A work in progress....bear with me

The fun begins...

And I'm sorry that this post won't have any gratuitous sex.  No, I'm going to discuss quant. As in quantitative analysis.  Today on my doorstep was a routine brown UPS box. I figured it was my new Gideon's Bible. But, not to be. It was this stuff. I'm going to be tested on my quantitative skills before I start class in January. I'm already stuck on the first problem, "Calculate the percentage increase from 12 to 33"  !!

wtf!!   I knew that in 5th grade, but not now. If anyone knows, please help me out.

The end.

Gardening is sexy

Maybe it's me, but let me explain. Perhaps it has something to do with my mindest, and the dearth of acceptable receptacles here, but the weather today reminded me of Spring, and everyone knows that's what makes a man's mind fancy. Nevertheless, today started with optimism. I planned to plant tulip bulbs. (I'll digress here and say that bulbs reminds me of bulbous, which reminds me of boobs..but like I said, I digress). Anyway, I researched the topic vigorously, and determined that November 8 was the ideal day to proceed. Not to mention that the forecast was for 70 degree weather.

I was quickly disappointed. Blackburn's Nursery, that little oasis of wonderful flora amidst the grotesque yard sales and billboards which line Hwy 23 in Appalachia, was closed. Perhaps because my enthusiasm got me there before noon and I was too early. Blackburn's is where I go to stock up on various plantings, mulches, and other things I don't really need. It's also where I got the bulb for the beautiful plant shown in this picture. This past spring I picked out the bulb with the help of an enthusiastic and wonderful helper. I don't think she's there anymore. I wish she could see what grew out of our too brief connection; I think she'd be pleased.

Not to be dissuaded however, I made the 40 minute drive back home, re-did my fantasy line-ups, and went straight to Lowe's. Unfortunately, no tulips there either. However, I did run across this interesting make-believe green house (2nd picture) and calls attention once again to things earthy and sensual. As I placed gently the prescribed 2 or 3 seeds (or maybe 8-10) into each little receptacle, my mind pondered how this seed planting is not nearly as fun as how humans do it. I trust that next spring the fruits of my labors will bring forth chives, basil, brussell sprouts, and some other fun stuff. (hopefully not of the 2-legged variety..just sayin).

To sleep, perchance to dream....

Chicago in the Fall is the perfect place to be. Unless you're stuck at the Westin O'Hare. I can look out my window and see planes landing, but can't see the skyline. That's OK though, because I'm here to learn about sleep medicine. If I stay awake during class I learn some fun things, ie about parasomnias and night terrors. ("From ghoulies and ghosties, and long-leggedy beasties, and things that go bump in the night....").

I thought this picture of shorty and my granddog was perfect timing. Alycia calls her the Tattoo-Princess.

I miss them both.   

26 Things...Stepping up to the varsity team.

It's been awhile and I've been waiting to purchase a photo box to have some fun with lighting. However my friend Jeff brought me a gift to the office today. As  he can do, he's sucking up for my business. He brought an invitation for a trip to Portland, candies for the girls, and this little gem in a halloween bag. The labelled proof is 140, double-distilled in 1992. Released this month. Tastes of toffee, molasses, vanilla, & coffee. Although my house bourbon is Maker's, and when I go out I get stuffy and order Woodford, and when I really want to show off I ask for Old Pogue, this elixir is uber-special. Even you know who might like it (you maybe?). Poured over ice, with hardly a splash, it makes for a very sublime evening.

Hence, I made my own light-box: 2 white garbage bags sitting on the stove-top. If you ever get the chance ask for a couple fingers of Stagg. If you can't find it, my door's always open, and if the stars align just right, you might be able to enjoy a sublime evening with me.

Apple Festival

The temptation was great to portray the annual event in Appalachia through my eyes. Almost everything that I deem despicable  is on view there: grotesque obesity, tobacco smoking in my face, accents that sound like dirty fingernails on chalkboard, hideous dress, foul body odors, bad tattoos and hair, laughable "crafts", and on and on. It's a bad county fair on steroids; it's uber-Walmarting.

But, my shorty's didn't see any of that. They could care less that bad teeth and low IQ's are a direct descendent of a shallow gene pool. They don't know that my (and their future) tax dollars support the "disabled" walking down Main Street  eating corn dogs while high on Lortabs. They could care less.

