Smile for the Day

So the local paper had this in it today, the most prominently placed among the group of obits:

I couldn't help thinking what a cool name that is, and that I hope she was a super lady with the kind of pleasing persona to match it. Her limited obituary makes you think maybe she was. I'll choose to believe that yes indeedy, she sure was.

This may well turn out to be inspiration for a Les Coole composition.

And when I get to heaven / and see what all I see

Shirley B. Allgood / be all right with me

Fulness of joy, my friends. Pleasures for evermore.

Fashion is Dumb: Crocs and Peeps, Two Great Tastes That Taste Great Together

Just strolling through the draft posts looking for something fun (that required next to no work) and was stopped in my tracks by this beauty the Teej started right before the pandemic. One could argue that the future would've changed immeasurably if only our man had come through. Cold, but fashionable comfort.

WTF, man

"The limited-edition candy-colored shoes are selling for $49.99 online."

Fuck You

As I read and hear more about the Supreme Court's assault on women's reproductive rights, sensible gun laws, and any number of other things, I really still haven't moved past the rage stage of acceptance. I know there are sane, serious people organizing and planning ways to respond (though since many of them are Democrats, I'm not terribly confident in their success), and I expect I'll get there at some point.

But that point ain't today.

So I genuinely enjoyed this bit of musical protest from Glastonbury yesterday. I don't know Olivia Rodrigo's work, but I know now that I admire her. Guessing there aren't a ton of pop stars who could rattle off the names of Supreme Court justices from memory. And there's some bonus Lily Allen involved.

 

Coming to Term

One term, that is. 

I really like Joe Biden. I really don't want Joe Biden to run for re-election. These things aren't mutually exclusive.

The current moment in history calls for bold, decisive action, righteous anger, and focused execution. Joe Biden is an institutional man above all else, and an incrementalist by constitution and experience. He's served his beloved country well for longer than anyone had a right to ask him. He's seen pain and suffering like few others, his extreme empathy forged in a crucible of sorrow we should count ourselves lucky to never experience.

We owe him a great debt.

And I believe he owes us one final grace note. It is increasingly obvious that President Biden isn't as sharp as he once was. This is inevitable for an 79 year-old human. Let the record show that I, too, have lost a few miles per hour from my fastball, both mentally and physically. It's also saddeningly apparent that his administration isn't firing on all cylinders. The rollout of vaccines for kids under the age of five has been botched. The CDC can't find its ass with both hands in combatting monkeypox. The administration has let comms on inflation and gas prices be hijacked by the right, and solutions to both problems are comically underwhelming.

Let it be clear, however, that the Biden Administration has been a force for good in a number of ways, not the least being its performance more broadly on the economy. I come here not to bury the President, but to ask him respectfully to choose to go quietly into that great retirement. The next election is too important, as is the work that needs to be done.

I harbor no illusions that the 2024 election will be easy for any Democrat to win, though I do believe there's a fervor let loose in the land after the Supreme Court's recent Sherman's March through civil and individual rights and the January 6th Committee's outstanding and painstaking work in exposing the outrageous and comprehensive nature of the last guy's mendacity. Kamala Harris is less popular than Biden, for example, and she'd be the most obvious candidate to take the mantle from Uncle Joe.

Biden's decision to step down after a single term would be a selfless, country-first act. The kind of thing he's been known for his entire public career. And notwithstanding my point above regarding the challenges in finding an electable Democrat, there is a solution that's both practical and directly in G:TB's wheelhouse.

Friends, patriots, and right-thinking Americans. That...that's John Fetterman's music.

Still Running

Fear not. It's never too late to appreciate an artist or a piece of art. 

It is, however, a bittersweet historical phenomenon when the cultural intelligentsia takes hold of some work of greatness after its creator has passed, especially when said creators were largely ignored during their so-called heyday. Think Poe and Van Gogh, Nick Drake and Sublime. A Confederacy of Dunces. Kind of a bummer to think how ubiquitous "Nevermore" and "Starry Night" became, and how international car commercials and multiple dedicated cover bands now honor people's music that were passed over in real time. Sadder still to think that the public's appreciation once upon a time might possibly have saved these artists from untimely demises.

When I think of big songs that hit the charts posthumously, I always begin with "(Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay," released one month after Otis Redding's plane crash. "Me and Bobby McGee," Janis Joplin's take on the Kristofferson classic, came out three months after her overdose. "A Change Is Gonna Come." "Buffalo Soldier." "I'll Have to Say I Love You in a Song."

Joy Division fits into both of these categories. The band, and this song. 

Well now. As the Buckinghams sang, kind of a drag.

Enough of that then. Roight!

