I’ve always had an unwavering premonition that when my time comes, I’m going to die by electrocution. I don’t know exactly how it’s going to happen (perhaps I fall into the house’s power feed when getting the kids’ frisbee off the roof for the umpteenth time, or maybe I fall victim to a horrible mistake in our justice system and get sent up for the death penalty, or—perhaps the most likely— Maia simply runs up and amiably throws a toaster into my bathwater while requesting an Eggo waffle) but however the fatal shock is delivered, it’s there, lurking in the shadows of my future.

I’ve been terrified of electricity since I was a very young boy. This is probably because I spent the first seven years of my life on a farm alongside a hot-wire fence. I also spent that time with an older brother who ensured my education with the aforementioned electric fence was exhaustive. I can still hear Matt’s cunning plots: “Don’t worry, Adam, I’ll go turn it off for you! OK! (mwaahhh haaa haa) It’s ready!”; or “It won’t shock you if you just touch it with this wire hanger.”; and, of course: “If you get it wet first, it will put out the electricity. Try peeing on it!”

To make matters worse, Saturday Morning cartoons featured some very startling public service announcements about power line safety. The first of the two main spots that I can remember, showed a small boy climbing a tree, then grabbing the wrong thing and the screen went all fuzzy while a strange sizzling sound echoed out of the T.V.’s speakers. I would sit wide-eyed in front of the television, rocking back & forth and hugging myself.

And, as if that wasn’t fucked-up enough, another commercial was sure to make its appearance within the hour. The Kite-man. A mustached, middle-aged man wearing a gigantic kite costume walking through the park and met a bunch of kids.

Kids (in unison):
It’s the Kite-man!!!!!

Kite-man:
Is a safe kite made of metal?

[The kids seated around him shook their heads vigorously.]

Kite-man:
Wire or wet string?

Kids (in unison):
Never!

Kite-man (randomly):
What about frogs?

Single girl amongst the children:
I like frogs.

Kite-man:
What if your kite winds [rolls his eyes wildly for effect] around a powerline?”

Kids (excitedly in unison):
Call the Kite-man!

In order to get away from these hideous visualizations, I would change the channel to public broadcasting and watch The Electric Company (”Heeeyyyyyy Yoooouuuuu Guuuuuuuyyyyyssss!!!!!!).

Seeing that I have a long history of bad association with electricity, it should be easy to chalk-up my premonitions to simple irrational fears. Unfortunately I don’t think that’s the case here. I also have irrational fears of clowns, sharks, & jittery old cartoons (particularly those with pie-slice eyes); yet, my foresight does not show me being killed by a shark-riding clown carrying a vintage Steamboat Willie cattle prod. No, I die by electricity alone.

I think it might be karma. A few years ago, while I was fixing a printer, a co-worker nagged at me for repairing it while it was still plugged in. The next evening, I brought an old-fashioned camera flash into work with me, and set it off while doing much the same thing. I fell limply to the floor and my co-worker thought I’d killed myself. She was outraged when she discovered that I had tricked her, but I knew she realized this was a stroke of brilliance. I knew this because mere minutes after I’d terrified her, she was plotting with me on who we should get next. Within days, we—and our growing number of cohorts—had tricked everyone in the entire office (setting off the flash after noticing & attempting to fix a loose wire on their computer monitor), until we simply ran out of victims.

I can’t decide whether these are the sorts of things you have to do to keep from going crazy when working in an office, or if this is what you do after you go crazy. There’s no denying that I sometimes find working at a desk rather tedious. And boredom notwithstanding, one might think—what with all my horrible premonitions—that I would have perhaps chosen a career that involved fewer electronic devices: an Amish ox driver, perhaps.

The same co-worker who inspired my series of faux-electrocutions once told me that I should be thankful for my cushy desk-job. She ensured me that a life without hard-labor was sure to be kind to my body. Her husband was a stone mason & they sometimes worried about the toll the job takes on his physical being.

Unfortunately, I don’t seem to have slid under the radar. My back has gone out twice already this year, and I’m currently in physical therapy trying to prevent a third injury.

Ironically, one of my main courses of treatment is electrical stimulation therapy. They place small adhesive electrodes on my lower back which are connected to wires that run an electric current through the area of pain. The current pulses and contracts the muscles briefly, then allows them to relax again. It’s supposedly like a massage.

Electricity as a path to healing: this was a new concept for me. I’ve always regarded this force as harmful. Even shock therapy given to medical patients is something that has always seemed like a bad idea to me. I was wary.

After they connected me to this machine, I was instructed to turn the current up as high as I could without it becoming uncomfortable. I worried a bit about this: that I would accidentally set it one setting to high and electricity would rack through my body, my thrashings would inadvertently leave my jolting finger continually pressing the voltage higher & higher and by the time my 15 minutes were up, the assistant would re-enter the room to find only a grisly, smoldering corpse on the table.