They do know that they rode the tilt-a-whirl, that I bought them $2 pocket knives, that  a half Mountain Dew on a hot day is dreamy, and they got face paint. Those memories will stay with them a long time. There will be enough time in their lives to form their own prejudices and opinions.

Apple Day was not that time though.T

Boxer, boxers, and all is right in the universe.

My father was a prizefighter. Growing up in the 'hood in west Louisville I was always reminded of that. Before Cassius Clay (aka Muhammad Ali) he was the most popular fighter who had Louisville roots. Cecil Payne fought for the featherweight championship of the world. He was good and made a lot of money and like most other 20 year-olds, he blew it on parties, women, and alcohol. But he lived. He lived large.  He lived until I was 8 years old; and then he died. He died at age 51, 6 years younger than I am now. He died of leukemia, a relentless, unforgivable, untreatable cancer of the bone marrow. White blood cells grow inexorably, replacing platelets and red blood cells like republicans infiltrate tax cut rallies in DC. That sucked. But we persevered.

In my neighborhood, fisticuffs was respected. No knives, no guns, just good threads and a good left hook. Watch the movie "A Bronx Tale" and you will see me and my neighborhood there.  A boy's (man's) respect was measured by not backing down from a diss (although that was not a term invented yet). I had the (mis)fortune of hanging with guys 4 years older than me. That was the demographics of 32nd Street. Any strange 9 year old who happened by was challenged by my friends to a fight, and I was the dedicated terminator. I took on kids literally twice my size, and they often left crying. I was a bad ass. That has followed me all these years, and it's been a part of my make up. That's why curse words are used as exclamation points. In the early 60's,  Adler socks, Flag Brothers shoes, and pegged pants were au couture.  Life was good then. (Although I do have to digress and remind myself that Billy Donohue kicked my ass on the front porch of those apartments long gone..I deserved it).

My fathers legend still permeates the Payne family tree and everyone associated with us. My father-in-law Joe remembers my father well, and I think is still in awe that his daughter married me. More about Joe in a future blog. He deserves a separate, special recognition. That said, legends die gracefully, but they tend to fade away. Erica decided that there was a need to extend the story at least a dog's life. So she purchased Cecil, the boxer. The kids, like all kids needed a dog. So it was fate. Cecil is 9 months old, now a tripod (thanks to a congenital absence of a hind femur) but he's perfect. He pees when he sees me. I like him. A lot.

*In the pictures above you see Debbie massaging Cecil's good leg. He loves that. When he sees her, he flops down in front of her. It seems that the good leg enjoys special attention from a hot nana.
In the other picture my dad is beside the poster of one of the best heavyweights of all time. In fact after my dad retired, he referreed a Dempsey fight. Those were the golden days of boxing.

**My boxing career ended in a record of 2-1. I was trained by Joe Martin, the retired cop who discovered Ali. It's probably better that I went to school. I probably couldn't carry my dad's jock.

***Im told that chicks like bad boys, so there you have it.

Pornography & Health Care Reform

The public’s discussion of health care reform (really more accurately insurance reform) has not been particularly sexy, but it sure has been pornographic. Not in the legs wide open, insert tumescent phallus sort of way, but in a disgusting, dirty, “I can’t believe they did that” sort of way.  There’s a difference. Blue movies and Penthouse Forum serve a purpose. Town hall meetings about reform, where guns are checked at the door, are as disgusting a display of Americana as one can ever imagine. I am certain we have lost any sensibility we may have ever had. The recent presidential address to congress is a perfect example of the crassness we witness. Rep Joe Wilson’s “you lie” outburst is evidence that the GOP is a manifesto of fat, dirty, old men. They have lost relevance and are respected only by the Limbaughs and Hannitys of the world.

I have been in clinical medicine, counting my drug days, more than 40 years. I have an opinion of health care and how it should be managed. Many won’t agree with me, but they are ill-advised, wrong, or probably stupid. I’ll try to straighten everyone out here.

