Planes, Trains and Automobiles

Well, there are no planes in this post, and it is primarily about trains.

This weekend I took the Amtrak Crescent line from Hattiesburg, Mississippi to Atlanta, Georgia to visit my parents for my father’s 60th birthday.  I thought it would be a good idea to take the train versus driving or flying.  I thought that it would be a good way to catch up on some e-mails, maybe blog some, relax, see the countryside.  I had some romantic idea in my head that it would be like in the old black and white movies.  I wore a shirt with French cuffs, and a sport coat.

Let me tell you something: Disappointment is not just a town in Kentucky.

On the way to Atlanta, I took a sleeper car.  I highly recommend this approach if you do choose the train.

As you can see, a sleeper car is a two-seat private room with a bunk above for sleeping.  In some of these rooms there were as many as three people (two adults and a child in one) although I am sure that was a very tight fit.  Believe it or not, these little rooms have their own toilets tucked under the small table (in the picture above left, it is under my red bag.)

On the way back, I sat in steerage.  “Coach” is the official name, but it is miserable in many ways.

Although the seats are more comfortable than in a commercial airplane, that is akin to saying that Bayview Correctional Facility is more hospitable than Rikers Island.

I felt quite out of place due to the fact that I was the only person over the age of 12 without a tattoo.  I learned some new curse words, and met some very interesting people.  The guy in the seat next to me was pretty inebriated drinking Hennessy with a Mountain Dew chaser.

The two guys behind me were talking about deer hunting (one of them brought his bow.  Yes, really) comparing stories of the biggest buck they had ever killed, times they were almost shot by other hunters, times they almost got arrested for poaching.  Two seats ahead of me someone were watching an action movie that was punctuated by frequent F-bombs.  Another young man is listening to hip hop (for my older readers, that is just another word for Rap Music) on his iphone.

Once we passed the state line and crossed into Alabama, the train seemed to erupt in celebration.  It was Sunday, and it is illegal to sell alcohol in Georgia on Sunday, so people made a bee-line for the bar to order beer.

probably the biggest issue with the trip is one of duration: what would be a 80 minute flight or a six-hour car ride takes 10 hours by train.  On a good day, that is.  We had to stop multiple times for freight trains to pass.  It took 12 hours from Hattiesburg to Atlanta.

Technorati Tags: Train,Amtrak,Hip Hop,Atlanta,Planes Trains and Automobiles,Seats,Hennessy,Mountain Dew

S is for Sedative

 

Again, I will make a disclaimer that this post is rated PG-13.  Read on at your own risk!

Tuesday, January 18th was the big day, the moment of truth.  I got to the urologist’s office at the appointed time, and was immediately given the obligatory urine sample cup and ushered into the restroom.  That morning I took the first of the three prescriptions I had been given for the surgery, and as I left the restroom, the nurse instructed me to put the second prescription under my tongue and to let it dissolve. She led me to a small room and instructed me to sit down on the table and to remove my pants.  She said a sentence that still chills me to this day: “Mr. Smith, someone will be in shortly to shave your scrotum.”

About 5 or maybe 10 minutes later, I could feel the action of the drug that I had dissolved under my tongue taking effect: I felt calm, happy and very at ease.  Aliens with battle-axes could have teleported into the room and I would have just smiled and introduced myself.  That is about when the nurse came in and told me to take my pants off.

Before anyone gets the wrong idea, let me just say that I am pretty sure that prior to choosing nursing as her career, the nurse was probably a lunch lady at my elementary school.  She had strong arms, and a wide girth that would have made her equally adept as a center for the Green Bay Packers as a nurse.  She held proudly in her hand a Bick razor.  The stout nurse began to shave me, handling my genitals with the soft tenderness of someone working in a meat packing plant.  She shaved and shaved and shaved.  It took her longer than it takes me to shave my entire face.  She was extremely thorough.

Any delusions I might have had of my being a cultured gentleman were gone at that point.  I felt like Dr. Evil in Austin Powers: “At the age of 14 a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles.  There is really nothing like a shorn scrotum.”