Needless to say, I took it pretty slow. By the time my treatment was over, I had reached a setting of 14. When the assistant came to disconnect me, I fought the urge to ask: “So… what’s the record? How high has anyone cranked one of these babies?”

I decided not to ask this for a couple of reasons… the first: though I might suffer from insecurity, but I’m pretty good about not letting it show. I can usually sense when a question is going to come across as pathetic.

But, in addition to trying to save my dignity, I also was pretty sure I wouldn’t like his answer. I wanted to hear: “Oh my GOD! You had it up to 14!!! You must have an amazing pain threshold! Most men break into tears if they turn it up to 2!” But I’m pretty sure the answer was going to be on the other end of the spectrum: “Old Mrs. Withers had this cranked up to 7,292,386 earlier today… she was feeling a bit sensitive and didn’t want to break her usual 10-mil. But you had it at—” checks the machine “—oh, 14? Well… you know… that’s… pretty good too.” He coughs. “AHEM! Pussy!“

I have an appointment again later this week. I’m hoping to up my score a couple more notches. I’m hoping that maybe electricity is something that I can build an immunity to. By the end of my therapy, perhaps they’ll have to forgo the electrodes & start using a taser to administer the treatment.

With any luck, when my number is up and that fateful power line falls into the puddle where I’m standing, the shock will be far from fatal. Maybe it will even heal my ingrown toenail.

Unfortunately, I still see into this future and can foretell that electricity will have the last laugh. I see myself, lying lifeless on a hospital gurney while doctors and nurses try desperately and unsuccessfully to resuscitate me. …Alas. I’m invulnerable to the defibrillator.

OPERATOR:
Poison control hotline, how can I help you?

ME:
Hi—Uhhh—You see, there was this… Um…

OPERATOR:
Sir, please just tell me what happened.

ME:
Well… a package of silica gel was swallowed.

OPERATOR:
You swallowed a package of silica gel?

ME:
Me? Oh —uh— no. No-no-no-no. It was —uh— a close friend of mine. Yeah, a friend.

OPERATOR:
A friend? What is your friend’s name?

ME:
His name? Um, his name is Joe.

OPERATOR:
And what is Joe’s last name?

ME:
Ummmm… His last name is —um— Schmo. That’s S-C-H-M-O

…-E.

OPERATOR:
I see. How did Joe swallow this packet of silica gel?

ME:
Oh, well I—oops, I mean to say “Joe”— takes a prescribed muscle relaxer every evening for his back and it makes him pretty groggy in the mornings. And this morning, he went to take a vitamin, and accidentally popped the “DO NOT EAT” package instead. He thought it tasted odd, and felt wrong, but by that point it was already going down his throat. He looked in the vitamin bottle, and sure enough the package was gone.

OPERATOR:
OK, I see.

ME:
You know, Joe is actually a really intelligent guy. This was totally an innocent accident. It could have happened to anybody, right? I mean, you probably get calls like this all the time; they make those packets the same size as the vitamins.

OPERATOR:

I can’t say that I have.
[mumbles]
…I might have seen it on Jackass…

ME:
What?

OPERATOR:
Hmmm? Nothing.

ME:
So, what should he do? Is it fatal? Should he induce vomiting. Like, shtick hith fingoo dowwwn hith thwoat?

BUHHH, BLEAAACH

OPERATOR:
Sir, sir! “Joe” will be fine! Silica gel is not toxic.

ME:
Ih ithn’t?

OPERATOR:
No, it’s perfectly harmless, or they wouldn’t put it in with products that are intended for consumption.

ME:
But it says “Do Not Eat” all over it.

OPERATOR:
It’s just a choking hazard.

ME:
Oh, thank God! I’M GOING TO LIVE!!!!

OPERATOR:
And what is YOUR name, sir?

…

Note: this conversation has been slightly altered for entertainment purposes. I wish I could say that my having unwittingly swallowed a package of silica gel in lieu of my daily multiple was one such embellishment. Alas.

•My truck broke down. (I still need to fix it, but I have a new —working— vehicle, so it’s less of a priority now.)
•My tooth broke.
•My back went out.
•My dog died.
•My grandmother just passed away.

Please help. I think I’m trapped inside a bad Country song.

Normally, I restrict my posts to my own writing, but today I’m making an exception. I’ve been needing a laugh lately, and here’s where I’ve been getting my fix.

The British sketch comedy manstrokewoman. My apologies if you’ve seen all these clips. A terrible disadvantage of not having television is that I never know when things are uber-popular and not worthy of sharing.