What I really came here to say today was that sometimes it's bloody brilliant when an artist publishes a work to no or relatively limited fanfare . . . but then is still around when it eventually hits the big time. I'm thinking strictly music for the moment, but I'm sure it has existed in all art forms.

Take for example, the (imho) severely annoying "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" by the Scottish act The Proclaimers. It did fairly well upon its release in August 1988. It did especially well in Iceland (!). It registered nothing on the US Richter scale. And then . . . Benny and Joon. A light fare American movie with Johnny Depp and Mary Stuart Masterson and mental illness actually treated relatively unidiotically. Eh. "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" was a lead single on the soundtrack and went to #3 on the Billboard charts. And it's hung around for way too long since. I do like this cover of it quite a bit, though.

"Red Red Wine" draws similarly scathing opinions from many, though not from me. It's a keeper, says this guy. A Neil Diamond number that was covered in a dancehall ska style by someone whose name should've been my alma mater's mascot (check it out), and then covered by UB40... who had not heard the original. It's a lot like when Camper van Beethoven covered the Chocolate Watchband version of the Kinks classic "I'm Not Like Everybody Else," even though they didn't know the original hit. You know? Of course. 

Anyway, UB40's version of "Red Red Wine," off their exceptional 1983 collection of old reggae and ska covers, Labour of Love, topped the UK charts but only went to #34 in the US. According to Wikipedia:

In 1988, UB40 performed the song at the Nelson Mandela 70th Birthday Concert. Soon after, program director Guy Zapoleon of Phoenix-based KZZP placed the full version on the station's playlist, and it soon became the station's most popular song. With UB40 ready to release Labour of Love II, A&M Records promotion man Charlie Minor asked UB40 to hold off on releasing the album so that the label could reissue and promote "Red Red Wine." On the Billboard Hot 100 chart of October 15, 1988, the song hit No. 1.

Billy Vera and the Beaters. Household name? In 1986 they were! Their only hit, "At This Moment," stalled at #79 in 1981. But when the tune became Alex P. Keaton's love theme with his girlfriend Ellen (Tracy Pollan, still MJF's real-life wife) on Family Ties for a few episodes, it went to #1. Like Number One. Ridiculous. Have you heard it? 

Brian Wilson. No, I meant, "Brian Wilson." The song. From everybody's favorite Canadian punching bag, Barenaked Ladies. Look, back in 1992, when rob was touring the Northeast US and parts of Canada as our fraternity's Pro Frat Guy, he came across BNL's debut Gordon. And he gave me the cassette to listen to when he retired from that gig. And it was good. Still listenable, if you're me. I'm sure NJDave doesn't like it, though I read that he recently succumbed to Steely Dan. The band, not this. Anyway, that album and the single "Brian Wilson" made a little hay on the Canadian charts, pretty good for a quintet of schmelts, but the rest of the world gave it a hard no. More of the same for their second and third albums. But when in doubt... do a live album!!

Rock Spectacle hit the shelves in 1997, and somewhere, our of nowhere, "Brian Wilson" caught fire. It's a rather solid version, complete with lots of audible fan-singing. (One of my favorite things.) But what DJ or promoter made this happen? Can't find that yet. Maybe the GTB intern can help. Pitter patter.

There are plenty of instances of songs taking a few years to break through, be they "Layla" or "Lady" or, of course, Inner Circle's "Bad Boys." But that's not what I'm here to discuss. (After all this, he has a relevant point?)

Enter Kate Bush. Nope, no jokes here.

For the woefully uninformed, Kate Bush is a British pop singer whose work dates back to the 1970's. While songs of hers like "This Woman's Work" and "Wuthering Heights" saw some success, and while I liked her for her back-up or duet turns on Peter Gabriel songs ("No Self Control," "Games Without Frontiers," and most prominently "Don't Give Up"), her biggest hit was always 1985's electronic-drum-backed "Running Up That Hill (A Deal with God)." I liked it then, I like it now. It's great vocally and is just 80's synth brilliance.

And a weird video apropos of the era.

"Running Up That Hill" found itself squarely in the alt-80's realm; it has played heavily on SiriusXM's First Wave channel for years. As for charting, with a hard ch, it peaked at #3 in the UK and #30 in the US back then. Not bad.  

Kate Bush has kept making music, though nothing that has stood out, at least not like this tune. Meanwhile, her influence on vocalists of latter days, especially ones like Sarah McLachlan and Tori Amos, is evident. Not a bad career at all.

And then... stranger things happened. I mean Stranger Things happened. The show started playing "Running Up That Hill" in this most recent season, thereby introducing it to a whole new generation of listeners and appreciators. 

Right now, as we live and breathe and eat and drink and type and read, here are the "charts." Check it out!

US

UK

It's also #1 in Australia, New Zealand, Ireland, and Belgium. 