Then the doctor came in.  He gave me a shot of something in the arm to “keep me calm.”  I asked him how he knew how much to dose, curious mostly, but also concerned because people often underestimate my weight.  He responded that over the years he had developed the ability to gauge how much to give.  As he was injecting me, he asked, “Do you drink?”  Jokingly I replied, “oh, yes.  Every day.”  I immediately realized that it was probably a mistake to make that joke, because he injected me with more of the sedative.  I don’t drink at all.

Before I knew it, the doctor says to me, “All done!”  I didn’t realize that he had started.  I tried to get up, and stumbled, and Olga, the nurse held my arm in a firm grim that was more appropriate to a Greco-roman wrestling match than a doctor’s office.  She must have put my pants on me, and as I realized later to my horror, a jock strap.  Another nurse led me out where my wife was waiting.  The nurse gave me instructions on how to care for the wounds, but noting my inebriated state, gave the instructions to my wife

Technorati Tags: Vasectomy,Sedative,Dr. Evil,Incision,Pain,Nurse,Shave,Testicle,Scrotum

instead.

I then thanked the nurse, and fist-bumped her.

In the car, I called people from work, my dad, friends, etcetera until my quick thinking wife prudently confiscated my phone.  I think I slept the entire afternoon.

V is for Vasectomy

If you are under the age of 18 or if you are easily offended, read no more.  You have been warned!

This week my wife and I went to an appointment with a Urologist.  I am strongly considering getting a vasectomy.  No, that is not a surgery to remove a vase that you accidentally ate, but is a “long term form of birth control.”  Why did Rebecca go with me?  Did I need the emotional support?  No.  It is require by law in Mississippi that a man’s spouse, if he is married, accompany him to watch a video and to give her consent prior to undergoing the procedure.  More on the video later.

First, if you ever have to go to the urologist for any reason, don’t pee before you get there.  No matter why you are there, they will make you give a urine sample.  One guy came out of the bathroom with his little cup full and told the nurse, “Hey, I am only here to pay my bill.”

The urologist came in looking just like Michael Gross, the TV dad from Family Ties.  He was a little socially awkward, which isn’t terribly surprising considering the man dedicated his entire professional life to the study of urine, and urinary tracts.

The video was awesome.  It was made in the 1970’s and featured Dr. Mohammed Bulbul.  Below is a similar video so you get the idea.

Some of my favorite quotes from the video:

“After the procedure, you are going to need to avoid vigorous activities such as horseback riding, mechanical bulls, mountain biking, kickboxing, etcetera.” – Dr. Bulbul.

“After the procedure, I had some discomfort, not unlike if someone were pinching one of your testicles.” –the patient

“Tell me when I can open my eyes again” – Rebecca, while shielding her face from the segment where they show the doctor cutting the vas deferens, the small tube that connects the testicle to the seminal vesicle.

After the video and talking with the good doctor, I started to feel a little self-conscious, maybe a bit different, a bit eccentric.  I have four kids already.  The patient in the video said, “well, we had two kids already and that’s all we wanted, so the time was right to get sterilized.”  The Doctor told us that just about everyone who comes in has two kids.  According to him, once a couple has a boy and a girl, its a done deal.  Wow.

I am not sure I am comfortable with the word “sterile,” either.  It sounds harsh.  Final.

I asked my boss if it would be ok if I took four days of for “an elective out-patient surgery.”  He probably thinks I am going to get breast augmentation or something.

I have a tentative date set for the procedure.  Time to buy some ice packs and rent some movies.  I hear that it is popular for guys to get the procedure done around March Madness, so they can sit at home and watch the college basketball playoffs with an ice pack under their scrotum.  Good times.

Technorati Tags: Scrotum,Vasectomy,Urology,Urologist,Dr. Bulbul,Testicle,Sterile,Birth Control

Proud to be an American

About 15 years ago, a good friend of mine, Leonardo Tanda, came to visit me from Milan, Italy.  He wanted to go to New York, so I met him there at JFK airport.  One of the first things he said to me was, “Why are there so many American flags here in America?”  I responded in my characteristic sarcastic way, “what did you expect, Angola flags?”  This was in the days before 9-11, and we got to visit the World Trade Center Towers, and a number of other sites.  There are even more flags in New York City today. 