The man cold:

The breakup:

How to make a good first impression:

Worst Job Interview Ever?:

The Doorman:

Wedding Flowers:

Real Estate:

Massage:

What she likes:

The sweetest, most wonderful dog in the world is dying.

My beloved golden retriever, Tawney, is terminally ill. It appears she has had a cancerous tumor rupture and is bleeding internally. She’s expected to pass any day now.

She’s doesn’t appear to be in any pain, so we elected to allow her to die here at home, rather than to euthanize her at the clinic. She seems to be doing alright: she can hardly walk because her legs are so wobbly, and she’s not eating, but she’s stable at the moment and at peace. She sleeps a lot and I find myself constantly checking to make sure she’s not gone yet. Any other dog may have lost patience with me by now— they’d growl and think “For Christ’s sake! I’m just taking a nap! Stop sticking a fucking mirror under my nose every five minutes!”

But Tawney would never think this, she just nuzzles my hand with her furry lips and lays her head down again. She’s such a gentle dog, I have no idea what we’ll do without her. What other dog would put up with Maia: a raging toddler who tackles sleeping animals? Tawney handles my little girl with patience and class; hell, she’s kinder than I am. Long after I started snarling and nipping at Maia, Tawney still gives her soft kisses and usually seems genuinely happy to see her.

Last Thursday, Tawney was a spry as ever, she went on a two mile walk. Friday, Tawney pestered us all, trying to play fetch; an energetic 10 year old golden retriever. By Saturday evening, however, when she couldn’t take 3 steps without falling over, I took her to the emergency veterinary clinic. A blood sample showed a concerning lack of red blood cells. The doctor came in to break the news to me, the prospects were grim.

Usually, I’m pretty quick to think around corners, I think it’s a trait common in computer geeks— if you change the name of this database column, it will affect this part of the code, that query, and those 3 reports. But sitting there with the vet, I couldn’t wrap my mind around what she was telling me. She didn’t outright say my dog was going to die, but there was a sense of hopelessness in everything she proposed.

Tawney needs a blood transfusion, but since we don’t know where she’s losing her blood, there’s no point in giving her more. We could try to do x-rays to find the tumors, but since this is a soft-tissue problem, the x-rays may not reveal what we’re seeking. There are a couple of causes for her low blood-cell count: an immunodeficiency in which the white blood cells are killing off the red, or hemangiosarcoma, a cancer common in golden retrievers. Since Tawney had no other symptoms of an immunodeficiency, but did have several symptoms of hemangiosarcoma, this cancer was the probability. If we could determine where the cancer is, we could perform surgery: but the results would be questionable, as a tumor had obviously just ruptured, therefore the cancer has already spread and she would get ill again. Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah.

Hours later it would all make sense, but at the time, I couldn’t determine what needed to happen. Finally, I called B, my ex-wife & Tawney’s co-owner, to come and help decide how to proceed. We finally were able to determine, that even if we deducted exactly what & where the problem lied, treating it with any hope of success was highly unlikely, and so we elected to bring her home to die.

To add insult to injury, I’m pretty poor. Simply taking Tawney to the emergency clinic had me mentally calculating my bank account balance. Even if I did have the money to purchase x-rays and god knows what else was needed to find the problem, I couldn’t hope to buy my beloved canine a blood transfusion and a surgery.

I’ve been pretty cold-hearted at times in the past when I’ve heard friends & co-workers talk about paying thousands of dollars for an open-heart surgery on their family cat. I don’t think I’ve ever said it aloud, however I’ve often thought: “But you can get a new cat for FREE!” But now that the shoe is on the other foot—if I had thousands at hand, I would buy Tawney her surgery, even if it’s only a fool’s hope.

When I write “LOL” in text messages or email correspondences, I’m usually lying. The sad truth of the matter is that I rarely Laugh Out Loud. It’s one of the aspects of my personality that I dislike the most. I have friends and acquaintances that laugh frequently and contagiously and I long to be among their ranks, but alas, my humor is so dry & reserved that it takes a couple glasses of gin to unlock the uninhibited joviality within me.

And while I’m at it, I might well admit that I haven’t rolled on the floor —laughing or otherwise— since kindergarten.

It doesn’t mean that I don’t have a sense of humor or that I don’t appreciate a good joke. On the contrary, I absolutely love humor and devour it often. While I may not be laughing on the outside, every bit of my being savors each happy surprise & ironic twist.

I’ve been studying comedy since childhood: beginning with bad joke & riddle books (think “knock knock”) and comic strips like Bloom County and Calvin & Hobbes. Later, I progressed to more bad joke books like the 1990 Big Book of New American Humor and began watching Saturday Night Live and stand-up routines. I am the number one fan of Billy Crystal’s Midnight Train to Moscow, a cold war era stand-up routine on VHS that is so popular that when I accidentally returned the movie case to Blockbuster with a copy of The Lion King inside, they never noticed. Nowadays, I read witty writers, or get my dose of humor online at The Onion or through Stumble Upon, but the results are the same. I seek such jocularity for entertainment and to keep myself in good spirits— but underneath this, there is much more going on. Neural pathways in my brain are being developed so that virtually every situation in life that I’m exposed to is immediately routed down one of these synapses and translated into a punchline.