Here are some truisms:

1. Nothing is free. As Debbie & I discussed this recently she pointed that out. She’s spot on. We all are responsible in some monetary fashion for our health care. For those unemployed, 30 year old men who can’t work because they have back pain, too fucking bad. If you’re going to sell oxycontins to your cousin/girlfriend, put a little aside to pay a monthly insurance premium. Otherwise, I could care less if you have a tummy ache.
2. On the other hand, there is a segment of the population who are truly unfortunate and have health issues. Those with devastating neurological illnesses, have suffered major trauma, or the children. None of it is your fault, and there needs to be a safety net. No one should go bankrupt taking care of themselves or their loved ones.
3. Insurance companies by default are bad. Speaking of pornographic, add another X to XXX-rated.
4. Medical device companies and the pharmaceutical industry are not nearly as demonic as many wish to think. Lots of people want to pick these companies out as responsible for the ills of medical care. This is misdirected vehemence. But for the good of these companies (mostly American), we would not have many of the medical advances we enjoy. Give them a break.
5. People need to be responsible for their own health. It’s not up to me, Anthem, your church, your mother, the school, or the police to make you make right decisions about diet, exercise, abstinence from goofy sex, alcohol, tobacco, or riding a red-neck 4-wheeler without a helmet. Get a grip, take some personal responsibility, quit watching Judge Judy, and be productive. Otherwise, fuck you.
6. Making doctors be responsible for health care reform is a Sisyphean challenge. To wit, a patient I see in the office every day: A 40 year old anxious female with unusual chest pain concerned she has a heart problem, referred by her frustrated primary care doctor. In any other parallel universe I’d pat her on the shoulder, tell her to take a Tylenol, and get control of her anxiety disorder. But, I’m torn. If I don’t DO something: the primary MD won’t refer me any more patients, the patient will go to another quack doctor, and I will be perceived as a bad cardiologist. So, it’s very easy for me to order a $2000 stress test to prove to her, and everyone within a 3-county radius that her heart pain is in fact due to her Lortab inhaling husband.  In this scenario, I pocket the money, and don’t look back. That’s real waste, fraud, and abuse. I’m party to it, but if I don’t play, I’m shit. Stupid system, stupid expectations by patients, referring doctors, and society. Fuck it. I’ll retire a rich man partly because of her. I'm glad I'll be in another line of business when the rest of society catches on to this ridiculous economy.
7. Fat people, people who smoke, drink too much, people who don’t exercise, miss their office appointments, who don’t take their prescribed medications, and stupid people who can’t read beyond a 4^th grade level are Darwin’s children. It’s not my fault. It isn’t yours either.
8. There has to be insurance coverage for the 47 million uninsured. There just has to be. If that means the government expands Medicare, Medicaid, or provides for  insurance cooperatives, so be it. Fuck Aetna, Anthem, and any other insurance company. They need to be competitive.
9. I don’t know much about the Canadian health care system, or any other country’s health care, but I understand one concern is that there is a long “waiting period” for some procedures and operations. Americans are a fast-food society and want EVERYTHING right now, either their greasy Big Mac, or their bypass surgery. Americans expect drive-thru health care. Fuck ‘em. It’s probably not good medicine anyway. Taking a wait & see attitude on many illnsses is often a good thing. Just because you have a 90% blockage in a heart artery doesn’t mean you need a stent yesterday. Take your medicines, lose weight, quit smoking, then come back to me if you still have chest pain. Otherwise, fuck you. On the other hand, if I have a big old mass growing on my right nut, I want it ripped out right now. Some things can’t wait. We need a system that knows the difference when somnabulence is correct and alacrity is in order.
10. We’ve all read where we need not health care, but health maintenance. And for the most part this is true. Healthy people are cheaper. Insurance companies learned long ago that the cheapest patients are dead patients however. In effect, we are all going to die of something. The cheapest care is keeping one healthy for as long as possible, but when your time is up…it’s done. We spend 50% of our health care dollar on the last 6 months of life. That is pornographic. We need required living wills,  and doctors, nurse, attorneys, and family members need to respect this. Grandad (like me) is going to die. Don’t prolong it. Don’t spend $100,000 on ICU care on a demented 90 year-old. He doesn’t want it. (despite my earlier post).

I could say more. But if just a little of the above is taken to heart, we will have plenty of dollars to revamp the system, and have money leftover for making finally a good mass-transit system in this country.

