Have you ever been able to see disaster coming right at you, with little means of avoiding it?
About a month ago, I signed up for a Leave No Trace Trainer course which will qualify me to conduct LNT Awareness Workshops. I love the out-of-doors; I love camping. I want to help preserve nature for my own enjoyment and for the benefit of my kids (and perhaps grandkids one day). When I signed up a month ago, it was freezing cold and snowing every day. I was looking forward to some fresh springtime weather for a change. And this course involves camping for two nights, Friday and Saturday; gotta like that.
Well, according to the forecast, it will indeed be fresh springtime weather. There is a 60% chance of rain Friday night; 30% chance of rain all day Saturday; and 40% chance of rain on Sunday. I can already see how this is going to work out.
Oh well, I have been camping in the rain before, and no doubt I will go camping in the rain many times after this next weekend. At least the forecast gives me plenty of warning so that I can go well prepared. Tomorrow night after work I am headed for the sporting goods store to purchase a new rain suit. I already have a tall pair of rubber boots in addition to my regular kit of outdoor gear. This is going to be fun regardless of the weather.
Next week I will write about this little adventure and let you know how it turned out.
Speaking of camping in the rain, last July I went out camping in the second worst rainstorm in which I have ever camped. It was the last night of Webelos resident camp (a total of three nights of camping on this trip). All day Saturday there had been threats of rain on the horizon, and my son Primogenitor and I made the mistake of lingering at the camp dining hall a bit too long before beginning the mile long hike up the hill to our campsite on a wooded ridge line.
About half way there the drizzle began. About two hundred yards from camp the downpour started. This was about 10:30 at night and it was pitch black on the trail that wound through the woods in the ravine below our camp. We were fairly damp by the time we got back to the tent (a cabin style tent set up on a wooden platform) and after shooing away a wolf spider about the size of an Eisenhower dollar from inside the tent, we bedded down with a steady racket of downpour hitting the canvass above our heads. The lightning started before 11:00, and for the next four hours there was a constant din of non-stop thunder, with little respite. On the rare occasions when the noise of the thunder wasn't deafening, the roar of the rain was.
Sleep was impossible under the circumstances, and occasionally I would take a peek outside to check on the rising torrent of water streaming through the center of our campsite. The rising flash flood was a bit alarming considering that we were camped on the crest of a ridge and theoretically there should not be a flood at the top of a hill. Fortunately there was the ever-present flash of lightning with an immediate report of thunder indicating an uncomfortably close strike that took my mind of the threat of being washed away in the flood. I was thankful for the wooden platform upon which my tent was pitched because that raised us off the ground by about 8 inches. However, upon my last check outside I found the stream had almost reached the top of the platform. I wasn't interested in looking outside anymore after that.
The storm never lost any of its fury until it suddenly stopped (almost as if someone had turned off a faucet) around 3:30 in the morning. Primogenitor and I finally got to sleep around 4:00 and I let him sleep late the next morning. I have camped out in one other storm that was more relentless and lengthy in duration that this (about 12 hours of steady downpour, the last six of which included galeforce winds), but this thunderstorm was the worst I have encountered as far as near misses from lightning.
The next morning in the cool misty dawn as survivors crawled from their tents to survey the damage and the signs of flotsam left in a trail through the center of camp, conversation naturally turned to each individual's experiences and observations from the night before. One of the adult leaders informed the group that he had monitored the storm's progress on his Blackberry which was able to retrieve weather radar data. Ordinarily storms in this part of the country are oriented north to south and proceed from a westerly direction. This storm, on the contrary, was a series of super-cells aligned on a east-west orientation, but yet still tracking from a westerly direction. Since the storm passed directly over our camp, we were subjected to the terrible brunt of the tempest.
As we stood about chatting, a tree just outside our camp that had been undermined by the flood suddenly came crashing to the ground.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
There is Only One Conspiracy
I have a pet peeve. Okay, those who know me well will affirm that I harbor a treasure trove of pet peeves much like the miser hordes ducats. But today I am particularly annoyed by my pet peeve involving conspiracies.
My first interest in conspiracies began when a friend of mine (my lawyer) handed me a well worn book and advised me to read it; my eyes would be unburdened and the truth would be known. The book was entitled Best Evidence by David Lifton. (As a footnote here, we later had a bit of a falling out when her fiancé started stalking me, and I never returned the volume to her. If she wants it back now she knows how to sue me for it). The book was about the assassination of John F. Kennedy which at the time was a topic about which I knew very little. Naturally I was intrigued and I consumed the book voraciously.
The first thing that struck me was the unaccountable audacity of the work. David Lifton freely confesses early on that he became so consumed with his research into the crime of the century that he washed out of engineering graduate school. That I would not hold against him, but when he suggested that as a failed engineer he had some superior knowledge in the physics associated with the murder of the president, he began to loose credibility with me. His rambling style of organization and fantastic claims (e.g. body snatchers switched coffins at the airport and performed post mortem surgery on his Excellency’s corpse, making it look like he was shot from behind) cinched the deal for me. While I’m sure his intention was to create conspiracy buff proselytes, I completed the book firmly convinced that he was full of shit. Critical reading will do this for you.
In a way, reading Best Evidence changed my life. Once I recognized what an empty house of cards supported the Kennedy conspiracy, I became emboldened to question the authority of other conspiracy buffs.
I will pause here to express a corollary pet peeve. What in the name of Ford is a buff? Do they not realize this is short for buffoon? I would rather someone call me “Late for Dinner” than to have them call me a buff.
But I digress. My newly found awareness of the brazen mendacity of these self styled “buffs” prompted me to scrutinize all things mysterious with the zeal of an evangelical polemicist. “How about crop circles?” Easiest thing in the world to make with a tent stake, rope and a board. “What about Atlantis?” It’s a fairy tale; grow up and stop believing in fairies. “Have you seen the Shroud of Turin?” The bishop thought it was a fake when it first appeared in 1385; what makes you think it is real now? “Loch Ness Monster?” “Sasquatch?” “UFOs?” “Poltergeists?” “WMD in Iraq?” Without hard evidence that can withstand rigorous examination, it all has lost its mysterious luster in my eyes. They are all jewels of brass.
There is a new breed of conspiracy buffs skulking about the dark environs of the internet now that call themselves Truthers. This is a particularly insidious breed because their preferred cause is the tragedy that was September 11. I am like many others regarding this topic. I harbor my latent anger over this event next to my collection of pet peeves. Truthers assert that the thousands and tens of thousands of victims from that day suffered their loss as a result of a government conspiracy, and not a foreign terrorist conspiracy. They will make claims such as, “even a restaurant busboy can see from the video that the North Tower was collapsed by explosive charges placed in advance by government agents”. Most often such claims are indeed advanced by restaurant busboys or someone with similar authority on matters of engineering and building design. The community of professional engineers understandably distance themselves from such spurious rants.
I hold Oliver Stone accountable for propagating a generation of buffs. He elevated the paranoid ranting of a shameless self promoter (Jim Garrison) to an art form; although I would not suggest it is high art. I have visited Dealey Plaza in Dallas Texas from time to time, and each time there was a collection of buffs milling about the grassy knoll peddling their particular theory on the crime, but more importantly peddling their publication explaining their favorite flavor of conspiracy theory. It’s funny how a presidential murder has become a cottage industry, and I don’t mean funny in the good way. This is the one real conspiracy. Charlatans turning a profit from public gullibility, exploiting a national tragedy.