For many years, I gleaned inspiration from television. Shows like Cheers, Seinfeld or The Simpsons gave me countless hours of tutelage. But I haven’t had time or interest in prime-time in many years.

I’ve found that the biggest disadvantage to life without television is that you never know when you’re not being original. It’s so depressing to make what I think is a hilarious remark, only to have someone counter with: “Oh! I love that episode of The Office.”

When I try explaining that I’d never seen the show, they not only look at me like I’m completely alien for not watching TV, but also, still won’t give me credit for my brilliance.

There have been moments that I’m almost inspired to invest in digital cable and immerse myself in popular humor. God knows I could use some new material, all my pop-culture references are ten years old. Yet, even if I became a devout couch-potato, I don’t have enough time in my week to watch every show, so the danger of treading upon someone else’s material remains. In fact, the danger increases, since exposing my humor to new influences would only lead my psyche in those directions.

That isn’t to say that I don’t already steal material from my various sources, though subconsciously, I assure you. I don’t mind twisting a joke and making it my own, but I hate borrowing directly from the source. Unfortunately, I sometimes lose track of the jokes rattling about in the deep recesses of my brain. The other day, for example, in a squirt gun fight with my children, I found myself cornered by my three beloved progeny, out of ammo and in a seemingly hopeless situation. I theatrically announced: “fortunately, movies have taught me exactly what to do in this situation!” and threw my squirt guns at them.

“Dad,” Addison reminded me, “they say that in Curious George” And he was right, damnit. Perhaps if I’d not unintentionally violated copyright and had been come up with an original line, they might have taken a bit of mercy on me, and in turn, avoided the subsequent drenching I gave them with the garden hose.

There again, in a store the other day, I was looking for a new razor, and found myself searching for a replacement to the 3-bladed razor I’d been currently using. I still have cartridges for the old razor, and since these are an expensive item, I wanted an exact model. Unfortunately, in one of the most ridiculous marketing ploys I’ve ever seen, overzealous designers have been trying to fit as many blades into a single razor-head as will reasonably fit in a suitcase. I could find 4 & 5 bladed razors, but they simply don’t sell 3-bladed models anymore. Seriously, if 3 blades isn’t enough for you, I doubt very much 5 blades will make a lick of difference. Standing there for several minutes, shocked at the sheer ludicrousness of the selection, a clerk finally approached me and asked if he could help. I facetiously replied: “Do you have anything with more blades?

He didn’t get the joke, but that’s not what haunted me about the interaction. Something seemed much too familiar about the joke. Then, while drifting off to sleep that night, I recalled a headline from The Onion: “Fuck Everything, We’re Doing Five Blades”. A satirical editorial written a few years ago wherein the CEO from Gillette announces this silly response to Schick’s 4-bladed razor. It’s pretty bad when grossly exaggerated headlines from The Onion become reality. But even worse, is when I steal these jokes unwittingly.

Then again, I suppose these sources often steal their own jokes. Jack Handey once wrote:

One thing kids like is to be tricked. For instance, I was going to take my nephew to Disneyland, but instead I drove him to an old burned-out warehouse. “Oh no,” I said, “Disneyland burned down.”

He cried and cried, but I think that deep down, he though it was a pretty good joke…

—which, to me, is almost the same as another of his bits:

The way I see it, kids need exercise more than they need ice cream. So when I worked as an ice cream man, driving an ice cream truck, I would try to drive fast enough that the kid couldn’t catch me, but not so fast that he’d give up right away. Some kids will chase you eight or nine blocks.

The Onion also has distinct themes. Their local section abounds with stories about “area” civilians and their inconsequential exploits.

Area Girlfriend Still Hasn’t Seen Apocalypse Now

Area Man Forces Self To Drink Another Free Refill

Area Woman Not Yelling At You, She’s Just Saying

Other, more prestigious authors will also recycle material from time to time. Sarah Vowell will chronicle her life-events in terms of presidential administrations. Her readers know, for example, that she had a tic of involuntary humming aloud throughout the Carter Administration and that she and her father fought terribly during the Reagan Administration. And again during one reading, she admitted that she hadn’t played the recorder in front of an audience since the Reagan Administration.

Another of my favorite authors, David Sedaris, seems fond of conceding the point. In his Santaland Diaries wherein he documents his job as a Christmas elf, he notes:

I was at the Magic Window for fifteen minutes before a man approached me and said, “You look so fucking stupid.” I have to admit that he had a point. But still, I wanted to say that at least I get paid to look stupid, that he gives it away for free.