 

Golf with Your Friends

About 8 years ago I quit cold turkey. At the time no remorse, no explanation needed, and certainly no mas. After 4 years of countless balls on the range and hours on the course I finally came to believe that golf was truly "A good walk wasted" (props to M Twain). Although I live on a golf course (dog leg left of #1, easily found on Google Earth), the turmoil wasn't worth the so-called relaxation. At the time I also learned I could get in a killer 4-hour bike ride the same time it took me to play a lousy round. Two hours of quality running outshone 9 holes of awful golf. The country club scene bored me and my triathlons were more satisfying; so I quit. Resigned the club membership, packed away the expensive sticks, got on the bike, and never looked back.

Until this past week. I was strong-armed to play in the local hospital fundraiser. I had virtually not even picked up a club these past 8 years. Had no interest, no desire, no need. But I did it anyway. I had a blast. I hit all 3 par-3's, I hit many fairways, I didn't hit anyone, and only had the need to drink one beer. Overall a good day. I also relished doing a guy-thing. We laughed, cursed(them more than me), drank, and flirted with the ball girl in the plaid shorty-shorts(me more than them). I also remembered why I hadn't played golf the past 8 years: I suck. The more I run, the faster I get. The further I bike, the better I am. The more I golf, the more I curse. It's not good karma. I really don't care if I play next week, or next decade again. But, for this escapade, I had fun. I liked being with my friends.

Coiffed at Walmart

This weekend I'm going home. Most of you know that means I'm heading to Louisville, some 3 hours from where I post these missives. It's been about a month, and there are people to see, things to do, and the ultimate conjugal visit. All of these things I enjoy and look forward to. The cigar party is the following weekend, and that needs my attention of planning, and well, you will hear more about that in subsequent chapters. It will be worth the wait.

I placed a call to Medusa today, but news to me, they don't take appointments after 10 AM on Saturday, and that won't work for me this time. I don't believe that, but didn't feel like arguing, since I had just spent 8 hours on the golf course (a whole OTHER post), and I just decided to plan a Plan B. (not the contraceptive, OOPS they forgot to wear a condom/she's not on the pill/he lost some jizz at the wrong time Plan B) but a real Plan B. I am disappointed I won't see my biker friend John or Jill, the hottest 50 year-old woman-I-know (Deb is >50, so I can safely say that, I think), at the salon, but I'll catch them next visit. But, I really do need a haircut.

Not to be too clinical, but I have hair in all the right places, and for me, at this age, that happens to be on the top of my head. That's both a blessing, and a curse. My more gray than semi-brown mane grows very fast. Especially the threads that tend to migrate over the ears. When just the right length, it looks (to me) OK. When too long, it looks (to me) yucky. It needs attention on a regular basis. If for no other reason that after I shower, I have such a short attention span, I don't want to take an extra 30 seconds to blow dry it when it's too long.

So my alternative this weekend will be to go to Fritz's. It's a Barber-Hooter's. They have chicks with cleavage acting like they know how to wield a shaver. I feel like going there because of my testosterone-laden golf outing and joint fantasy of the ball girl in the plaid shorts. I'm in an uber-guy mode, and I like the feeling. I'm going to run with that for awhile.

Fast-backward to 5 weeks ago. I needed yet again a haircut, but I was not near Medusa, John, Jill, or even silicone-valley Fritz. I was walking in Walmart. I needed propane cans, bird-seed, milk, and a haircut. I saw her. She looked thin (God bless her), she had teeth, and she wielded scissors at the Walmart barbery. Even tho she looked like her meth days were long past, I had a trust that she would be safe (not in the real Plan B sort of way), but that she could not do much harm in giving me a simple trim. She didn't. It only cost $15 (and I tipped an extra 10). I got her card and it's Scotch-taped on my cabinet door. One day I'll go back there. In he meantime, I'm really looking forward to the cigar party.

Advanced directives, or this is what I want for end-of-life care

They say sex sells, so I thought I'd see if anyone will bite (pun intended). I felt compelled to continue in my doctor mode and give my observation on one aspect of health care reform, and that is the toxic-laden term thrown around: "death-panels". Thanks to Saracuda and her goon squad, mostly white America has reacted Springer-like in town hall meetings and have emoted about knocking off grandma. Not that most of these people could give a twit about grandma other than her will, because they never come to visit her in the ICU unless a long-lost out of town relative shows up to one-up the rest of the "concerned" family. 