After considering his question for a few days, it hit me that when I was abroad in a number of different countries living and working, I hadn’t seen very many flags.  I know that the people are quite are patriotic in Argentina (I spent 22 months there), Italy (I spent close to 20 months there), Mexico (I spent many months there, at least 6), Spain (I spent a month there) or any of the other countries I have worked in (The People’s Republic of China, Japan, The Bahamas, The Dominican Republic, Canada, France, Holland, Germany, Austria, Brazil, etc), but there are more flags in the good ole US of A that in those other countries.

Strangely enough, as I was driving back from a store about five miles away from my house, and I counted no less than 18 American flags: two at churches, one at a school and the rest in neighbors’ yards, either on flagpoles like the one in the photo, or on flag holders on the houses themselves.  I don’t think I have ever seen someone’s yard with a flagpole flying their country’s flag in another country.

Why so many flags?  Well, Patriotism is a key part of our culture.  Being patriotic is cool.  Being unpatriotic is, well, uncool.  There are few things worse than being labeled as unpatriotic.  Being homophobic or even anti-gay is one of those things that is worse than being called unpatriotic.  One of the few things worse than being labeled as a homophobe is being labeled as a Racist, and the only thing worse than being labeled a Racist is being labeled a pedophile.  Homophobic racist pedophiles who are unpatriotic have it bad.  But I digress.

 

Why are millions of Americans so patriotically convinced that the USA is the greatest country on earth?  It is puzzling considering only 1 in 5 Americans owns a passport (and even fewer have actually traveled outside the USA.)  Interestingly enough, far fewer have ever lived outside the USA.  In fact, 40% of Americans have never lived outside the town where they were born!  Don’t get me wrong: America is a very great place to live, and of all the places I have visited, I like the USA the best.  It is just strange to me how convinced people are without even visiting anywhere else.

Patriotism can inspire some strong emotions.  I will tell you that every time I hear Lee Greenwood’s God Bless the USA, I get teary eyed.  Especially at the Lasershow at Stone Mountain Park.

It should come as no surprise that patriotism (Like Jesus) is used  (quite effectively I might add) to sell products.  Buy American, the saying goes.

Patriotism is used to sell all kinds of products, from Automobiles to beer to Gasoline to designer clothing.

The funny thing about this photo is that Marathon Oil Company is a global operation, and it imports over 64 million barrels of oil from the Middle East each year.

With globalization running rampant, the world has become a confusing place for patriots.  I mean, should we be concerned about American Flags being made in China?

I learned patriotism from my father.  He served during the Viet Nam war (which, surprisingly enough, is known as “the American War” if you are Vietnamese.)  His father, Smitty, was career military. 

At times I my patriotism has caused me to stand out from the crowd.  Once, for example, I was the only one standing at a graduation ceremony because the program said to remain standing after the National Anthem.  2,000 other folks sat, and I alone stood, and when a person behind me said “why don’t you sit down like the rest of us,” I replied with the only sensible thing that would come to my mind: “why don’t you read the program, you ignorant red neck.”  I guess maybe I was a bit over the top. Another time, at a football game, My boys and I were the only ones to stand and remove our hats as the Colors were presented. 

But in spite of my feelings, I can’t say that I am at all as patriotic as those who serve our Country in the US military.  Personal sacrifice for our country is the truest sign of patriotism.

Technorati Tags: Americana,Patriotism,America,Culture,Get a Tank of Freedom,Globalization,Marketing,Buy American

Well, this IS my first rodeo.

 

Tonight we took the kids to the Purvis High School rodeo.  Yes, rodeo is a real high school sport.  If you don’t believe me, then go to the Mississippi High School Rodeo Association website.  There is even a National organization, too.