—A couple books later, in his essay Jesus Shaves while debating with this French teacher about whether the spirit of Easter was a bunny or a bell, he narrates:

“But how does a bell know where you live?”

“Well,” she said, “how does a rabbit?”

It’s a decent point, but at least a rabbit has eyes. That’s a start.

I’m extremely anxious about repeating my own jokes. It may have already occurred in my writing, I can’t be sure; but if it hasn’t, it’s sure to soon, unless I keep exposing myself to a constant supply of new material. The problem with new material is that it’s more likely to be recognized by my audience, even after I tailor it to my own ends. The same goes for the classic great lines. The most reliable method I’ve found for recycling great humor is to wait about 10 years, then rework them into my repertoire. I can only hope that I have enough material on hand to last another decade.

But maybe, like so many things, I’m obsessing a bit too much about this. After all, I don’t begrudge these other writers at all for their re-use of some very good punchlines. So why then am I so hard on myself? There are plenty of other things in my life to which I could focus my anxieties. Take my receding hairline— please.

The car’s bass was so loud, I’m shocked the little low-rider wasn’t bouncing about like a SuperBall. As I pulled up next to it at the stoplight, I felt like the vibrations pulsing through my body, knocking out fillings in my teeth.

It’s clear that the kid had invested quite a bit of money into his sound system. The speakers were huge and shiny, there were custom made boxes in the rear window holding additional equipment (probably woofers or tweeters or something), and I could see the stereo in the dash lit up like a Christmas tree.

Imagine spending that much on a stereo and having the volume control break on you. Pity.

I felt bad for the young driver’s misfortune, and the embarrassment he must be enduring with his radio malfunctioning so indiscreetly. In an act of compassion, I turned up my stereo too, so that he wouldn’t stand out so terribly. I don’t know if it did much good, his percussion powerfully drowned out my gentle music: Pink Martini’s Hang On Little Tomato.

He must have heard me though, because he looked over and held up his hands. They were all crumpled in on themselves with fingers sticking out in awkward directions. It suddenly became clear to me that his radio wasn’t malfunctioning at all:

he simply couldn’t turn it down; the poor kid had the worst case of arthritis I’d ever seen.

I was tagged by Lucky to do this Meme approximately 10 years ago, and I haven’t gotten around to it. What can I say? In my last post I gave my short sob story, which does indeed have an impact on my blogging —but also, it’s Spring, and the opportunity to be out & about under blue skies can’t be shunned. None of you are blogging much either, so I don’t feel so bad about it.

FIVE Things In My Purse/Bag/Briefcase

Books!

“Why the bad back?” you might ask… Truly, I carry more books in my backpack than is humanly reasonable. Books I’m reading, books I reference, books I read a long time ago, but love dearly and peruse often…

Origami Papers

Because you never want to be unprepared when there’s a need for a bouquet of paper flowers or a demand for an impromptu crane.

Tobacco, pipe & accessories

Ahhhhh… the glorious deliciousness of a good vice.

Various flash drives

How did I ever get by without these? They’re an IT person’s dream. I have installation files, log files, and hours of music on these little beauties. I love them!

Games Cards/Chess

Actually, I don’t think these have ever been used… It seemed like a good idea when I stuffed them in there, but now I think it’s taking up valuable room for more books.

FIVE Things In My Room

Chest

A wooden tool-chest I received for Christmas —I kept it in my room instead to keep myself organized. It turned out to just be a place to collect more clutter, but I love it anyway.

Bookshelf

—because there’s never quite enough room in my backpack.

Watercolor paintings

I can’t afford art, so my halls are decked with the artwork of family. My daughter Rose painted that pear… not bad for a 7 year old, is it?

Hats

I love old hats. Fedoras, bowlers, porkpies— so sad they went out of style. They’re great accessories, and wonderful for covering up receding hairlines.

Dust bunnies the size of Volkswagens

I refuse to feel ashamed by this. If you live in a house with hardwood floors and a dog, you’re bound to end up with these critters. The house is swept all the time, but still they breed like —well— bunnies.

Free to a good home.

FIVE Things I Am Into

Reading

I bet you haven’t guessed this by now, have you? I love both non-fiction as well as fiction. I love history, particularly about central Europe, for reasons I can’t explain. I also love histories about circuses & sideshows (again, I can’t tell you why, clowns freak me out… maybe it’s a morbid curiousity).

For contemporary authors I like David Sedaris, Barbara Kingsolver, Sarah Vowell, Nick Hornby… for the great authors of yesterday, I like Steinbeck, Austen, Tolkein… there’s not enough room to name them all.