I know, I know. I frequently rail about mainstream mass music tastes, the hideousness of Billboard this millennium, and the paper-thin pop that inhabits these annals. But still, for a 63-year-old singer/songwriter whose last #20 single in the US was never ever, this is unexpected and super cool. 

And never too late.

What Car Should a Gheorghie Drive: zEdition

 I like cars.  Always have.  Some of my earliest memories revolve around my father's 1969 Butternut Yellow Chevrolet Impala convertible which as much a member of the family as any human being ever was.  I do not take poetic license I say "earliest memories"--I remember driving along the West Side Highway with the top down (it was always down) and an American flag flying from the antenna to celebrate the Bicentennial.  That car was more than a car, it was the first big purchase my father made after he graduated college and got a job, and for a young man who came here in the 1950s (as a refugee, really) it allowed him to tell the world that he made it.  As a result I've always had a fondness for big American V8s and convertibles.  If you think you don't like convertibles you're wrong.  You've just been driving them in the sun too much.  Convertibles peak at night.

On my 48th birthday I realized that this ride called life is about halfway over and that bothered me.  I'm also bothered by the way things are changing.  Our political system is a mess and our democracy might implode in a few years.  Liner notes don't exist.  Our economy appears to be on the brink of collapse.  Former pro athletes who are younger than me have sons who are now pro athletes.  Terrible viruses pop up out of nowhere.  My kids have no concept of live TV.  

I have automotive anxieties too.  I will never be able to afford an air-cooled 911.  New cars don't have buttons anymore, it's all touch screens.  In ten years all new cars will be massive lozenge-shaped electronic transportation pods that drive themselves without your involvement so that you and six other people can stream movies to your phones or tablets while the pod delivers you to your destination.  Don't even get me started on the dearth of cool car colors.

Or the dearth of cars!  Everything is an SUV now and I have no idea why.  I'm sure all of you have one but you shouldn't.  The trunks are not bigger than a wagon's and the center of gravity is too high.  They are a study in bad proportion.  Who looks at this and says "Yes!  Take my $100,000 now!"  Someday we will look back at these massively stretched front grills and laugh at them like tailfins from the 1950s.

And there are no sports cars!  In 1995, Nissan sold the 300ZX, 240SX, 200SX, and the Sentra SE-R.  Honda had the Civic Si, Civic Del Sol, and Prelude.  Toyota had the Celica, Supra, and a go-fast version of the Corolla.  Even frickin' Mazda had the MX-3, MX-6, Miata, and RX-7.  Today?  Nissan has the Z, Honda has the Civic Si, Toyota has the Supra, and Mazda has the Miata.  And no one buys any of them.

All of this makes me feel sad and old.  So I yearn for an analog car to take me back to simpler days when my future was big and bright and exciting.

But I also hate to let people down.  Part of this translates into saving, rather than spending, to assure that I will never come up short if my family needs something.  I currently drive a VW Golf Alltrack that costs me $323 a month (financed at 0%) and has a 6 year/60k mile warranty, a trunk bigger than your SUV, and storms through snow with aplomb.  It pulls 0.84 g on the skidpad, which is pretty crazy considering that a Ferrari Testarossa pulls 0.87 g.  You can't find a better deal--you probably pay more each month on your cable/internet bill, or your cell phone family plan.  So I can't justify spending a lot of money on a toy car.

My financial advisor likes cars too, we met in the parking garage of our building when he pulled in with his 1968 Pontiac Firebird convertible.  In our last meeting I joked about buying a toy car but he replied seriously with something like "You know cars.  Go get something you will enjoy and that will hold value.  It's a durable good!  Think of it as a way to diversify your portfolio."  He gave me a price range to work with and I started thinking and perusing BringaTrailer.com. 

The first car I ever remember seeing and saying "Whoa!  This changes everything!" was the 1984 Corvette.  This was the fourth generation of the model so it's referred to as the C4.  It looked like Chevy took a paring knife to a C3 to whittle away all the excess geegaws and indulgences of the 1970s and wound up with a land-going missile.  There are no fender flares, no flying buttresses, no ducktails.  There is zero chrome.  When viewed in profile its pointed nose and notched back make it look like an arrow shot from Artemis's bow, especially the convertible. 

Car & Driver previewed the gonzo ZR-1 version of the C4 in their October 1988 issue.

This issue also featured the only letter I've ever written that anyone ever published.

I can explain in the comments why that's funny if anyone cares.  The ZR-1 captivated me.  It had an engine made by Mercury Marine churning out 375 horsepower and Lotus helped design the whole thing using their Formula 1 experience.  It was faster than just about anything from German or Italy but it didn't stand out.  Aside from the square tail lights it looked just like a regular C4, and after a year or two all C4s had the square tail lights.  Stealth speed!