But, I digress. My ideal way to exit this orb is at age 96 to be axe-murdered by the jealous husband of a 30-year-old. But since that's as likely to happen as Karl Rove sending Maureen Dowd a dozen roses, I'll notify everyone ahead of time my end-of-life wishes and bona-fide advanced directive. If I'm dying a slow agonizing death of disseminated dementia in the ICU, if I have an orifice without a tube in it, I want one placed there. I want 10 antibiotics (the most expensive brand), I want a ventilator for each lung, and a dialysis for each kidney. I want 2 critical nurses at bedside constantly, and the most expensive, ill-prepared doctor on-call 24/7. In short, I want to be a burden to society. I deserve it, and expect that. I have herewith notified all the blog world, and the 2 people who actually read this. (Please, download this and send a copy to my attorney).

But this request is not for everyone. I respect that. In fact, most respectable people might find my request a bit over the top, even for me.  But I'll be sure to discuss my requests with my family and caregivers (I'll leave out the axe-murder part). I will have made it very clear how I wish to be treated. You should do the same. Make it clear from the outset your wishes, and sign any & all forms required, including the nursing forms, the ambulance forms, the hospital ED and ICU forms, and forms from Starbucks. But, just do it. That way, no one will have to worry about death-panels. Just heaven forbid you find goofy Sara having found a new career and she's your nurse. If she is let me know, I'll summon the axe-murderer for you. 

VIP Medicine and JFK

With this blog I morph into my doctor mode. No pictures, no alphabet, no feigned surprise at the world, and no allusion to escapades real & imagined (well, not really..but I'll leave the reader to pick and choose). This thought germinated with my trip to Boston about 6 years ago. One weekend before the trip to Woody's L Street Tavern (memorable for more than one reason) I spent a Sunday afternoon at the Kennedy Museum. I'm a fan of presidential museums, and think we should have one in every state. I ran across the book An Unfinished Life, by Robert Dallek. I was intrigued as much by the title as the content, so picked it up and started the read on the plane flite back to Detroit. As usual, the book never saw the light of day after the first few chapters, so it was forgotten. Forgotten until I was given a Kindle as a gift recently. For some reason it seemed the right time to restart the book. It's a bit creepy to me now these years later to reflect on the title, but this time it's the content that interests me.

First to "VIP" medicine. Most doctors including me, squirm when we hear that we are put in charge of managing a bigwig. It's not that these CEO's, lawyers, wives of other doctors, newspaper editors, etc have more complex medical issues, it's just that one feels a bit of pressure to nail the diagnosis and treatment plan without a hint of a mistake, much less a nanosecond of hesitation or uncertainty. It's like the spotlight is on us to be the master clinician. And it's almost entirely self-inflicted. These people are for the most part just like any other sick person, they just want to get better.  But it's us poor slobs of doctors who are always hell-bent on not making a mistake. 

Which leads to VIP medicine being bad medicine. In our effort to be the perfect physician (and mostly not to look really stupid), we order more tests, we make more unnecessary referrals, and  for the most part recoil back to our 3rd-year med school days, and in an effort to "not miss the hoofbeats" we think zebras instead of horses. I've had colleagues who thrive and speak with great pride that they take care of the elite in Louisville. They can have them. I don't want the turmoil and anxiety that goes along with it. Plus, the VIP's have never brought me a sack of fresh tomatoes as thanks for my work.

For his book Dallek had access to records not previously made available to biographers of Kennedy. Especially interesting are the passages about Kennedy's mojo. From teenage years on he had a remarkable uber-narcissism and appetite that would make a grown man blush. The areas on bread & butter politics are worth it if for no other reason as to realize that money talks. Votes, like women are bought unabashedly. On the other hand, I was amazed about the medical facts that were presented. JFK was a victim in my opinion of VIP medicine. I've researched the topic and can find no other reference to this theory. You are reading it here first.

As a teenager Kennedy had recurrent bouts of abdominal pain. He was evaluated by experts from New Orleans, Great Britain, NYC, and other places. But most of his care was centered at the Mayo Clinic. In those days he was submitted to a brutal series of x-ray procedures and colonoscopies. In fact it became so bad, he at one point tried to put a sexual spin on a procedure involving a tube & a light by hitting on the nurse during the procedure (It worked).