Writing

You wouldn’t know it to look at the frequency of my blog posts lately, but writing is essential to my soul.

Origami/Kirigami

The arts of paper folding & paper cutting…

Music

Also essential to my soul. I can’t live without it. If music isn’t on, something is wrong.

Old movies

Black & White— Silver Screen— See previous posts to hear more of this…

FIVE Things I Have Always Wanted To Do

Travel the world

London, Paris & Venice are great, but I’d really like to see Romania, where Gypsies still roam the land and villagers still hang garlic cloves in their doorways to ward of vampires. Northern Africa would be really cool too. Odd choices, I know, but these are the places that call to me.

Of course I can’t even afford a day-trip to Portland, so there may be a bit of a wait.

Become a roaming street-performer

Not a clown mind you, they’re freaky. And mimes are just annoying. But actually, the main problems that I’m facing are: I have virtually no acrobatic talent, and I can’t stand balloon animals.

Take up woodworking

I get the chance to build a rabbit hutch now & then, but what I really want to do is build beautiful armoires & bookshelves. Unfortunately, I’m also a conservationist & can’t bring myself to use all that beautiful & rare wood.

Become financially solvent

Strike three against the street-performer dream. Damn.

Find balance in life

I know life is a journey and not a destination, but enough is enough already! I want the meaning of life & happily ever after, and I want it now!

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who believe in chiropractic health with an almost cult-like fanaticism, and chiropractic skeptics who equate the practice with the traveling Medicine Show swindlers of old, likely to sell you salt-water in a dark bottle and tell you that it was a proven cure for rheumatism, migraines, and indigestion.

I was raised amongst chiro-skeptics, and so have never really considered trying the therapy. On top of that, I never really thought I needed it. Sure, my back is constantly stiff & sore—has been, in fact, since I was about 12 years old—but I’ve always known that if I were to stretch my inflexible body and strengthen my abdominal muscles, my back would heal. That I’m too lazy to either stretch or exercise was beside the point; the cure was in my hands, I simply needed to reach out and grasp it. I didn’t need some doctor to tell me that.

But then, last week, I became alarmed. My back popped, with no cause whatsoever, and went into fits of spasming pain. The frustrating thing here is, I HAVE been stretching and exercising recently, but it’s either too little too late, or I disturbed the delicate equilibrium of tension that I’ve been building up for the last 20 years. My miracle cure of strength and flexibility slipped right through my fingers.

My doctor was of no help whatsoever; he merely treated the symptom with medication. I want to get at the core of the problem, but he couldn’t be bothered with that. And so it was, that I took a co-worker’s advice and made an appointment with a chiropractor.

Having never been involved with the practice, I don’t really have an impression of it one way or the other (which I guess blows my “two-kinds-of-people” theory right out of the water). But in spite of my open mind, I have a lot of respectable people in my life who consider it nonsense. On top of that, I’d recently read Romi’s testimony of a nightmarish visit to a chiropractor, in which her doctor teabagged her. (I’m none to anxious to have some guy draping his testicles over me while popping my back into place.)

You could say I was a bit apprehensive. Nevertheless, I was prepared to go into this without prejudice (as well as prepared to crush any wayward scrotum that asserted itself). I would evaluate my experience—weighing the good moments against the bad—and I would form my own judgment as to whether this practice was legitimate.

The appointment began like any other. The receptionist was kind of pretty {a point in their favor} but she made me fill out several forms {a point against} and I sat waiting room for several minutes. The waiting room was clean and orderly {+1}, but it was a little too orderly; all the magazines were in a rack on the wall across the room from me {-1}. You have to read a magazine while sitting there, otherwise it’s a pretty awkward experience: just sitting there, looking around or staring out the window, listening in on nearby conversations (actually I was going to eavesdrop anyway, but I wanted some cover).

But I didn’t have a magazine at hand, and suffering from a back injury, I wasn’t inclined to get up and go get one—particularly when I could read the titles from where I was sitting, and none of them interested me. I only read magazines when in the waiting room, but nothing they had appealed to me. In order to read People magazine I would need to have a point of reference on our current celebrities, and I don’t really know any of them (sure, I only wanted it for cover, but I wanted respectable cover). The same problem ruled out Sports Illustrated. Fortune 500 and Forbes would require some interest in business. When forced to read periodicals in these situations, I usually read National Geographic. Entertainment Weekly will do in a pinch (so that I can know which movies are coming out, even if I don’t know the actors’ names), or Time or Newsweek.

The most promising option in the chiropractor’s selection was Highlights for Kids. But again, I’d have to pull myself lamely out of the chair and limp over to get it. What kind of clinic that deals frequently with patients in chronic pain would keep the reading material so inaccessible to us? The coffee tables were totally vacant—not so much as a brochure. I kept waiting for the receptionist to offer to fetch the Highlights for me, but she never asked {-1}.