In the years following my conspiracy epiphany, I have developed creative ways to voice my distain for all things conspiratorial without incurring opprobrium of polite society. I do this through satire. I recall once that I was at a business party, well lubricated with an open bar, and someone brought up the subject of some conspiracy theory or other. “You realize” I said to the chap, “there is only one conspiracy”. He regarded me with befuddlement and asked, “What do you mean?” “Well,” I replied, “all these conspiracy theories you have heard about”; I leaned in close “they are not separate conspiracies. They are all related. There is only one big conspiracy”.
For a brief moment he was uncertain whether this was true or whether I was full of hyperbole, so I plunged ahead. “Sure, it all starts with the Knights Templar. They had to protect their secrets, but when Kennedy told what he knew to Marilyn Monroe, the Freemasons had to eliminate her. Then, they used their connections with Opus Dei to contact the Mafia to get rid of both Kennedy and his brother Bobby. Richard Nixon found out that the Masons were going to hit Kennedy using their contacts at the CIA, and he flew to Dallas that day to try to warn him. This made the CIA retaliate against Nixon by setting him up with the whole Watergate thing. But Nixon was smart; Howard Hughes tipped him off to what the CIA up to, and Nixon shared that secret with only one other person. That was Elvis Presley.” Then I added with a wink, “and you know what happened to him”.
By this time the polite smile had faded from my friend’s (victim’s) face. He shifted from one foot to the other, eyes darting furtively about the room seeking some familiar clique or clutch of revelers to which he could retreat from my onslaught. I decided then it would be much more entertaining to freshen my cocktail rather than to torment him any longer.
“But those that understood him smiled at one another, and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me.”
Casca from Julius Caesar Act I Scene II.
My first interest in conspiracies began when a friend of mine (my lawyer) handed me a well worn book and advised me to read it; my eyes would be unburdened and the truth would be known. The book was entitled Best Evidence by David Lifton. (As a footnote here, we later had a bit of a falling out when her fiancé started stalking me, and I never returned the volume to her. If she wants it back now she knows how to sue me for it). The book was about the assassination of John F. Kennedy which at the time was a topic about which I knew very little. Naturally I was intrigued and I consumed the book voraciously.
The first thing that struck me was the unaccountable audacity of the work. David Lifton freely confesses early on that he became so consumed with his research into the crime of the century that he washed out of engineering graduate school. That I would not hold against him, but when he suggested that as a failed engineer he had some superior knowledge in the physics associated with the murder of the president, he began to loose credibility with me. His rambling style of organization and fantastic claims (e.g. body snatchers switched coffins at the airport and performed post mortem surgery on his Excellency’s corpse, making it look like he was shot from behind) cinched the deal for me. While I’m sure his intention was to create conspiracy buff proselytes, I completed the book firmly convinced that he was full of shit. Critical reading will do this for you.
In a way, reading Best Evidence changed my life. Once I recognized what an empty house of cards supported the Kennedy conspiracy, I became emboldened to question the authority of other conspiracy buffs.
I will pause here to express a corollary pet peeve. What in the name of Ford is a buff? Do they not realize this is short for buffoon? I would rather someone call me “Late for Dinner” than to have them call me a buff.
But I digress. My newly found awareness of the brazen mendacity of these self styled “buffs” prompted me to scrutinize all things mysterious with the zeal of an evangelical polemicist. “How about crop circles?” Easiest thing in the world to make with a tent stake, rope and a board. “What about Atlantis?” It’s a fairy tale; grow up and stop believing in fairies. “Have you seen the Shroud of Turin?” The bishop thought it was a fake when it first appeared in 1385; what makes you think it is real now? “Loch Ness Monster?” “Sasquatch?” “UFOs?” “Poltergeists?” “WMD in Iraq?” Without hard evidence that can withstand rigorous examination, it all has lost its mysterious luster in my eyes. They are all jewels of brass.
There is a new breed of conspiracy buffs skulking about the dark environs of the internet now that call themselves Truthers. This is a particularly insidious breed because their preferred cause is the tragedy that was September 11. I am like many others regarding this topic. I harbor my latent anger over this event next to my collection of pet peeves. Truthers assert that the thousands and tens of thousands of victims from that day suffered their loss as a result of a government conspiracy, and not a foreign terrorist conspiracy. They will make claims such as, “even a restaurant busboy can see from the video that the North Tower was collapsed by explosive charges placed in advance by government agents”. Most often such claims are indeed advanced by restaurant busboys or someone with similar authority on matters of engineering and building design. The community of professional engineers understandably distance themselves from such spurious rants.
I hold Oliver Stone accountable for propagating a generation of buffs. He elevated the paranoid ranting of a shameless self promoter (Jim Garrison) to an art form; although I would not suggest it is high art. I have visited Dealey Plaza in Dallas Texas from time to time, and each time there was a collection of buffs milling about the grassy knoll peddling their particular theory on the crime, but more importantly peddling their publication explaining their favorite flavor of conspiracy theory. It’s funny how a presidential murder has become a cottage industry, and I don’t mean funny in the good way. This is the one real conspiracy. Charlatans turning a profit from public gullibility, exploiting a national tragedy.
In the years following my conspiracy epiphany, I have developed creative ways to voice my distain for all things conspiratorial without incurring opprobrium of polite society. I do this through satire. I recall once that I was at a business party, well lubricated with an open bar, and someone brought up the subject of some conspiracy theory or other. “You realize” I said to the chap, “there is only one conspiracy”. He regarded me with befuddlement and asked, “What do you mean?” “Well,” I replied, “all these conspiracy theories you have heard about”; I leaned in close “they are not separate conspiracies. They are all related. There is only one big conspiracy”.
For a brief moment he was uncertain whether this was true or whether I was full of hyperbole, so I plunged ahead. “Sure, it all starts with the Knights Templar. They had to protect their secrets, but when Kennedy told what he knew to Marilyn Monroe, the Freemasons had to eliminate her. Then, they used their connections with Opus Dei to contact the Mafia to get rid of both Kennedy and his brother Bobby. Richard Nixon found out that the Masons were going to hit Kennedy using their contacts at the CIA, and he flew to Dallas that day to try to warn him. This made the CIA retaliate against Nixon by setting him up with the whole Watergate thing. But Nixon was smart; Howard Hughes tipped him off to what the CIA up to, and Nixon shared that secret with only one other person. That was Elvis Presley.” Then I added with a wink, “and you know what happened to him”.
By this time the polite smile had faded from my friend’s (victim’s) face. He shifted from one foot to the other, eyes darting furtively about the room seeking some familiar clique or clutch of revelers to which he could retreat from my onslaught. I decided then it would be much more entertaining to freshen my cocktail rather than to torment him any longer.
“But those that understood him smiled at one another, and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me.”
Casca from Julius Caesar Act I Scene II.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Beer Machine Bomb
The following story is entirely hypothetical for all you know; and furthermore I would never do it again.
Suppose just for the sake of argument that when I was in college, my fraternity house had an old Pepsi machine from which our brotherhood generated a few extra dollars in revenue by selling beer instead of Pepsi (this alleged college being the only state university in Kentucky situated in a dry territory at that time). And picture if you will that some unidentified person not having the key to said beer machine while yet suffering from a compulsive sense of thirst, smashed off the existing lock to gain entry to the wonderful contents inside. Now later, as the brothers wanted to continue vending beer through the beer machine, but being unable to secure it given the broken lock, imagine that they affixed a hasp to the machine so that it could be padlocked shut. Picture all these things if you will.