In high school I wrote my AP English term paper on the history of the Corvette.  It held my interest any my teacher's--she gave me an A and wrote me a letter of recommendation that helped me get into W&M.

All this is to say I've been a C4 ZR-1 fan for a long time.  It seems like I should drive a 1994 Corvette ZR-1 in Polo Green over beige.  And I almost did. 

But I waffled.  This is the right ZR-1.  It's crispy as hell but with 48k miles you can actually drive it without incurring serious depreciation.  These used to sell for $20k to $25k but the vintage car market is up and so are ZR-1 prices.  This one hammered at $32k and for me that's just too much for a 28-year-old car that has a lot of rare (only about 6900 were made) fussy parts that you probably can't get at your local Chevy dealer.  This one won an award or two so the owner is really more of a caretaker than a driver.  I absolutely would love to drive this, but it isn't my WCSAGD.

My real weakness is small, light roadsters like the Lotus Elan which inspired the Mazda Miata.  Owning an Elan is like owning a sailboat, you're constantly throwing money at it, and I already had a Miata.  I want something relatively reliable with readily available parts and that service stations know how to repair.  I also want something interesting--I love cars with five cylinders, French cars, three-wheelers, anything that involves a different engineering take on the automotive experience.  In a perfect world I would have a Porsche 959 in my garage but that isn't in the cards.

I should drive a 2004 Porsche Boxster S in Lago green over Savannah Beige with a black top and basket wheels.

And now I do.

2004 was the last year of the first generation Boxster, the 986.  The S version has a 3.2 liter flat-6 good for 258 horsepower.  That isn't a ton of oomph these days, but it only has to push around 2,911 pounds of car.  Flat, or horizontally-opposed, engines are cool.  They make it easier to fit more cylinders in a tight space like a V, but because they're flat they allow for a lower center of gravity.

I've owned a flat-4 and a straight-6 but never a flat-6, until now.  

Even cooler: the Boxster is mid-engined.  This means that the engine sits between the driver's back and the rear axle, exactly where God and Isaac Newton intended.  Putting the engine there puts most of the car's weight there, which means it handles really well.

A mid-engined, flat-6, rear-wheel-drive, two-seater convertible?  Sounds like a different automotive take to me.

I still have to figure out OBX Dave's car, but the rest of you have already been given your assignments.  Go out there and get your WCSAGD.

What Never Was

There are a bunch of sports-related things I vividly remember from my youth. Yaz popping up to Graig Nettles to end the 1978 AL East playoff. Cried at that one. The Miracle on Ice. Ran around the living room with my Dad then. Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. Got drunk in a hotel room on a high school field trip shortly thereafter. Bird versus Magic, so many times - joy and pain in mostly equal measure. 

But none of those events hit me viscerally in the same way that something that happened 36 years ago today did.

I was a Boston Celtics fan at the time. Red Auerbach had pulled off another draft miracle, nabbing Maryland's Len Bias with the second pick, a selection the defending champions had because of a trade two years earlier. The 1985-86 C's were loaded, and the prospect of adding the hyper-athletic and ultra-competitive Bias to a frontcourt with Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, Robert Parish, and Bill Walton was the stuff of giddy-making anticipation.

And then he died, just two days later.

I was watching the local news when the story came over the air. It was the most shocking thing I'd experienced in my young life, and it left an indelible mark. To this day, I've never had any interest in going near cocaine - if it could kill a man of Bias' size and fitness, well that scared (and still does) the everlovin' hell out of me.

"For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: 'It might have been!'"

The game is one thing. Sadder more is what was lost to Len Bias the person and his family. Still guts me to think about.

Pacing Myself

My heart is a wondrously robust organ that periodically reminds me of its flaws. I have an irregular heartbeat, what’s called atrial fibrillation. The electrical circuitry of the upper chambers, or atria, isn’t sync’d with the lower chambers, or ventricles, for regular, rhythmic pumps. 

I’ve had three procedures to try to remedy the condition, but none of them have held. My docs assure me that plenty of people have a-fib and with medication and regular checkups live well into their 70s and 80s. I’m not in a-fib all the time and I’m mostly asymptomatic, so it’s not a burden. Me and my heart get along fine, without incident. Usually. 

In a span of 32 hours, I went from a guy who was uncommonly fatigued to a guy with a pacemaker. Jarring doesn’t begin to describe the process. Hospitals, tests, transport, absurdly quick turnarounds, exceptionally gifted doctors and nurses. In and out in two days, with a piece of medical hardware embedded in my shoulder. Crazy. 

I had felt lethargic for a few days. Walking and jogging around the neighborhood, climbing steps, I tired more quickly than usual and my breathing was a bit labored. I told my wife one morning that something was off. Called my primary care doc, and knowing my history and condition, he said, go to the ER. They can do more tests than I can in my office. Went to the ER at the hospital here on the Outer Banks. They hooked me up to monitors, drew blood, gave me a COVID test (I wondered if that’s what it was). Blood work came back fine. COVID test was negative. 

