a cosmetic dentistry office today (not for me), and in the waiting room I noticed a table offering coffee and fresh baked, individually wrapped chocolate chip cookies. Surely they must be sugar free, right? Unable to resist, I tried a cookie and bit. Hard.

Not only was it a regular sugary cookie, it was rock solid. Why would a dentist serve items that can stain, chip, and cause cavities in teeth? Then I remembered: this wasn't a regular dentist at all. Cosmetic dentists are different; they're looking for repeat business.

Still recovering

I didn't expect to leave Texas unscathed, but I was hoping the recovery period would be shorter than the trip. Now my enlarged body parts include both tonsils and my uvula. That's U-V-U-L-A.

Broken the fever, cut down on the body aches, and now trying to work on the throat and not sound like Kim Carnes. Wait; I'm a guy, so I should say Harvey Fierstein.

Daniel: What's the difference?
Frank: Some Scotch tape and red hair dye.

Houston is Atlanta on steroids. A combination of expanded roads and buildings to an existing and crumbling infrastructure that just makes everything look old. I expected a large, vibrant city with a healthy skyline and obvious Latin influences; what I saw was, say, a bloated and uglier Louisville. I... don't understand the appeal.

Anyway, the wedding festivities were beautiful and went mostly according to plan. I entertained myself with the idea that, after five such Indian extravaganzas this summer, none loom on the horizon for at least the next two years. Because if people are waiting for me, they'll have to keep waiting.

Everything's bigger in Texas...

... including parts of my body, which have swollen to three times their normal size since I landed. Relax; I refer to my ear canals.

For the first time since 1980, I'm in Houston, Texas. Of course it's for a wedding, and of course it's not mine. (Always a bridesmaid, or the male equivalent.) The humidity is relentless, and exactly how I left it. Even with a decent amount of sleep, I'm still dizzy and tired.

Without personal, air-conditioned bubbles, I don't understand how people can live like this. We're not mosquitoes. At least not yet.

More later, if I survive the long weekend.

Still racin'

The Las Vegas Race for the Cure was today. Still getting up early for it, still participating, still no cure. So I'm linking to my 2005 and 2006 posts.

See you next year.

Spinach alfredo

Last weekend I was at the Olive Garden. I noticed the listing of sauces for the Never Ending Pasta Bowl no longer included spinach alfredo. It wasn't crossed out. There was no sticker over it. Just a blank space where the words "spinach alfredo" used to be. Gotta credit the menu editors on working quickly during this E.coli mess. Hospitaliano takes a back seat to litigatiano.

Story 69 September orders farfalle for formal occasions.

He gazed downward as he spoke. “My first time
wasn’t all that typical. She also worked in the
factory. Few years older, had lips that went on for
days. After hours we’d wandered into the area
where they mixed the shoe polish and…”

He looked up and saw 99 other souls in the room,
transfixed. It was not how he’d imagined it, but the
freshman Senator had the floor.

Closer to a cure?

Are we any closer to a cure for breast cancer than we were last year? Who knows? I've read the occasional articles about some new medicine or treatment that can help, but these are written by the same journalists who went back and forth over oat bran.

This morning I ran the Las Vegas Race for the Cure, just as I did last year. The experience was the same as I described it then, and I imagine it will be similar in future years. So until there's a cure, I'll just keep linking to that May 2005 post. (Though this year I woke up at 5:30am, returned at noon, and took only a 3 hour nap.)

Super colon blow

You know all those sneak previews I've been attending? Well, come Monday I get treated to a different kind of advance screening: I'm having a colonoscopy. About ten years ahead of schedule.

It's a family history thing; no need to be concerned. But look at it this way: I'll be the Katie Couric of bloggers.

55 Fiction Friday thinks this town needs an enema.

"Oh my God, y'all," Britney realized. "I forgot to feed the baby today."

Jamie-Lynn stood up. "I'll go."

"No, sis. Kev'll do it."

Once summoned, he wiped off his orange fingers, opened a jar of baby food, and shoved a spoon inside. He then placed it in front of his infant son.

"You got served!"