I don’t think I have ever seen more denim-per-capita anywhere else in the world!  The average belt buckle size was at least 8” in diameter, too.

For those of my readers who are tuning in from outside the US, High School is the American term for secondary school.

It will probably come as a shock to you, but they even allow home-schooled kids to compete!  They even will announce the name of the your home school if you give them one so your kids feel more like they go to a real school like everyone else.

Since I often use the phrase, “Well, this ain’t my first rodeo” to convey the point that I have experience in a particular thing, I guess it is good that I have finally gone to a real rodeo, so I can be truthful when  I use the phrase in the future.

I will say this: The rodeo was very cool.  The skill required to ride a horse at full speed, lasso a calf, jump off your horse, flip the calf upside-down, whip out a rope and tie the calf’s legs together in under 10 seconds is incredible.

Another amazing event is called Steer Wrestling.  I almost had my kids convinced that two steers were going to come out and wrestle each other.  What actually happened was even more incredible.  Young high school Freshmen, Sophomores, Juniors and Seniors compete in this event in which a cowboy rides out chasing a steer.  When he gets close enough, he jumps off of his horse tackling the steer by the horns, and then flipping the steer over on its side.  Very cool.  I don’t have a video from the Purvis High School Rodeo, but this one is pretty cool, too.

The Poles event is very cool, too.

Is OCD hereditary?

 

I come in this evening to find my three year old son, Max with my wife’s cotton makeup removal pads (he calls them Fuzzies):

Nigel has many a time organized shoes, pencils, pens, etc.

While it is true that I am very particular about a lot of things, I don’t technically have OCD.  OCPD, maybe.

Maybe that is why I collect things like coins, pens, knives, watches, guns, rocks, bayonets, tools, etc.

Bizarre Accidents will happen

 

On the way home from church today in Laurel, my son Nigel and I were on I-59 heading south when I noticed a car coming very fast towards me from behind. I swerved onto the shoulder, almost into the median.  The car went between me and the car next to me, and continued at a very fast pace.  I was going almost 80 mph, so the car, a silver Honda, must have been going at least 100 mph.  Soon after that, maybe 10 or 20 seconds later, I saw a cloud of dust, smoke, brake lights and debris flying towards me.  I immediately pulled onto the shoulder and came to a stop.

I told Nigel to stay in the car, and I ran towards the smoke.  When I got to the Honda, it was already on fire.  The driver was out, screaming and crying.  Although it looked like a man, it turned out to be a heavyset black woman in baggy clothes.  She was yelling and fighting with a couple other people who had also stopped to help.  Within a few moments, a couple of the passersby had her pinned to another car with her arms behind her in a double hammer lock.  She was yelling and screaming, “why didn’t I die?!?”

I walked over to the burning Honda, and started looking through the windows to see if there was anyone else in the vehicle.  The other passersby started yelling, “get back, it could explode,” but I continued to look to make certain no one was still in the car.

The Honda had hit a small Mazda, and the two cars had spun out of control onto the grassy shoulder and they rested some 20 to 50 feet off the roadway.  The Honda was engulfed in flames.  I called 911, and as I was talking to the operator, I asked other motorists for a fire extinguisher.  By the time someone found a fire extinguisher, the Honda was completely engulfed.

Inside the Mazda, a 40-something white woman was laying in the driver’s side seat with the airbag deployed.  She was in pain, but was talking to the other people who had stopped.

Within minutes the police arrived, followed by three fire trucks.  In the end, the driver of the Honda had hit three or four cars, and the police handcuffed her and put her in the back of the police car.  She was hysterical.

To make matters more confusing, about half of the witnesses still thought that the woman was a man, which totally confused the police.  They took my driver’s license information and my phone number.  To Nigel’s credit, he stayed put in the car.  He even made a friend by talking to a boy in another car.

 

Technorati Tags: I-59,Laurel,Mississippi,Traffic,Police,Accident,Crazy Lady,Car Fire,Fire Department,Fire Trucks,Firemen,Near Death Experience,Nigel,Cars,Car Accident,Fire,Injury,Honda,Mazda