But it turned out that I had a baseline heart rate of a hibernating bear – low 30s. Normal is between 60 and 100. Over the course of the next few hours, it occasionally spiked up into the 50s and 60s, but then fell back to the low 30s and even upper 20s a few times. My a-fib was unrelated to the low heart rate, which docs said almost certainly caused my fatigue and shortness of breath. Yay, an entirely different issue. 

Late afternoon, a cardio doc’s assistant came to the room and talked up the sequence of scheduling a cardiac consultation, then a stress test, and a subsequent evaluation of data, with the possibility of a pacemaker some time down the line. Twenty-five minutes later, an emergency room doc to whom I am forever grateful came in and said that after speaking with cardio specialists, no point in postponing the inevitable, that I needed a pacemaker ASAP. 

She contacted Norfolk’s heart hospital to secure an open bed and got in touch with the office of my electro cardio doc who had performed previous procedures on me to see if they had an opening the next day, which they did. A few hours later, a county EMS ambulance with a three-person crew schlepped me to Norfolk. 

Late-night check-in. Monitors (heart rate still in 30s). Blood drawn. Little sleep. Nurses and doctors stopped in overnight and the next morning to check vitals and explain what was up. No food all day because I was scheduled for a procedure that afternoon. Around 5:30 p.m., wheeled into operating room, where an engaging, genial doc performed the procedure. Gave me a fist-bump before he scrubbed and we both said, “Let’s do this.” 

One unsettling development among many, I was mostly awake for the procedure. They covered my face with a couple of cloths, I’m guessing so that I didn’t see the liberal amounts of blood involved. I felt zero pain, but definitely felt the doc pushing and pulling in and around the incision. A few times, somebody lifted a cloth, peeked in and said, “Hey Mr. Fairbank, how you doing? You OK in there?” 

I answered yeah and told them that it was some damn wizardry they were pulling off. The procedure normally takes about an hour, I was told. They finished me in 31 minutes. So, in the time it takes for an oil change, I had an electronic device inserted that would help keep me alive. 

They make an incision in the front of your upper left torso, just below the shoulder. The pacemaker itself is about the size of an Oreo cookie. Mine is a two-wire lead, with one wire fished into the heart’s upper chamber and the other in a lower chamber. The battery lasts 7 to 10 years, depending on how frequently it’s needed. The baseline heart rate is set at 60, so any time my rate dips below that, the device kicks in. It comes with a monitor that you plug in bedside. Once or twice a day, the pacemaker transmits data to the monitor (how I spent my day), which then sends info to my cardiologist’s office. The cardiologist will call if something peculiar shows up. 

They kept me overnight for observation. The next morning, various docs came through and said I did well and looked good. I was signed out by late morning and home early afternoon. My left shoulder is sore. I can’t lift anything with my left arm, nor raise my left arm above my shoulder for a couple weeks. I cannot drive for a couple weeks, either. Sleeping is interesting, because if I even think about rotating onto my left side, my shoulder lets me know it. But everyone assures me that I will gradually get back to normal, including one of the Norfolk cardio docs who also has a pacemaker and let me feel the small lump where his was inserted. 

One amusing part of the entire process was that at each stop along the way, I drew double-takes and quizzical looks and pleasant surprise from almost everyone, based on advance information they had before actually seeing me. Sixty-something male, a-fib, a-flutter, heart rate in low 30s. It was as if they expected me to be comatose or at death’s door. When I walked and talked and goofed with people, it was a bonus. “You’re doing great,” they told me, or in phone conversations with colleagues they said, “No, he’s not like that at all. He’s doing really well. He’s up and around and talking to everybody.” More than once I said, “Not bad for a cadaver.” 

All this said, I’m well aware that I’m blessed beyond explanation. There are plenty of places where it wouldn’t have played out the way it did. Even here it might not have worked out. Maybe a bed isn’t available at the Norfolk hospital. Maybe none of the electro cardio wizards have an opening. Maybe I’m wait-listed for tests and consultations, and dragging around wheezing for weeks or months. Maybe my ticker limps to a halt. Instead, me and my heart, and my heart’s new buddy, have more ahead.

Lapses and Synapses

Dad died on a late Thursday afternoon a little more than 16 years ago, just shy of his 80th birthday. Hewas unconscious, laid up in an assisted living facility south of Baltimore. His breathing had slowed and grown erratic in the days prior. He was no longer able to feed himself and labored to swallow when others tried to feed him. He couldn’t speak, and his eyes registered only flickers of recognition now and again. 