To make matters worse, they were playing soft-rock on the muzak {-100}. Though I love all types of music, I have to admit a limited tolerance for sappy ballads. Sure, they have their place (elsewhere), but I had no idea how long I was to be subjected to this, and I was growing uncomfortable. Then, a man came down the hall SINGING ALONG, and walked behind the counter with the receptionist. I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer that this was not to be my doctor.

But, in spite of the lack of diversion in the waiting room, they made up for it when they took me back to wait in the doctor’s office. They actually turned on a DVD for me while I waited for the doc! {+1} However, the movie turned out to be all about the validity of Chiropractics… not exactly a classic {-1}. I suppose I appreciated their efforts to keep their patients educated and informed {+1}. But to be honest, this sort of propagandizing tends to have the opposite effect on me {-1}. Nothing puts me on my guard faster than explanations being forced upon me when I haven’t asked a question. Charlatans always try to gain your trust before they take you in.

After watching the movie, which informed me that chiropractics can cure anything from rheumatism to migraines to indigestion, the doctor finally came in—singing along with the muzak.

♫ I love you, always forever
♫ Near and far, closer together

{-3,234,641,398} Fucking Quack.

“I’m sorry” he said, “did you say something?”

“Oh! Ummm… I said: ‘My aching back!’”

He gave me a look of sympathy {+1}, introduced himself, and sat down and discussed my problem. He actually seemed to care, to want to get at the root of the problem {+100}, and I found myself liking him in spite of myself {+100}. Maybe he couldn’t help his little melodic outbursts: some sort of pop-music-Tourette’s {cancel that -3,234,641,398}. God knows I need someone to give a shit about my back {+5,000}.

The score started swinging in his favor. But not for long.

He took me into the exam room and gave me a hospital gown to put on for some diagnostics {-10}. The robe was vertical pastel stripes {-250}.

“Do you have anything in a camo? Or even a tartan plaid?”

He just laughed and walked out of the room. I put on the hideous robe {-50}, and waited for him to return. But instead, the cute receptionist came in {-500} and had me bend in several different postures {-600} to determine what caused me pain.

“I’m sorry you’ve had to see me in this gown.” I told her. “I might have to kill you.”

She laughed, “Yeah, those are pretty ugly. Oh well, it’s better than being naked”

“I’m not so sure.”

Then, as if she was calling my bluff, she had me undo the back of my gown {+5,000} so that she could run some equipment down my spine to measure the muscle tension {+5,000 … -500}. The results were grim.

She walked out of the room to tell the doctor, then a second female assistant came in to run some x-rays. Since these were of the lower back, she had me hold a felt-covered metal loin-guard over my crotch {-10,000} to—as she put it—“protect the boys” {-20,000}.

She said we had to look out for future generations. I tried to argue, explaining that my “boys” have already given this world 3 wonderful little offspring, and were now enjoying retirement and didn’t mind being a little irradiated. But she merely handed me the plate {-250} and started asking questions about my kids. I tried to remain civil, but I found, when dressed in a skimpy, effeminate robe, and holding a bright yellow “cup” over my groin, it’s hard to stay engaged in small-talk.

It felt like the staff at the clinic were competing with each other. That my entire experience at this point was based on nothing more substantial than a series of dares.

“OK”, the Doc would say, “I got him to dress in those ghastly old gowns & she got him to do the Hokey Pokey while half naked, but I bet you can’t get him to pose with the Golden Codpiece!”

I started getting paranoid: were all those pictures she was taking really x-rays? I became certain the bitch had a Polaroid back there somewhere. They had fooled me, tricked me into trusting them and would now extort thousands from me to keep these photos off the world wide web {-5,000}. But before I could confront her, she wrapped up her shoot and told me to wait for the doctor. He poked his head in and gave me permission to get dressed {+1,000}. This was a brilliant tactical maneuver on his part. Fully clothed once again, I relaxed {+100}, started liking him again {+200}, and became curious about what my tests revealed.

Back in his office again, I watched another video over-explaining spinal correction to me {-100}. The video explained that my doctor does not use the “bone popping” method of chiropractics (this was good news! Without having to climb on me, the chances of distasteful contact with his figs was not likely {+1,000}), he instead uses percussion instruments which oscillate at a frequency that will actually communicate with the brain and gets its assistance in spinal correction {-1,500} I felt the skeptic inside of me rising once more. I considered asking the doctor when he came in if, while we were at it, we could have the tools ask my brain what the fuck that dream last week about the giant duck & the French horn meant.