Nevertheless, no precise diagnosis was ever given him (although I suspect he had simple irritable bowel syndrome or biliary dyskinesia), but he was given the new drug of the day: corticosteroids. Steroids were for the most part first used at the Clinic, and their long-term side-effects were not understood, although they worked well for his complaints. Of course JFK, being the VIP, was submitted to the most tests and the latest treatments. He subsequently developed the well-recognized adverse effects of steroids including the chipmunk face, Addison's disease, and vertebral fractures. The last two side-effects plaguing him until his death. The patient was in and out of hospitals more than any otherwise healthy young man I have ever seen. If he had been any other Irish-Catholic from Boston, he would have been given a diagnosis of colic, treated with seltzer water, and he would have been better off for it. Perhaps if he wasn't treated as a VIP  in 1940 the world would be a different place today.

I did Tabatha this weekend...

....muscles tense, heavy breathing, perspiration to near-syncope. But Tabatha doesnt compare to Linda, or even Nicole. I won't attempt them yet. Tabatha in weekly succession will have to do for now. These are the nasty girls of Crossfit. Cameron introduced them to me. (thanks son). Here he is doing what he does best, multi-reps on the bar. 

I'm still sore from Saturday. Practice makes perfect. For more info on these nasty girls, check out crossfit.com. 

The Blues Brothers

Sometimes the picture just says it all.

Dear Diary...

Today was like tomorrow, and all other lonely days I spend here. It gives great pause for deep introspection, and I am getting pretty good at that. I started with easy hospital rounds. A 33 yr old man with pericarditis and a 70 yr old former nurse with bipolar disorder who loves me made for a nice distraction. Done before 10 AM, the lawn didn't need much work, but I groomed it once again. I limited my prison time by finally filing my taxes; Sinatra seemed right in the background, and even tho at times he can sound awful, it was the right mood for the task. At least yesterday I learned from the business accountant that our firm is doing quite well, despite the economy. Who knows what's going to happen with Obama-care, so I plan to run with this golden goose as long as she will hang. If nothing else, I got a new boat out of the deal. Last nite haunts me a bit. I have this new uneasiness that enough is enough. I'll see how it plays out tho. I wish I had the wit and edge of Maureen Dowd, and I could convey the topic much more interestingly. Anyway, she'd probably be jealous, or at least have a cool snarky take on the whole thing. In sports news, a guy at the Sawyer triathlon in Louisville got killed today on the bike, and Michael Phelps smacked down the crazy eastern European. I've done that tri, and this is an awful story. He was on a road I've biked many, many times before. Maybe I feel especially down because I miss that, and because I promised to race the event with a new friend, but I just didn't. Hot Lucy served me another great burger at the marina, and I felt like getting on the boat. I had my camera and Kindle and for about an hour I was glad I'm in Appalachia. No morbidly obese, no edentulous 35 yr old females, no mullets, just me and the lake.

I hope tomorrow is the same.

Le Maillot Jaune

Of course there is no yellow jersey in this photo. There never would be, not because this was a foot race and not a bicycle race, but because my MVO2 would not allow a competitive climb up the Col de Romme (or any Col for that matter). However this is one of my favorite pictures, and I publish it in honor of the boys on the Tour. I took my cell phone with me during the Cincinnati Pig last year and I saw this girl holding the sign. I had to stop and have my photo taken with her. I'm sure she's probably a pre-med student, or a biochem major. But if you look closely you see a very clever depiction of a runner's (and biker's) nemesis: the red zone. 

Lance met his yesterday on the climb to Verbier, as Contador made him suffer. It appears as if the Astana team is ready to take sides now. But a time trial still awaits. 

I'll be watching from the comfort of my living room, dreaming of the girl, the Pig, Cincinnati, and what is found there. Next time I run that race, I won't be smiling as much as I'll be focused on other things. 

Das Boot

Belle dame de diner

The inner voyeur in me comes out when I'm out & about. 