That afternoon, shortly before dinner time, his body simply quit. Truth be told, he had pretty much checked out months earlier. That’s the way Alzheimer’s works. 

Everyone knows about the cognitive decline and memory loss associated with the disease, but it also affects higher neurological functions such as heart rate, breathing, digestion and sleep patterns. Victims have trouble with nutrition and proper hydration. Those afflicted eventually lose balance and coordination, so are often confined to beds. They cannot communicate, nor control their bladder and bowels. Pneumonia and bacterial infections are leading causes of death among advanced Alzheimer’s patients, often because they are too weak or immunocompromised to respond to treatment that would cure an otherwise healthy person. 

I write this not to bring down the room, but as a reminder and a gentle nudge. Dad’s birthdate and anniversary of his death were recent, so I’ve been thinking about him. Also, June is Alzheimer’s and Brain Awareness Month. As all of you are younger than me, many of your parents are still alive and kicking. I recommend that you spend time with and appreciate your parents while you can, challenging or maddening as they might be. 

I don’t know if any of you have been touched by Alzheimer’s or dementia, but it’s a damnable disease I wouldn’t wish on Vladimir Putin. Anything that robs you of you is beyond pernicious and heartbreaking to those around you. 

Dad was in decline for several years, and Mom had to move him to multiple facilities for more comprehensive care as his condition worsened. She could only bring herself to visit him every few days, especially in the later stages, because she could hardly bear to see her husband and partner, her light and her rock, of 50-plus years erode into a shell of himself. 

I didn’t blame her one bit. When I visited, sometimes he recognized me and sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes I was just a friendly face who came to say hello and sit with him for a while. 

It was back in my sportswriting days, so whether he was asleep or awake, whether he recognized me or not, I told him what I’d been up to the previous couple weeks and what was ahead – events I covered, people I interviewed, who was playing well and who wasn’t. Dad’s condition also prompted my mom to tell my sister and me, regularly and insistently: Don’t wait. If there’s something you want to do, some place you want to go, don’t wait; do it, ASAP, because there are no guarantees. 

Mom and Dad did some traveling after he retired. They hoped to do more, intended to do more, but other concerns or situations arose that shelved plans. No problem, they thought, we’ll get around to it. Once Dad started to decline, hopes and intentions evaporated. 

Chances are, Alzheimer’s and dementia will affect all of us, directly or indirectly. The Alzheimer’s Association estimates that 6.5 million Americans have the disease. As the population ages, that number is expected to rise to 13 million by 2050. Approximately one in nine people age 65 or older has Alzheimer’s. The disease is expected to cost the country $321 billion, including more than $200 billion in Medicare and Medicaid payments. Unless treatment to slow or prevent the disease is developed, the cost is expected to hit $1 trillion by 2050. 

The country is woefully thin on geriatric care specialists. Half of primary care physicians reported that they don’t feel adequately prepared to care for patients with Alzheimer’s or other forms of dementia. Only 12 percent of nurse practitioners have expertise in gerontological care, and less than one percent of registered nurses, physicians’ assistants and pharmacists identify themselves as specializing in geriatrics. 

All of this is to say, be aware of your parents and oldsters in your orbit. Recognize that forgetfulness and confusion may be signs of regular aging, or may signal something more significant. Listen. Talk to experts. Get them tested. It may require some difficult decisions. Give them a hug. Give them some help, whether they think they need it or not.

Saving Democracy, One Flip at a Time

This progression may represent why Twitter is worth saving. 

The order here is what's on this particular Twitter feed today, and the order in which I read them.

And then it picks up right where it left off.  Awesome.

Two Great Tastes, and a Sneaking Suspicion

I can't believe it took this long for the venerable Ben's Chili Bowl to get its own GoGo anthem, but I'm glad we're here now.

When I first heard this song by DJ Mello T, it reminded me of...something. Couldn't quite put my finger on it, though. 

Want $2K Quick?

Sometimes you just need a couple grand to put you over the top, and you might be willing to stretch what you'd do to get it. If that's you, Gheorghe: The Blog has a hot tip.

Don't mind a few insects creeping around?

Don't have a house worthy of remaining bug-free?

Don't you just miss this guy?

Apparently The Pest Informer, a Raleigh-based extermination information company, is willing to pay you $2,000 if you'll agree to let them "release ~100 American cockroaches into your home, and give [them] permission to film, and test out a specific cockroach treatment."

What could go wrong?

Here are the rules:

• You must own the home or have written approval from the homeowner.
• You must be 21 years or older to qualify.
• You must be located in the Continental United States.
• All tested cockroach treatments will be family- and pet-safe.
• You must not try any additional cockroach treatments during the duration of the study.
• At the end of the study, if the cockroach infestation hasn’t been eliminated, we will use traditional cockroach treatment options at no cost to you.
• The duration of this study will be approximately 30 days.