Now imagine that later the machine fell into disuse. It was relegated into storage in a glassed in greenhouse room just off the main living room at the front of the house where it sat, sad and lonely for a year or so. Nobody paid it much thought; at least not until finals week in my senior year. Consider a warmer than average spring in an un-airconditioned house, and the subtle smell of putrefaction beginning to permeate the living-room area. Nobody understands from whence the smell of death was issuing until the weekend after finals and someone ventured to open the door of the office. As soon as the door opened, the overwhelming, sickening stench of rotten flesh poured with a vengeance from the glass room. The hapless victim who had opened Pandora’s Box of Stink immediately slammed the door, but noticed that the beer machine had a brand new Master’s padlock on the hasp just before closing the door.
It turns out that this (hypothetical) situation was a grim sort of prank. Some unidentified person had killed some poor vermin in the woods, taken its lifeless carcass, and stuffed it deep into the beer machine, before affixing a padlock for which only he had the key. This course of events was about six weeks in the past by the time it was discovered.
Did I mention that it had been an unusually warm spring?
The situation proved a difficult problem to solve. No one could remain in the glass room long enough either to saw off the padlock, pry off the hasp or attempt to move the very heavy beer machine. And yet as long as the machine remained in the office, we anticipated that the stench would continue to intensify. Isn’t this quite the conundrum?
Someone once said that there are few problems in life that cannot be solved with the suitable application of explosives. This little dictum became our salvation. Picture for just a moment if you will, an anonymous person who owns a CO2 pellet gun, and being a thrifty sort decided to recycle the spent CO2 cartridges by fashioning them into bombs. The process is quite simple if you think about it. Take a nail and enlarge the puncture in the nozzle so that it is large enough to hold a small funnel; pour in an ounce or two of very fine black powder (available at many sporting goods stores); insert plastic coated cannon fuse (also available at many sporting goods stores); and seal it with epoxy glue. If someone were to do such a thing, it would make quite a nice, waterproof miniature bomb.
Let me add here that I have never, ever owned a CO2 pellet gun; for real. If someone else made such a bomb, it wasn’t me. Seriously.
Let’s pretend that on a sunny Sunday afternoon in May, a small group of fraternity boys gathering in the front yard of their house and discussing what to do to get the lock off the beer machine. Brother Boom (you might remember this name from my Cats blog) might have suggested, “Why don’t we blow it off with one of my bombs?” (Ergo the nickname, Boom). To this suggestion, I could have replied, “If we can blow off the lock, I will get the dead animal out of the machine”. There probably was a handy wheel barrow and shovel nearby to facilitate this awful task.
So the group reassembles just outside the glass windows to watch while I and one other brother hold our noses and venture into the charnel house with a roll of duct tape and a bomb in hand. Holding our breaths, we tape the bomb to the side of the beer machine just underneath the lock. Just as my face began to turn from red to purple from oxygen deprivation, I gave a quick flick of a lighter and touched off the end of the plastic fuse, which began to burn furiously. The other brother and I ran for the back door.
By this time the group of witnesses had retreated through a gate and was hiding behind the wooden privacy fence skirting the house, laughing and giggling hysterically. Now about this time, imagine that it was such a pleasant sunny Sunday afternoon that an elderly lady came walking down the sidewalk, on her way to church or perhaps to the grocery. No one noticed that she was passing slowly right in front of the fraternity house as the fuse was lit. We knew that it was way far too late to go cut the fuse, and she was moving awfully slow…
KABOOM!
The bomb detonated just as the old lady was directly in front of the fraternity house, about 100 feet away (imagine a rather large front yard). The resulting blast caused a deafening boom accompanied by the crash of broken glass as shrapnel shattered the windows of the glass room. Fractured steel and broken glass sprayed across the gravel parking lot.
The old lady had stopped frozen in her tracks when the bomb went off. She stared at the front of the house in horrified silence, mouth agape. Perhaps she may have been mystified that a half dozen laughing college boys would have come pouring out through the wooden gate so soon after such an alarming explosion, but if she had lived in the neighborhood for any length of time, this really shouldn’t have been such a surprise.
If of course any of this actually happened; which I’m not really saying it did.
Suppose just for the sake of argument that when I was in college, my fraternity house had an old Pepsi machine from which our brotherhood generated a few extra dollars in revenue by selling beer instead of Pepsi (this alleged college being the only state university in Kentucky situated in a dry territory at that time). And picture if you will that some unidentified person not having the key to said beer machine while yet suffering from a compulsive sense of thirst, smashed off the existing lock to gain entry to the wonderful contents inside. Now later, as the brothers wanted to continue vending beer through the beer machine, but being unable to secure it given the broken lock, imagine that they affixed a hasp to the machine so that it could be padlocked shut. Picture all these things if you will.
Now imagine that later the machine fell into disuse. It was relegated into storage in a glassed in greenhouse room just off the main living room at the front of the house where it sat, sad and lonely for a year or so. Nobody paid it much thought; at least not until finals week in my senior year. Consider a warmer than average spring in an un-airconditioned house, and the subtle smell of putrefaction beginning to permeate the living-room area. Nobody understands from whence the smell of death was issuing until the weekend after finals and someone ventured to open the door of the office. As soon as the door opened, the overwhelming, sickening stench of rotten flesh poured with a vengeance from the glass room. The hapless victim who had opened Pandora’s Box of Stink immediately slammed the door, but noticed that the beer machine had a brand new Master’s padlock on the hasp just before closing the door.
It turns out that this (hypothetical) situation was a grim sort of prank. Some unidentified person had killed some poor vermin in the woods, taken its lifeless carcass, and stuffed it deep into the beer machine, before affixing a padlock for which only he had the key. This course of events was about six weeks in the past by the time it was discovered.
Did I mention that it had been an unusually warm spring?
The situation proved a difficult problem to solve. No one could remain in the glass room long enough either to saw off the padlock, pry off the hasp or attempt to move the very heavy beer machine. And yet as long as the machine remained in the office, we anticipated that the stench would continue to intensify. Isn’t this quite the conundrum?
Someone once said that there are few problems in life that cannot be solved with the suitable application of explosives. This little dictum became our salvation. Picture for just a moment if you will, an anonymous person who owns a CO2 pellet gun, and being a thrifty sort decided to recycle the spent CO2 cartridges by fashioning them into bombs. The process is quite simple if you think about it. Take a nail and enlarge the puncture in the nozzle so that it is large enough to hold a small funnel; pour in an ounce or two of very fine black powder (available at many sporting goods stores); insert plastic coated cannon fuse (also available at many sporting goods stores); and seal it with epoxy glue. If someone were to do such a thing, it would make quite a nice, waterproof miniature bomb.
Let me add here that I have never, ever owned a CO2 pellet gun; for real. If someone else made such a bomb, it wasn’t me. Seriously.
Let’s pretend that on a sunny Sunday afternoon in May, a small group of fraternity boys gathering in the front yard of their house and discussing what to do to get the lock off the beer machine. Brother Boom (you might remember this name from my Cats blog) might have suggested, “Why don’t we blow it off with one of my bombs?” (Ergo the nickname, Boom). To this suggestion, I could have replied, “If we can blow off the lock, I will get the dead animal out of the machine”. There probably was a handy wheel barrow and shovel nearby to facilitate this awful task.
So the group reassembles just outside the glass windows to watch while I and one other brother hold our noses and venture into the charnel house with a roll of duct tape and a bomb in hand. Holding our breaths, we tape the bomb to the side of the beer machine just underneath the lock. Just as my face began to turn from red to purple from oxygen deprivation, I gave a quick flick of a lighter and touched off the end of the plastic fuse, which began to burn furiously. The other brother and I ran for the back door.