Overmedicated

Forgive my lethargy this week -- I've spent my two days off work battling some form of illness that I probably picked up at work, and will likely face again when I return to work later today. Possibly the flu, probably not the avian variety. The past two nights I attempted the following regimen (product placement warning):

1. Hot tea laced with Zicam Cold/Flu and a Nature's Resource Zinc with Echinacea lozenge. It tastes pretty much as you'd expect.

2. I used that mixture to help swallow down a NyQuil LiquiCap, a Comtrex nighttime cold/flu tablet, and two CVS-brand non-aspirin cold medicine tablets.

3. Next, a chaser of NyQuil Cough and Triaminic sore throat spray.

4. I spread some Vicks VapoRub greaseless cream on my chest and neck and go to bed.

5. In the day I'm almost as vigilant, taking DayQuil, Halls Defense lozenges, and Airborne (the gummy lozenges and the effervescent tablets).

It seems like a lot of money for over-the-counter medicine, and it probably is, but I'd pay more not to be sick if I actually stayed sick.

Also, bear in mind that I am about 6 feet tall and weigh over 200 pounds. So you may want to adjust for your own body size, by maybe subtracting all those lozenges.

With the daily installments of oatmeal and soup, and I feel much better now. Wait, who are you people?

55 Fiction Friday gets sick about as often as Tyler Durden does.

He had read that the coffee conglomerate wrestled its way into London. Now they set up shop by his courthouse.

Seeing her behind the counter, he reconsidered his ill disposition. Soon the perfect day involved not winning cases, but moments of her time.

They would make mild conversation and laugh, the barrister and the barista.

Expiration date

The other day I was cleaning out the medicine shelf of the large linen closet and found this.

Think I should throw it away?

55 Fiction Friday sings to me, but would make a ghastly American Idol contestant.

The harsh lights were at best unflattering to Todd’s work. He had researched Chilean jungles extensively and assembled a collection that would be the envy of any botany enthusiast.

The actors flattened the foliage as they grinded away. Todd sighed. At times he wished he could get set design work outside of the porn industry.

Footloose and dancy knee

Yes, "dancy" is a word. Look it up.

I survived the wedding, mostly in one piece. Actually it wasn't so bad. When my parents and I arrived at the hotel in downtown Wilmington, the (white) groom was already aboard his (white) horse outside and ready to ceremoniously work his way to the side entrance, surrounded by his family and other well-wishers. There was some early dancing and ground-level fireworks, while I hid behind the camera. The groom was led inside by a bilingual officiant who seemed a little full of himself, and then we all entered the large room where the wedding ceremony was to take place.

A while later, once the officiant has explained the process at length to the multicultural audience, the bride entered, flanked by our mutual aunt and uncle (as her parents have already taken their places on the wedding stage) and her bridesmaids. For most of the ceremony she remained veiled and seated across from the groom. I took many pictures of the process that I'll have to manipulate digitally because of the lousy lighting.

There was a two-hour-plus break between the wedding and the reception, which was not enough time to go to my cousin's house 30 minutes each way and get any meaningful rest, so my parents and I lounged in the couches on the hallway. Napping took place. Loud, obnoxious napping. (I make no apologies.)

The day bounced back strongly with the reception. It's an open bar, which can be a gift and a curse when you're surrounded by family. The dinner was a major step up from the lackluster offerings earlier in the day. And, sweet goodness, they had a chocolate fountain with strawberries, pretzels, and Oreos for dipping. I decided then and there that I would have to provide the same feature at my wedding, and maybe honeymoon.

Then there was the dancing. My experience in this has been limited but wildly erratic. I have been the wallflower that refuses to budge, even when asked nicely. (I never went to my high school prom, and yet I've never regretted that.) More recently I've visited the other end of the spectrum, dancing without a care in the world for what others think, nor where their feet might be. This attitude served me well in a wedding I attended last year, but some would say a little too well, so this time I toned it down somewhat. And then one of my cousins requested "Footloose."