Here's my question . . . if "traditional cockroach treatment options" actually work well, why would The Pest Informer need to be investing thousands of dollars into a study for new technological advances?

Here's the link!

We Will Pay You $2,000 For Us To Release Cockroaches Into Your Home

Oh, and here's a trailer for what the after-picture looks like. No big deal, apparently. Grab the $2K and run!

Jive, Turkey

Like most Americans, I get the majority of my news from social media. But sometimes I seek balance, so I'll tune in to listen to Trevor Noah's newscast on those rare evenings when I can stay up past 11:00 pm.

And so it was this week that I learned that Turkey had filed a formal petition with the United Nations to change its official name. Because, as it turns out, the association with the bird and the connotation as a thing that's a failure rubbed Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan the wrong way. (I guess he's not a bowler.)

Because UN policy basically allows nations to choose their own names, Turkey is now officially known as Turkiyë to the community of nations. It's pronounced turkey-yay, which is both fun and a little bit hard to say.

You may recall that I've got a colleague who was born in Turkey. I wrote about her journey to becoming a naturalized U.S. citizen a few years ago.

I reached out to her upon hearing the news from her homeland, and her response surprised me. "I think the Turkish government should worry about inflation being over 100% right now. It's absolutely horrendous."

Turns out elections in Turkiyë are scheduled for next year, and Erdogan's not in great shape. Also turns out he's running the Trump playbook, pre-shaping a narrative that will allow him to claim election "fraud" and retain the power that his family has held (and the stream of illicit cash) for decades. 

Turkey-yay, I guess, but Erdogan-nay.

HBD TD

Happy Birthday, tiny dictator!

This was supposed to add "from" before "Lester."

Interesting confluence.

zHot Takes on Science Fiction

I finally figured out what makes a sci-fi/fantasy TV show good.  Any show set in some alternate world, whether it's the future, outer space, or some mythical realm of swords and sorcery, has to explain how all the alternate world shit works in addition to explaining who all the people are.  If you botch setting things up, the whole thing falls apart.

For example, I watched a few episodes of The Expanse at Dave's suggestion.  Although I like to break his balls I respect Dave's taste in books and TV tremendously and I expected to like it.  But after a handful of episodes I'm just meh on it and I stopped watching.  There's too many people in too many places, the United Nations has too much power, and there are too many rules about living on different planets and asteroid belts for me to figure out on top of all the criminal plot lines and political maneuvering.  One plot line is clear--Mars and the asteroid belts need water and the only way to get it is by harvesting ice from some outer planets--but it makes no sense.  Yoo mean tuh tell me dat deez fuggin stoonads ken put a civiluhzashin on fuggin Mars, but dey can't make wadduh outta elemental hydrogen and oxygen?  I kawl boolshit.

Seriously though, I have too much to learn when I watch the Expanse and I can't keep it all straight.  Seeing Joey Tribiani's nephew in a spaceship is confusing too.  

I'm too stupid and too lazy to process it.

Similarly, I watched the first season of Wheel of Time and I do not plan on watching the second.  It starts out as your standard medieval type of thing, but then a lady appears who can shoot what looks like DNA from her hands and she saves the day when a bunch of random monsters appear.  

She tells a bunch of people that she's looking for "The Dragon Reborn" and it could be one of them.  It takes a while to clarify all this hooey, and there is blatant theft from Game of Thrones and Lord of the Rings.  Yes, the whole swords and sorcery genre rips off LotR but this is ridiculous.  They're practically running through Mordor at one point.  "The Dark One" has an army of creatures that are orcs with dog heads.  Superpowers randomly flare up in a bar.  A wizard guides a band of trusting, less experienced people through a harrowing journey to defeat an evil force that has been silent for 3000 years, and only one of them can save the world.  

Meanwhile, they run into all sorts of random people in random places that can do random superhuman things and there is no explanation for it.  There are flashbacks to battles where neither side of the fight is identified.  Eventually they explain the lady with the DNA hands--she's part of this sisterhood of badass DNA slingers (the DNA comes from The True Source (but not The Source)), and the whole society of them is very complicated and political, so you have to wrap your head around that while trying to understand how their powers work, when suddenly a man who can sling DNA shows up and that unleashes a whole new set of rules and backstory to digest.  It's ridiculous.

Which is to say there's a fair amount of theft from Dune.  A society of women who can use The Voice/touch The True Source to do stuff and men can't do it ... except sometimes they can.  

And then some guy eats something that makes his mouth bleed.  No idea why.

Game of Thrones got this right.  Season 1, episode 1 opens with a big scary slightly obscured monster killing people.  The rest of season 1 is just regular humans with differing UK accents establishing themselves and their motivation.  When something weird happens, like a Dothraki wedding, there is an outsider who sits in for the audience to ask "What the fuck is going on?" to another outsider who knows the deal.   