By this time the group of witnesses had retreated through a gate and was hiding behind the wooden privacy fence skirting the house, laughing and giggling hysterically. Now about this time, imagine that it was such a pleasant sunny Sunday afternoon that an elderly lady came walking down the sidewalk, on her way to church or perhaps to the grocery. No one noticed that she was passing slowly right in front of the fraternity house as the fuse was lit. We knew that it was way far too late to go cut the fuse, and she was moving awfully slow…
KABOOM!
The bomb detonated just as the old lady was directly in front of the fraternity house, about 100 feet away (imagine a rather large front yard). The resulting blast caused a deafening boom accompanied by the crash of broken glass as shrapnel shattered the windows of the glass room. Fractured steel and broken glass sprayed across the gravel parking lot.
The old lady had stopped frozen in her tracks when the bomb went off. She stared at the front of the house in horrified silence, mouth agape. Perhaps she may have been mystified that a half dozen laughing college boys would have come pouring out through the wooden gate so soon after such an alarming explosion, but if she had lived in the neighborhood for any length of time, this really shouldn’t have been such a surprise.
If of course any of this actually happened; which I’m not really saying it did.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
There Is Justice After All
Several years ago, my wife and I took a trip over Labor Day weekend to historic Charlottesville Virginia to visit Monticello, the home of our third president, Thomas Jefferson (being the avid historian that I am, our family vacations typically involve some historic theme). The house was fascinating; I would recommend that everyone add this destination to their bucket list.
However, Monticello is not the topic of this blog. The Sunday morning parade is.
We spent Saturday night in a hotel located on a strip of generica on the main highway at the edge of town. The view from our second floor balcony was the parking lot of a Home Depot, and to the right was a six lane highway almost choking with retail sprawl; convenient stores, strip malls, Asian buffets, bistros, gas stations, and the like. Below our window a service road passed between the hotel and the HD parking lot and connected with the main strip at a traffic light. Our plan for that Sunday morning was to sleep late and make a leisurely return trip to Louisville to pick up our son, Primogenitor, from the grandparents who were babysitting (our second born was not yet our second born).
Our plans on a leisurely morning began to fall apart about 7:00 that Sunday morning when we were awakened by the sound of sirens. Not just a siren; no literally dozens and dozens of sirens. I hopped out of bed in alarm, pulled on a pair of jeans, and raced to the balcony to see what kind of emergency was happening.
But there wasn’t any emergency; there were emergency vehicles. Every emergency vehicle in Albemarle County must have been parked in the HD parking lot; police cars, sheriff’s cars, fire trucks, ambulances, heavy rescue trucks, game wardens, fire wardens, constables, deputies. I even saw a police SUV with a police boat on a trailer behind. Every one of them had their lights flashing insanely, and every one of them had their damn sirens blaring.
Did I mention that this was 7:00 on a Sunday morning of a holiday weekend?
Needless to say I was feeling less than charitable toward the local emergency service agencies. While I stood there on the balcony amazed and fuming with indignation, the host began to stream in single file out of the parking lot onto the service road, sirens still blaring, up to the traffic light before turning right and disappearing. I’m sure it took over ten minutes for the lot to disgorge this caravan of racket, and it was another ten minutes before the noise faded in the distance.
I returned to bed to try to get a bit more sleep, but this proved fruitless. Within ten minutes we could hear the cacophony making a return. Again I pounced out of bed, jumped into my jeans, and stormed furiously out to the balcony. Apparently this entire exercise was part of a Labor Day parade or celebration, and after disturbing the more remote neighborhoods of Charlottesville it was making a return trip to annoy bystanders closer to downtown. Again I stood on the balcony fuming in a helpless rage while watching the screaming tumult pass by on the main drag.
Before long I noticed that the column began to slow down a bit. The head of the parade must have been either slowed by narrower congested streets. The progress continued to slow until cars were moving at a crawl, and then stopped entirely (but still with lights flashing and sirens wailing). I noticed that the cars toward the back had apparently been trying to catch up, and one had to pull up short. The next car had to slow and stop even more precipitously. Behind this car there was a considerable gap in the column, and I noticed about a hundred yards back a sheriff’s deputy moving along at a quick pace to close up. As he approached the stop light where the parade had stalled, I thought for a moment that he must be in the far right lane and intending to pass the stopped traffic. I was wrong.
BOOM! CRASH! The deputy hit the car in front of him without so much as a whisper on the breaks. He must have been going about 35 mph, and the resulting crash was so violent that his airbag deployed and he launched the car he hit into the rear of the next car in line. All three police cars were totaled.
I immediately threw my arms up and cheered with glee. I danced and jumped about the tiny balcony, giggling and shouting with joy. There is justice after all. When just a moment before I had been glowering with resentment, now my mood had improved in an instant of distracted driving. It was only 8:00 in the morning, but I already had my favorite moment of the day. My wife and I laughed about this for the balance of that Sunday, all through the five hours it took to drive back to Louisville.
My only regret was that in those few moments of joyous transport after the wreck, I did not have the presence of mind to call 911.
However, Monticello is not the topic of this blog. The Sunday morning parade is.
We spent Saturday night in a hotel located on a strip of generica on the main highway at the edge of town. The view from our second floor balcony was the parking lot of a Home Depot, and to the right was a six lane highway almost choking with retail sprawl; convenient stores, strip malls, Asian buffets, bistros, gas stations, and the like. Below our window a service road passed between the hotel and the HD parking lot and connected with the main strip at a traffic light. Our plan for that Sunday morning was to sleep late and make a leisurely return trip to Louisville to pick up our son, Primogenitor, from the grandparents who were babysitting (our second born was not yet our second born).
Our plans on a leisurely morning began to fall apart about 7:00 that Sunday morning when we were awakened by the sound of sirens. Not just a siren; no literally dozens and dozens of sirens. I hopped out of bed in alarm, pulled on a pair of jeans, and raced to the balcony to see what kind of emergency was happening.
But there wasn’t any emergency; there were emergency vehicles. Every emergency vehicle in Albemarle County must have been parked in the HD parking lot; police cars, sheriff’s cars, fire trucks, ambulances, heavy rescue trucks, game wardens, fire wardens, constables, deputies. I even saw a police SUV with a police boat on a trailer behind. Every one of them had their lights flashing insanely, and every one of them had their damn sirens blaring.
Did I mention that this was 7:00 on a Sunday morning of a holiday weekend?
Needless to say I was feeling less than charitable toward the local emergency service agencies. While I stood there on the balcony amazed and fuming with indignation, the host began to stream in single file out of the parking lot onto the service road, sirens still blaring, up to the traffic light before turning right and disappearing. I’m sure it took over ten minutes for the lot to disgorge this caravan of racket, and it was another ten minutes before the noise faded in the distance.
I returned to bed to try to get a bit more sleep, but this proved fruitless. Within ten minutes we could hear the cacophony making a return. Again I pounced out of bed, jumped into my jeans, and stormed furiously out to the balcony. Apparently this entire exercise was part of a Labor Day parade or celebration, and after disturbing the more remote neighborhoods of Charlottesville it was making a return trip to annoy bystanders closer to downtown. Again I stood on the balcony fuming in a helpless rage while watching the screaming tumult pass by on the main drag.