Here's the problem with "Footloose." First, there's the whole mad attempt to be a male Rockette, which can be performed by capable professionals like the ones above, but rarely is done successfully by amateurs. My mother -- who was in a rare dancing mood, and I didn't want to discourage her -- and I tried to duplicate this with limited results. Second, and more importantly, there's my psychological tendency to become the center of attention during that climactic moment shortly after the line "Now take a hold of your soul." You know what I mean.

So I slid across the floor, right into the center of a group of people. It looked great. It felt... not so great. I tried to get up but stumbled. I laughed it off, then tried again to stand up, and again found that I couldn't. I improvised a fake slippage, removed my shoes, and slinked off the dance floor. Soon I discovered two things: (1) my suit's pants have ripped holes where my knees made contact with the floor; and (2) my right knee really, really hurts. I've managed to impress the cute blonde guest who could be Kristen Bell's older sister, but at what cost? Later on she gives me a gesture of appreciation which is, quite unfortunately, more "Rock on!" than "Here's my number." And then a sad realization hits me:

I've been injured while rocking out to Kenny Loggins.

Rescue assessment

I almost had to save a girl from drowning in our gym's outdoor pool Saturday. I'm relaxing in the first swimming lane when a woman and her two young children round the corner alongside the pool. The mother, far in the lead, and the son, lagging behind, accomplish the left foot, right foot thing with no problem. The daughter seems distracted as she makes the turn, then steps onto the pool ledge, then walks right into the pool, into my lane several yards in front of me.

I see the whole thing: this slight stumble, this perfect entrance in flip-flops, and it surprises me somewhat. I proceed cautiously, just in case. I turn to face her brother, and he gives me a kind of look that says, "I don't think this is supposed to happen." Then I see her bobbing her head in the water, but not really getting more than her hair to rise above the surface. I start running forward, which works only so well when you're in a pool. Meanwhile the older brother points out the problem to the mother, who runs back on dry land and slightly descends the entrance ladder to reach out and retrieve her still-bobbing daughter just before I get there.

The whole ordeal lasted under 30 seconds, and the girl seemed startled but okay. I should mention that all of this took place about 20 feet from the on-duty lifeguard, whose elevated station was at the end of my lane. No one noticed him, and he noticed no one.

Ants marching

One of the nice things about living in a ridiculously dry climate is that ants and roaches are pretty much the only common insects that can cause a household problem. Once alerted to their presence, I administer a dose of pesticide around the perimeter of the house and inside the bathrooms, which are usually the problem areas. But I was too late this time.

A group of ants is called an army, which is appropriate because they excel in committing large scale stealth assaults against their targets. In this case, I'm talking about the snack and cereal pantry. There were many casualties. We're still sorting through the wreckage. Those who know me as a cereal fiend (we have about 30 varieties -- take that, Seinfeld!) will understand that I'm taking the loss pretty hard.

Making it worse is the use of various pest sprays in the kitchen, which has taken its toll on our immune systems and given us everything from the simple sniffle to the worst common symptom in the world, the postnasal drip.

Bugger.

I can see clearly. Now.

Just because we skipped the Victoria's Secret show doesn't mean we can't have fun. So I took my parents to a LASIK seminar yesterday. We got a chance to observe an eye surgery (flap, map, zap, tap, wrap, nap) and ask the doctor and his staff questions.

Full disclosure: I underwent the surgery in Cincinnati back in 2002. The place I used was more of a chop shop in that the staff divides the patients into groups of five, then works through them one by one. No complaints, though: I see 20/15 in each eye and 20/13 together. If I concentrate real hard, I can see the future.

With great power comes great responsibility, so I felt the need to ask some real questions -- about halo effects at night, touchup procedures, the enhanced dry eye problem here, and what to watch out for in a bargain basement competitor. By comparison, the other attendees didn't seem all that curious.

With one exception. A few of them had mentioned something they saw on, ahem, 20/20 about comedienne and self-proclaimed D-lister Kathy Griffin. Apparently she had complications from her LASIK experience and has required multiple surgeries on one eye. That's unfortunate, of course, but that doesn't stop her from incorporating her derision of her surgeon (previously a friend) into her act. That lady's all class.