But when the doctor came in, he didn’t give me any of that far fetched craziness. He was completely reasonable and described my test results and the proposed treatment in logical and straightforward terms {+500}. He explained that I carry 40 pounds more weight on the left side of my body than on the right—that my spine is off-center, curved sideways in a way that is putting pressure on nerves and causing pain. He assured me that he could straighten my spine and that this would remove said pressure and would most likely cure my current pain, as well as relieve the constant soreness & stiffness I’ve been experiencing these past couple decades. I began to envision a life for myself free from pain and soreness. I began to hope {+30,860}.

Then he explained that all that was required to complete this task was for me to come into the office 3 times a week for the next 3 months. My mental calculator jumped into high gear and immediately started translating this into a dollar figure. The number was staggering.

Final score:
Pro-chiropractic = 38,865
Anti-chiropractic = 38,865
Cost of Chiropractic = $38,865

Conclusion:
Does anyone know where I can get a cheap pair of used crutches?

Being, as I often find myself, the least armed person in the room is naturally a little disconcerting. I know I’m protected by procedures and laws, but it all really boils down to faith & trust in my co-workers. And I suppose I do trust them (else why would I be there, the only one in the room not sporting pepper spray, a taser, a baton AND a pistol) but sometimes I wish I could don a utility belt full of weapons, just to be on even footing.

I am a civilian employee in a police department. It’s not a bad gig (that I’m not allowed to carry so much as a pocket knife notwithstanding), but it’s clear that it’s not my natural environment… While I don’t necessarily care for being constantly out-gunned, I don’t actually really want to run in the rat-arms-race… I suppose I’d be happier somewhere where people didn’t attire themselves in a personal arsenal for training classes (in which I’m the trainer and my heavily armed students aren’t particularly fond of the subject).

All in all though, the officers I work with are a very respectable group. Once you take away the guns and the body armor (and the boots… and the sunglasses…), they’re just people. A motley group of personalities and temperaments, but I can’t say that I have issues with any of the officers I know. Truly, I have a much harder time with my associates in IT and accounting, and I’m endlessly thankful that these accomplices also aren’t allowed to carry weapons.

There are however, a group of officers who, I have to admit, scare the living hell out of me. I’m responsible for updating software in all patrol cars, and I dread the time it comes to work with these officers’ cars. I find it so unnerving that I’ve actually taken notes on their behaviors so that I can rise more deftly to these occasions.

Perhaps it was unwise of me to document my fears in writing. Moreover, it was foolish to leave this list lying on my desk where it would be found and subject to ridicule. Which is, of course, exactly what happened this weekend. I am a bit embarrassed by its discovery …but I find satisfaction that, no matter how much they tease, all my associates agree that they also would not tread into the territory of these cars. They can’t blame me for my apprehension, for who would willingly sit inside a car when the officer is literally snarling and trying to bite you? There is only one human that is welcome in these vehicles, the K9 handlers … the K9’s themselves would happily kill anyone else who dares enter their sanctum.

Happily pardoned of my fears and misgivings, I hereby publish my list for all to see:

************

K9 Officer Rover†: Ferocious upon approaching the car, but quiets down once I get in and start working.

K9 Officer Benji†: Will try to kill me through the bars for the first few minutes, but will finally settle in.

K9 Officer Fido†: Not so bad, so long as I don’t move.

…at all

…can’t even breathe.

K9 Officer Hooch†: Will seemingly only be satisfied with my bloody esophagus between his teeth. Will not settle in, no matter how long it takes… constantly growls, lunges at the bars, and sticks his muzzle through and tries to bite my elbows.

************

Is this funny? I can’t say that I really think so, but I tell you, it’s considered a riot at work… maybe it’s just law enforcement humor.

My fear of K9 officers was instilled in my pretty early on in my career. The week I started, one of the dogs tore a man’s calf muscle right of his leg. The pooch had to go through aggression training. It might seem odd then, that I adopted a retired K9 officer. But my beloved Tawney was not an attack dog, she was a drug-sniffer, and like me, she did not particularly fit in. She was a Golden Retriever amongst German Shepherds… She did not particularly like the military-style paradigm, and had a low tolerance for driving “Code 3″ to the scene. She tried to do her job, but in her eagerness to please and to be loved, she missed the entire spirit of “the bust.”

I love her dearly, and can’t imagine my life without my sweet dog. And so I’m very pleased that she was given early retirement for her lack of compatibility.

But I’m horribly envious.

†These are not the real names of the dogs, I’m obliged to confess… Police officers aren’t the sort of folk to name their dogs “Fido” or “Rover”… all police attack dogs I’ve known are given tough sounding names like “Bullet”‡ or “Caliber”‡. I just don’t want any would-be criminals amongst my blog readers hearing that “Rover” is pursuing him/her and thinking “Oh right.. Rover is the wimpy one! I don’t have to submit!”

I will not be held responsible when this “wimpy” dog rips a pectoral right off your chest.

‡Also not their real names.