Before long I noticed that the column began to slow down a bit. The head of the parade must have been either slowed by narrower congested streets. The progress continued to slow until cars were moving at a crawl, and then stopped entirely (but still with lights flashing and sirens wailing). I noticed that the cars toward the back had apparently been trying to catch up, and one had to pull up short. The next car had to slow and stop even more precipitously. Behind this car there was a considerable gap in the column, and I noticed about a hundred yards back a sheriff’s deputy moving along at a quick pace to close up. As he approached the stop light where the parade had stalled, I thought for a moment that he must be in the far right lane and intending to pass the stopped traffic. I was wrong.
BOOM! CRASH! The deputy hit the car in front of him without so much as a whisper on the breaks. He must have been going about 35 mph, and the resulting crash was so violent that his airbag deployed and he launched the car he hit into the rear of the next car in line. All three police cars were totaled.
I immediately threw my arms up and cheered with glee. I danced and jumped about the tiny balcony, giggling and shouting with joy. There is justice after all. When just a moment before I had been glowering with resentment, now my mood had improved in an instant of distracted driving. It was only 8:00 in the morning, but I already had my favorite moment of the day. My wife and I laughed about this for the balance of that Sunday, all through the five hours it took to drive back to Louisville.
My only regret was that in those few moments of joyous transport after the wreck, I did not have the presence of mind to call 911.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Welcome to the Hotel Cincinnati
Many years ago when I was busy partying my way out of law school, I tended bar in a really cool music venue called “Bogart’s” in a really cool neighborhood just off the University of Cincinnati campus. I met many good friends there and had many fun and scandalous adventures in the process. Some of those friends I cherish to this day; one of those friends was my Best Man.
When I first met Best Man he was a top seed amateur barfly (I think he considered going professional for a while) who frequented a small dive across Vine Street from Bogart’s. Another bartender who worked part time at Bogart’s and part time at the dive (I’ll call him Bear) introduced me to Best Man, who in turn immediately invited both of us to a party at The Hotel.
The Hotel was really nothing more than a quiet townhouse on a dead end street in the Western Hills neighborhood of Cincinnati. On the outside it was an unassuming clapboard house, but on the inside it was party central. Best Man has a talent for construction and he had converted the home by tearing out part of the floor of the attic and created a loft master bed room with a balcony overflowing with hanging vines and overlooking the second floor living/party room with a vaulted ceiling. Just below the balcony was a built in glass cabinet with a state of the art sound system and home theater system. Opposite the entertainment cabinet a wicker chair swung from a chain suspended from the ceiling next to which a squatting stone gargoyle stood guard (Best Man was kind enough to give me the gargoyle when the Hotel finally closed; it’s nearly three feet tall). Two narrow passages on either side of the entertainment cabinet led to a saloon room featuring a wet bar and built in refrigerated beer tap. Above the bar a neon sign announced, “Live Music Nightly”. Situated in a corner opposite of the bar was an antique barber’s chair (which in time became a Hotel legend in its own right). To the right of the living room was a set of French doors which opened into a music studio equipped with several electric and acoustic guitars, a drum set, keyboard, tambourines, microphones, and speakers, everything needed for an impromptu musical performance. Best Man had even converted an adjacent closet into a sound booth with a multi-channel sound board and recording equipment.
But wait, there’s more. Across the hall from the door to the music studio a wooden door with a stained glass window featuring a beach scene (complete with palm tree) led out to a second floor covered deck with its own marble top bar. All the rooms were amply decorated with tasteful art and curious knick-knacks to stimulate the amusement and conversation of guests.
The Hotel reflected two of Best Man’s most compelling interests: live music and living sociably. Over the years I spent many a night listening to an impromptu concert or celebrating late into the night and into the next day (or maybe even the day after that). I have more Hotel stories than I could possibly relate in a single blog. Our little group of friends gathered at the Hotel before concerts; to watch football games and election results; to get married (I served as Best Man’s Best Man in an outdoor wedding in the garden below the deck), and once or twice even for a wake. We partied at the Hotel before, and after the notorious Riverfest year after year after year; and the night I got engaged my new fiancé and I celebrated New Years at the Hotel.
Which brings me to the point of this particular story; the special annual traditional New Year’s Eve party at the Hotel. Each year guests would assemble at the Hotel for a live concert and social lubrication. As a former sailor in the United States Navy, Best Man considered it a patriotic duty to celebrate the New Year as it arrived at each time zone across the continental United States, so these parties always lasted until well past dawn. On this particular year, Best Man decided to enhance the celebration by making it a pajama party. Everyone arrived wearing their customary nightclothes with the exception of one guest. Triumph John was a motorcycle enthusiast with a quiet demeanor and dry sense of humor. Triumph John was not the type to arrive at a party on the back of the expensive Triumph motorcycle he rebuilt wearing anything less than a full set of leathers. But on this occasion, in addition to the really cool bike he brought an interesting piece of equipment for the entertainment of the other guests: a homemade carbide cannon.
Calcium carbide is a chemical that appears much like the grey limestone gravel one sees paving driveways and country roads; except that this gravel gives off acetylene gas whenever water is added to it (acetylene is used to fire up cutting torches). In bygone days miners once used this technology for their headlamps, but John had devised a means to use it to power a small artillery piece. The cannon consisted of a galvanized steel plumbing pipe about three feet long with an interior diameter about the size of a tennis ball. The base consisted of a steel cap large enough so that the pipe would fit snugly inside. On the side of the pipe John had welded a flint and steel striker from a Zippo lighter next to a port in the side of the pipe. Firing the cannon involved filling the base cap with a cup or so of water, and inserting a tennis ball into the bore of the pipe. A few calcium carbide pellets were dropped into the water, and then the pipe set inside the base thus sealing in the accumulating acetylene gas. After a few moments, the pipe was lifted above the rim of the cup just enough to allow a fresh supply of oxygen into the tube, then the pipe is reset and the Zippo striker struck. The resulting explosion is channeled by the steel pipe and propels the tennis ball into a suborbital apogee. Nothing says party like a thunderous bang and a flash of fire.
Now remember how Best Man had a fondness for celebrating the New Year at the top of each hour until 4:00 in the morning? As the midnight hour approached in the Eastern Time Zone all the party guests poured out of the stain glass door and assembled (in their pajamas) on the deck and in the yard while Triumph John quietly and calmly prepared the cannon for firing. I stationed myself by the bar and admired a lady nearby wearing a baby doll nightie. She was Bear’s girlfriend and our job was to retrieve the tennis ball upon reentry (if there was anything left of it). The countdown commenced amid a terrific din of hysterical laughter and shouts; FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE!...then nothing. The gun misfired. John patiently manipulated his equipment briefly and produced a disposable lighter then BOOM! Fire shot out three feet from the muzzle of the cannon, and all the neighbors windows shook violently and dangerously. The back yard soon filled with screaming laughing party guests scampering about in their pajamas searching for the tennis ball before firing another shot, and then another.
This scene repeated itself all night long at one hour intervals. I think we even fired a shot at sunrise just for good measure. It’s a wonder no one called the police.
When I first met Best Man he was a top seed amateur barfly (I think he considered going professional for a while) who frequented a small dive across Vine Street from Bogart’s. Another bartender who worked part time at Bogart’s and part time at the dive (I’ll call him Bear) introduced me to Best Man, who in turn immediately invited both of us to a party at The Hotel.