By the end of season 1 you forget that that there is any magical shit involved whatsoever, until this:

And then you're like "Oh right, I forgot there was magical shit on this show!" but you're ready for it because you know who everyone is and what they're trying to do.  You can wrap your head around all the mystical stuff starting in season 2.

So if you're going to run a sci-fi/fantasy TV show, explain the people first and the science/sorcery afterwards.

zHot Takes After the 2022 French Open

On Sunday, Rafael Nadal won his 14th French Open in his 18th attempt at the title.  He won his first one at 19 and this year's at 36.  Think about how much changed in your life between your 19th and 36th birthdays.  Now imagine winning one of the world's most prestigious sporting events essentially every year of your life over that span.  It's unfathomable.  It's also a testimony to him and his family that he remained focused and scandal-free (poor Boris Becker) despite success at such a young age.

Nadal now has 22 Grand Slam titles, the most of anyone ever.  Roy Emerson held the record with 12 Slams until 1999 when Pete Sampras won his 13th.  Pistol Pete retired after winning his 14th in 2002.  So Nadal tied the old record just based on his work at the French Open alone.

Nadal is 112-3 at the French.  Those 112 French wins are more than some Hall of Famers had in all their Grand Slam appearances combined, guys like Kuerten, Ivanisevic, Stich, Kafelnikov.

He is 8-8 in other Grand Slam finals.  So if he never played in the French Open, he would have more Slams than McEnroe, Wilander, Becker, and Edberg; he would be tied with Agassi, Lendl, and Connors; and he would have as many as Ashe, Murray, Roddick, and Ivanisevic combined.  All of those guys are in the Hall of Fame except for Murray because he's still playing.  And those non-French 16 finals appearances would be more than anyone except four other players (and tied with Borg).  And he always plays his ass off, even when he loses.

I feel like I've written this before--perhaps I have, just about someone else--so you're probably tired of reading my rants.  Just realize that this age of preposterous tennis can't go on forever, so appreciate it while it lasts.  

Gheorghasbord

Writer's block is real, y'all. Pushing through because I know our fan demands content.

I hope you caught Tim Kurkjian's moving ode to his older brother Matt this week on ESPN.com. Matt Kurkjian was one of the best baseball players in the history of Catholic University. He's now fighting ALS. Tim's tribute is a paean to the game, to brotherhood, and to joy amidst sorrow.

New Drive By Truckers? New Drive By Truckers. And in a sort of celebration, W&M grad Jay Busbee wrote a piece on the sublime experience of going to a rock show. I reckon he'd fit in with us.

New Wilco? New Wilco, and countrified Wilco at that. Here's Jeff Tweedy and Glenn Kotche talking about it with NPR's Scott Simon.

Because I know you care, the kids that you fell in love with during Season One (and only) of Rob Lasso won the Virginia High School League (VHSL) Region 4C title on Friday night with a well-deserved 1-0 victory over local rival Broad Run. The girls host Salem in the quarterfinals of the state tournament on Tuesday. In a cool coincidence, the boys team is also hosting a state quarter that night, so if you're in or around Leesburg, there's a double helping of high school soccer in a couple of days. If you remember Sid, one of my favorite characters (she was a freshman who struggled with self-confidence last year), it'll warm your heart to know that she was named first-team All-Region this year after moving to her natural position at center back. Seems she's learned to be a goldfish, after all.

Mood

 

Tributes Are Pretty Great

A wild and crazy friend of mine who resides in the OBX is getting married again, against the advice of some of his pals. I'm not one of the cautionary cohorts, though, as (a) who the hell am I to coach another's marital pathway through life, and (b) he's not going to listen, so why create an unfillable chasm over which you'll later need to build a bridge? [Hmmm... I seem to be randomly drawing from some Sting lyrics there. Not sure what's going on.]

Anywho, our buddy the maniac (whom some of you OBFTers have met) has insisted that he'd like his bachelor party to take place in Colombia. When he tells people, they usually ask whether he means South Carolina or the Maryland town where Merriweather Post is. Nope, he means Pablo's Place. You know, Coloooooombia. Alrighty then.

Well, I'm sure I'm bowing out of any such trip there. While people say it's far more visitor-friendly than the images on the telly and the reputation it carved out for itself over a couple of decades, the country can be scary and dangerous. Just ask Taylor Hawkins, who died in Bogotá, Colombia in March.

Plus, if anything happened to me there, I doubt you guys would muster up 1,000 people to play a Les Coole or Random Idiots track like this for me!

But it'd be cool if you could get like 10 people to do it.

Not that I'm going.

Carry on.