The Hotel was really nothing more than a quiet townhouse on a dead end street in the Western Hills neighborhood of Cincinnati. On the outside it was an unassuming clapboard house, but on the inside it was party central. Best Man has a talent for construction and he had converted the home by tearing out part of the floor of the attic and created a loft master bed room with a balcony overflowing with hanging vines and overlooking the second floor living/party room with a vaulted ceiling. Just below the balcony was a built in glass cabinet with a state of the art sound system and home theater system. Opposite the entertainment cabinet a wicker chair swung from a chain suspended from the ceiling next to which a squatting stone gargoyle stood guard (Best Man was kind enough to give me the gargoyle when the Hotel finally closed; it’s nearly three feet tall). Two narrow passages on either side of the entertainment cabinet led to a saloon room featuring a wet bar and built in refrigerated beer tap. Above the bar a neon sign announced, “Live Music Nightly”. Situated in a corner opposite of the bar was an antique barber’s chair (which in time became a Hotel legend in its own right). To the right of the living room was a set of French doors which opened into a music studio equipped with several electric and acoustic guitars, a drum set, keyboard, tambourines, microphones, and speakers, everything needed for an impromptu musical performance. Best Man had even converted an adjacent closet into a sound booth with a multi-channel sound board and recording equipment.
But wait, there’s more. Across the hall from the door to the music studio a wooden door with a stained glass window featuring a beach scene (complete with palm tree) led out to a second floor covered deck with its own marble top bar. All the rooms were amply decorated with tasteful art and curious knick-knacks to stimulate the amusement and conversation of guests.
The Hotel reflected two of Best Man’s most compelling interests: live music and living sociably. Over the years I spent many a night listening to an impromptu concert or celebrating late into the night and into the next day (or maybe even the day after that). I have more Hotel stories than I could possibly relate in a single blog. Our little group of friends gathered at the Hotel before concerts; to watch football games and election results; to get married (I served as Best Man’s Best Man in an outdoor wedding in the garden below the deck), and once or twice even for a wake. We partied at the Hotel before, and after the notorious Riverfest year after year after year; and the night I got engaged my new fiancé and I celebrated New Years at the Hotel.
Which brings me to the point of this particular story; the special annual traditional New Year’s Eve party at the Hotel. Each year guests would assemble at the Hotel for a live concert and social lubrication. As a former sailor in the United States Navy, Best Man considered it a patriotic duty to celebrate the New Year as it arrived at each time zone across the continental United States, so these parties always lasted until well past dawn. On this particular year, Best Man decided to enhance the celebration by making it a pajama party. Everyone arrived wearing their customary nightclothes with the exception of one guest. Triumph John was a motorcycle enthusiast with a quiet demeanor and dry sense of humor. Triumph John was not the type to arrive at a party on the back of the expensive Triumph motorcycle he rebuilt wearing anything less than a full set of leathers. But on this occasion, in addition to the really cool bike he brought an interesting piece of equipment for the entertainment of the other guests: a homemade carbide cannon.
Calcium carbide is a chemical that appears much like the grey limestone gravel one sees paving driveways and country roads; except that this gravel gives off acetylene gas whenever water is added to it (acetylene is used to fire up cutting torches). In bygone days miners once used this technology for their headlamps, but John had devised a means to use it to power a small artillery piece. The cannon consisted of a galvanized steel plumbing pipe about three feet long with an interior diameter about the size of a tennis ball. The base consisted of a steel cap large enough so that the pipe would fit snugly inside. On the side of the pipe John had welded a flint and steel striker from a Zippo lighter next to a port in the side of the pipe. Firing the cannon involved filling the base cap with a cup or so of water, and inserting a tennis ball into the bore of the pipe. A few calcium carbide pellets were dropped into the water, and then the pipe set inside the base thus sealing in the accumulating acetylene gas. After a few moments, the pipe was lifted above the rim of the cup just enough to allow a fresh supply of oxygen into the tube, then the pipe is reset and the Zippo striker struck. The resulting explosion is channeled by the steel pipe and propels the tennis ball into a suborbital apogee. Nothing says party like a thunderous bang and a flash of fire.
Now remember how Best Man had a fondness for celebrating the New Year at the top of each hour until 4:00 in the morning? As the midnight hour approached in the Eastern Time Zone all the party guests poured out of the stain glass door and assembled (in their pajamas) on the deck and in the yard while Triumph John quietly and calmly prepared the cannon for firing. I stationed myself by the bar and admired a lady nearby wearing a baby doll nightie. She was Bear’s girlfriend and our job was to retrieve the tennis ball upon reentry (if there was anything left of it). The countdown commenced amid a terrific din of hysterical laughter and shouts; FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE!...then nothing. The gun misfired. John patiently manipulated his equipment briefly and produced a disposable lighter then BOOM! Fire shot out three feet from the muzzle of the cannon, and all the neighbors windows shook violently and dangerously. The back yard soon filled with screaming laughing party guests scampering about in their pajamas searching for the tennis ball before firing another shot, and then another.
This scene repeated itself all night long at one hour intervals. I think we even fired a shot at sunrise just for good measure. It’s a wonder no one called the police.
Cats
The Carruthers household has always been a dog family, and not a cat family. There is a very good reason for this: I can’t stand to be around cats. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t intend this as an indictment on the character of cats (or on my own character for that matter). It is not that I hate cats, but rather I hate the terrible physical consequences I suffer whenever I come into contact with them. My eyes swell, my sinuses water, hives erupt on my neck, and worst of all my chest closes leaving me gasping for air.
Many years ago before my kids were born and my wife and I still had time to be social, we regularly attended parties hosted by our Best Man, who was widely celebrated for the hospitality he provided at his home, sometimes euphemistically known as “the Hotel”. One New Years Eve (I think it might have been 1994) my better half and I planned on attending a Hotel party and celebrating until dawn (Best Man made it his regular practice to observe the countdown for each of the four time zones across the continental U.S. with fireworks and occasionally artillery in the back yard—more on that later). Sometime after dawn when the party wound down we would crash on a spare bed for a few hours before enjoying a late brunch at Crackerbarrel.
Best Man’s wife (I’ll call her Carla) was a felinophile and kept two cats as pets in and about the Hotel. Ordinarily the cats resided in the back yard, but with the onset of inclement winter weather they were spending much of their time inside. My first indication of cat proximity was an annoying watering and burning sensation in my eyes that would not relent for anything. This was quickly followed by a series of sneezing fits that rendered me entirely unsociable for the occasions. The itching and crawling sensation of my skin came next. The symptoms progressed from inconvenience to outright misery by the time midnight arrived. Soon after the turn of the New Year, my eyes were nearly swollen shut and I was suffering from a fever. By this time my wife reasonably insisted that we leave immediately, and I gratefully agreed.
I don’t recall much of the drive home that night except for a few moments as the car made its way up the cut-in-the-hill through Covington, Kentucky, when my chest began to tighten and close up. As I gasped for breath I tried not to reveal my sense of alarm to my wife, who in turn was trying to conceal her own alarm as well (but with not much success). “Do we need to go to the hospital?” she asked repeatedly. Each time I managed to croak out a negative reply, which was obviously more a reflection of my own stubbornness rather than an honest assessment of the truth. Instead of seeking the medical attention which I sorely needed, we returned to our apartment and vowed to stay away from cats in the future.
The resolution to avoid cats is one that I have found easy to keep as one might well imagine. I can recall the very last time I ever touched a cat; 12 April 2001. It may seem odd that I can recall the particular date, but coincidentally the occasion was a VIP reception for two National Geographic photographers, Nevada Weir and Virginia Swanson, that was being held at a swanky country club in suburban Cincinnati while riots were erupting downtown (it is easy enough to Google the dates of the riots). Virginia and Nevada had just returned from a photography adventure along the Nile in central Africa, and were on a lecture tour following the publication of their work in National Geographic. My wife helped organize the lecture in Cincinnati through her work at the local PBS station, so we frequently were invited to these special receptions. After dinner and a slide presentation by the photographers, they announced a special treat for those in attendance; at the front of the room a handler escorted in a Cheetah on a leash, accompanied by her pet dog. Yes, it was a fully grown African Cheetah, and yes, the cat had a small terrier dog as a pet (It was explained that the cheetah would get lonely and feel anxious without a companion). Obviously it is not every day that someone brings such an exotic animal to a party and in spite of my misgivings that another attack of asthma was in store I could not resist approaching the cat and giving it a few brief pets. Fortunately I did not get sick on this occasion. I have not touched a cat since.
I wasn’t always so perilously allergic to cats. My symptoms date back to a particular night in the late 80’s at a different party in a different city. I had a fraternity brother (I’ll call him Boom) who was hosting a back yard party for friends and neighbors in historic central Louisville. There was quite a gregarious crowd milling about and swilling barley and hops into the late evening, probably making enough noise to annoy those neighbors who weren’t invited. Around midnight an attractive young woman with fine blond hair arrived at the party and approached Boom with a stricken look on her face. “I’ve locked myself out of my apartment!” she exclaimed. “What am I going to do!?” She indicated that the second floor window next door with the light on was her apartment, and I immediately recognized that a gesture of gallantry at this moment might be rewarded with generous gratitude. Immediately I replied, “I’ll get you inside” with an unwavering tone of confidence. The second floor window overlooked a roof over the back porch, and it only took me a few seconds to climb onto the roof and pop open her window (don’t ask me how I know so much about B&E). I made my way through her cluttered apartment and unlocked her front door with a flourish.
This was a mistake. She did not tell me that she had a cat in the apartment.
The blond lady was waiting on the other side of the door which was situated at the top of a flight of stairs. Her grateful smile quickly evaporated as the cat shot past us in a flash, down the steps and out into the night. “My cat!” she cried with the same stricken look that she had earlier. Even though I had gotten her back inside her digs, I was quickly traveling the road from hero to bum.
I spent the next THREE HOURS chasing that damned cat around the neighborhood, cursing and fuming and disturbing the neighbors all the while before finally cornering the beast behind a hedge, against the foundation of the house next door. The cat tried to make a break for freedom by running along the foundation as I reached out and grabbed for it. I was only able to latch onto its tail, and by this time I was determined not to let it get away again. This was another mistake. The cat hated to be grabbed by the tail (not very surprising). As I carried it back triumphant to the blond lady, the disagreeable cat made good its escape from my clutches by pushing off with its hind legs, digging its claws into my torso in the process. In all honesty, I deserved this.
In spite of the bloody welts across my belly, I launched after the cat once again. This time it only took me an hour to recapture it. By this time it was nearing dawn, and my interest in the companionship of the blond lady had disappeared into a fog of annoyance and discomfort (and she probably felt the same about me by this time). I gave her back her stupid cat and left to return home (the party had broken up hours ago).
By midday the next day, I was truly starting to suffer. My eyes swelled shut; my sinuses watered continuously; hives began to erupt on my neck; and I started to run a fever. I drove from Louisville to Cincinnati in this miserable condition and was sick for the next two days (causing me to miss work that Monday). Ever since this party, I have been allergic to cats.
Some may scoff at “cat scratch fever” as a myth, but I assure you gentle reader that it is no myth.
Many years ago before my kids were born and my wife and I still had time to be social, we regularly attended parties hosted by our Best Man, who was widely celebrated for the hospitality he provided at his home, sometimes euphemistically known as “the Hotel”. One New Years Eve (I think it might have been 1994) my better half and I planned on attending a Hotel party and celebrating until dawn (Best Man made it his regular practice to observe the countdown for each of the four time zones across the continental U.S. with fireworks and occasionally artillery in the back yard—more on that later). Sometime after dawn when the party wound down we would crash on a spare bed for a few hours before enjoying a late brunch at Crackerbarrel.
Best Man’s wife (I’ll call her Carla) was a felinophile and kept two cats as pets in and about the Hotel. Ordinarily the cats resided in the back yard, but with the onset of inclement winter weather they were spending much of their time inside. My first indication of cat proximity was an annoying watering and burning sensation in my eyes that would not relent for anything. This was quickly followed by a series of sneezing fits that rendered me entirely unsociable for the occasions. The itching and crawling sensation of my skin came next. The symptoms progressed from inconvenience to outright misery by the time midnight arrived. Soon after the turn of the New Year, my eyes were nearly swollen shut and I was suffering from a fever. By this time my wife reasonably insisted that we leave immediately, and I gratefully agreed.
I don’t recall much of the drive home that night except for a few moments as the car made its way up the cut-in-the-hill through Covington, Kentucky, when my chest began to tighten and close up. As I gasped for breath I tried not to reveal my sense of alarm to my wife, who in turn was trying to conceal her own alarm as well (but with not much success). “Do we need to go to the hospital?” she asked repeatedly. Each time I managed to croak out a negative reply, which was obviously more a reflection of my own stubbornness rather than an honest assessment of the truth. Instead of seeking the medical attention which I sorely needed, we returned to our apartment and vowed to stay away from cats in the future.
The resolution to avoid cats is one that I have found easy to keep as one might well imagine. I can recall the very last time I ever touched a cat; 12 April 2001. It may seem odd that I can recall the particular date, but coincidentally the occasion was a VIP reception for two National Geographic photographers, Nevada Weir and Virginia Swanson, that was being held at a swanky country club in suburban Cincinnati while riots were erupting downtown (it is easy enough to Google the dates of the riots). Virginia and Nevada had just returned from a photography adventure along the Nile in central Africa, and were on a lecture tour following the publication of their work in National Geographic. My wife helped organize the lecture in Cincinnati through her work at the local PBS station, so we frequently were invited to these special receptions. After dinner and a slide presentation by the photographers, they announced a special treat for those in attendance; at the front of the room a handler escorted in a Cheetah on a leash, accompanied by her pet dog. Yes, it was a fully grown African Cheetah, and yes, the cat had a small terrier dog as a pet (It was explained that the cheetah would get lonely and feel anxious without a companion). Obviously it is not every day that someone brings such an exotic animal to a party and in spite of my misgivings that another attack of asthma was in store I could not resist approaching the cat and giving it a few brief pets. Fortunately I did not get sick on this occasion. I have not touched a cat since.
I wasn’t always so perilously allergic to cats. My symptoms date back to a particular night in the late 80’s at a different party in a different city. I had a fraternity brother (I’ll call him Boom) who was hosting a back yard party for friends and neighbors in historic central Louisville. There was quite a gregarious crowd milling about and swilling barley and hops into the late evening, probably making enough noise to annoy those neighbors who weren’t invited. Around midnight an attractive young woman with fine blond hair arrived at the party and approached Boom with a stricken look on her face. “I’ve locked myself out of my apartment!” she exclaimed. “What am I going to do!?” She indicated that the second floor window next door with the light on was her apartment, and I immediately recognized that a gesture of gallantry at this moment might be rewarded with generous gratitude. Immediately I replied, “I’ll get you inside” with an unwavering tone of confidence. The second floor window overlooked a roof over the back porch, and it only took me a few seconds to climb onto the roof and pop open her window (don’t ask me how I know so much about B&E). I made my way through her cluttered apartment and unlocked her front door with a flourish.
This was a mistake. She did not tell me that she had a cat in the apartment.
The blond lady was waiting on the other side of the door which was situated at the top of a flight of stairs. Her grateful smile quickly evaporated as the cat shot past us in a flash, down the steps and out into the night. “My cat!” she cried with the same stricken look that she had earlier. Even though I had gotten her back inside her digs, I was quickly traveling the road from hero to bum.
I spent the next THREE HOURS chasing that damned cat around the neighborhood, cursing and fuming and disturbing the neighbors all the while before finally cornering the beast behind a hedge, against the foundation of the house next door. The cat tried to make a break for freedom by running along the foundation as I reached out and grabbed for it. I was only able to latch onto its tail, and by this time I was determined not to let it get away again. This was another mistake. The cat hated to be grabbed by the tail (not very surprising). As I carried it back triumphant to the blond lady, the disagreeable cat made good its escape from my clutches by pushing off with its hind legs, digging its claws into my torso in the process. In all honesty, I deserved this.
In spite of the bloody welts across my belly, I launched after the cat once again. This time it only took me an hour to recapture it. By this time it was nearing dawn, and my interest in the companionship of the blond lady had disappeared into a fog of annoyance and discomfort (and she probably felt the same about me by this time). I gave her back her stupid cat and left to return home (the party had broken up hours ago).
By midday the next day, I was truly starting to suffer. My eyes swelled shut; my sinuses watered continuously; hives began to erupt on my neck; and I started to run a fever. I drove from Louisville to Cincinnati in this miserable condition and was sick for the next two days (causing me to miss work that Monday). Ever since this party, I have been allergic to cats.
Some may scoff at “cat scratch fever” as a myth, but I assure you gentle reader that it is no myth.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Are You Experienced?
I often fancy making my status posts on Facebook something unique and amusing so that my friends may be entertained by a moment of whimsy. Recently I made a post about an unusual life experience I have had; I once slept under a pool table while people were playing pool on it at 3:00 in the morning. This life event took place a long time ago at an Air Force base in Oklahoma on the return leg of a Boy Scout trip to New Mexico. I think that unusual experiences and adventures are the spice of life and are what make it interesting. This blog posting is dedicated to recalling some of my life’s adventures.
I have:
camped in the snow;
slept in a teepee (in the pouring rain) and in a yurt;
gone swimming in the Atlantic and Pacific oceans;
climbed to the summit of an extinct volcano (from inside the crater);
spent the night atop an active volcano;
watched lava pour into the ocean from a black sand beach in the middle of the night;
visited another continent;
voted twice in a single election (a local option referendum);
drove a car over 120 miles per hour;
watched a Broadway musical;
smuggled a switchblade through customs;
been a pallbearer;
been a best man;
watched a person bleed to death;
backpacked the entire length of Land Between the Lakes in five days during late June;
flown in a helicopter;
hiked part of the Appalachian Trail;
shaken hands with a president of the United States (twice);
had in my custody $36 million dollars at one time;
cut my finger clear to the bone;
been followed by a stalker (actually three that I know of; two were the ex-husbands of lady-friends; the other was a private detective);
eaten a snail (several snails);
attended a murder trial;
killed a deer with a rifle;
seen the lights of San Francisco from 35 thousand feet at midnight;
crossed three North American continental divides within a four month period (eastern vertical, western vertical and horizontal);
gone skinny dipping with a co-ed group;
stood on the southern most point of the United States;
been issued a subpoena;
visited three national capitals;
appeared on Antiques Roadshow;
witnessed a moonbow over a waterfall at night;
smoked a Cuban cigar (several);
had a hangover;
caught a shark with a rod and reel;
seen a tornado;
piloted a boat through a storm in the Gulf of Mexico;
been in a hurricane;
accidentally started a brushfire (burned approximately 10 to 15 acres of brush);
successfully extinguished a brushfire without the aid of the local fire department (not easy; not recommended);
escaped from the police chasing me;
attended church services in St. Paul’s Cathedral in London;
felt an earthquake;
set off a pipe bomb;
fired a machine gun;
been in a fist fight;
been to the top of the Empire State Building (87th floor observation deck);
dined in a five star restaurant;
smuggled a keg of beer into a drive-in theater;
crossed the English Channel in a hovercraft (twice);
popped a wheelie on a motorcycle;
wrecked a motorcycle;
given a girl an abandoned tombstone as a birthday gift;
purchased a Saturday Night Special with the serial number scratched off (for $10);
hit a deer with a car while traveling at 75 mph at 1 o’clock in the morning;
celebrated my 18th birthday in Paris, France;
been repelling;
attended an opera;
comforted a dog while she was put to sleep;
had my life threatened (by someone who meant it);
given an anonymous tip to the state police (regarding an armed robbery).
I have done all these things. Perhaps some of my life’s adventures are a bit shocking, but I hope that you also found some of them a bit amusing. If you, dear reader, have any extraordinary, unusual, unorthodox, terrific or scandalous life experiences you would like to share, feel free to add a comment.
I have:
camped in the snow;
slept in a teepee (in the pouring rain) and in a yurt;
gone swimming in the Atlantic and Pacific oceans;
climbed to the summit of an extinct volcano (from inside the crater);
spent the night atop an active volcano;
watched lava pour into the ocean from a black sand beach in the middle of the night;
visited another continent;
voted twice in a single election (a local option referendum);
drove a car over 120 miles per hour;
watched a Broadway musical;
smuggled a switchblade through customs;
been a pallbearer;
been a best man;
watched a person bleed to death;
backpacked the entire length of Land Between the Lakes in five days during late June;
flown in a helicopter;
hiked part of the Appalachian Trail;
shaken hands with a president of the United States (twice);
had in my custody $36 million dollars at one time;
cut my finger clear to the bone;
been followed by a stalker (actually three that I know of; two were the ex-husbands of lady-friends; the other was a private detective);
eaten a snail (several snails);
attended a murder trial;
killed a deer with a rifle;
seen the lights of San Francisco from 35 thousand feet at midnight;
crossed three North American continental divides within a four month period (eastern vertical, western vertical and horizontal);
gone skinny dipping with a co-ed group;
stood on the southern most point of the United States;
been issued a subpoena;
visited three national capitals;
appeared on Antiques Roadshow;
witnessed a moonbow over a waterfall at night;
smoked a Cuban cigar (several);
had a hangover;
caught a shark with a rod and reel;
seen a tornado;
piloted a boat through a storm in the Gulf of Mexico;
been in a hurricane;
accidentally started a brushfire (burned approximately 10 to 15 acres of brush);
successfully extinguished a brushfire without the aid of the local fire department (not easy; not recommended);
escaped from the police chasing me;
attended church services in St. Paul’s Cathedral in London;
felt an earthquake;
set off a pipe bomb;
fired a machine gun;
been in a fist fight;
been to the top of the Empire State Building (87th floor observation deck);
dined in a five star restaurant;
smuggled a keg of beer into a drive-in theater;
crossed the English Channel in a hovercraft (twice);
popped a wheelie on a motorcycle;
wrecked a motorcycle;
given a girl an abandoned tombstone as a birthday gift;
purchased a Saturday Night Special with the serial number scratched off (for $10);
hit a deer with a car while traveling at 75 mph at 1 o’clock in the morning;
celebrated my 18th birthday in Paris, France;
been repelling;
attended an opera;
comforted a dog while she was put to sleep;
had my life threatened (by someone who meant it);
given an anonymous tip to the state police (regarding an armed robbery).
I have done all these things. Perhaps some of my life’s adventures are a bit shocking, but I hope that you also found some of them a bit amusing. If you, dear reader, have any extraordinary, unusual, unorthodox, terrific or scandalous life experiences you would like to share, feel free to add a comment.
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