26 Things

These pictures was taken with the very poor quality camera on my iPhone. Bucks is one of my favorite Louisville restaurants. Located in "Old Louisville" it's been in business more than 20 years. On my trip there Friday night however I learned that Buck will be retiring and heading to Florida. He sold the restaurant and he said that no changes were planned. I sure hope not. Although the food is 3.5 stars, the ambiance is off the chart. The restaurant is located in the lobby of a once nice hotel, but I suspect that part of the building has seen its day. But sitting at the bar, one can imagine being taken back to 1940, with the pianist playing and the ever present fresh flowers crowding the patrons at the bar. Check it out:   http://www.bucksrestaurantandbar.com/

With this photo I learned that I need a better camera phone  (hint, hint)

Hunter S. Thompson wasn't at my reunion...

...neither was F. Scott Fitzgerald. Both literary giants with  a middle initial of S. They weren't there primarily because they are dead. Not that they wouldn't be invited. (even a StX guy was there) They each have a Louisville connection, one eminently more interesting than the other, but I've digressed even before I've started. (Gatsby is a particularly compelling side story)

Last night was my 40th high school reunion. Out of a class of 114 about 40 showed up. Pretty good considering we already have a mortality rate of 15%. Rumor has it that AIDS, diabetes, and suicide are the top reapers. I don't have any of those maladies...so far. This was our best turn-out to date, and I expect it will not be superseded. Like Debbie said, the 50th will be the true acid test of who's really in the game. We took pictures, and the most poignant moment is when we sang the fight song. I hope someone recorded that. 

Nevertheless it was great to see the classmates. Flaget was a catholic all boys school, taught by the Xaverian brothers, most I'm sure in hiding from the mafia. Those were 4 wonderous years. I never had a bad day there. Except the time that Brother O'Toole hung me out the window. Kevin last night said he was sad when he accepted his diploma because the run had been so much fun. I agree. We were then, and still are, a proud bunch. Many successful, some not so much. Interestingly all I talked with are still working. Just another hard fact of where our economy and retirement programs are. Most like me are still married to our first wives, but I've seen a few new spousal faces over the past decades. Billy's wife said she's the trophy wife, and she looked it. I've seen my grade school fellow alumnus Janice at all the reunions, still married to Tim. As an aside, there's a huge football connection intertwined in the Flaget story, probably the main reason for pride of the alumni. 

This reunion like the  2 or 3 others I've been to have given me pause to reflect. Life is too damned short. Good experiences deep in the memory have a way of bursting to the surface. Some things never change, but we'll never be the same. I wouldn't change any story from those days. 

It's a windy, wonderous road. 

This blog was deleted at the discretion of the administrator

Morning after remorse. Never blog after 3 bourbons at 11PM.

Cool guys

just so you know that the last post wasn't too gay:

B-school

(by popular demand I'll post the withdrawn post. All are correct, if at my age I can't say what I want, why even try to say anything? Plus, I had 3 very weak bourbons at Malibus tonite. Larry complained that the OJ in his screwdriver was more potent than the vodka. In my man-cave this week we plot our next middle-aged frat excursions. Tomorrow we'll do Mexican, followed by a boat excursion and comedy club Thursday. We made light of the 43 yr old patient with tattoos and who never worked a day in his life. I don't even feel bad that Im getting jaded about that. We did meet a former Bengals cheerleader tonite. That was pretty cool.)

HERE IS THE ORIGINAL POST:  

As promised. There are races to run, there are mountains to climb, there are songs to hear, there are paths to hike, there are hearts to break, there are hugs to give, there are wines to taste..I've done all that. What's left? I've held beating hearts in my hand, I've consoled broken hearts, I've repaired hearts. I've raised kids, I've raised grandkids. I've kissed dogs, I've kicked dogs. I've gangbanged, I've been stomped. I travel, I contemplate. I love, I hate. I'm proud, I'm ashamed. In a very short time, I've done a lot. I study. I read. I think. I fantasize.

I'm me.

I want more.

The stars have aligned. The universe is mine.

So, I'm going to torture myself once again. I'm going back to school, I think. I've applied, I've been accepted. The deposit monies are sent. I need to decide. Do I immerse myself once again, get my 4th degree? Or do I just get a hobby? Or just..do nothing?
I'm confused. Universities of Michigan,Florida, Ohio State, Auburn..all call. They are perfect. They are not needed.

I don't know. Eli Lilly interview this month.

......and the beat goes on.


I take solace in my photos.

Ann Arbor seems nice.

Used to ride the chrome horse with your diplomat

..Princess on the steeple...



This song truly does rock.

Night out

I just happened to like what I saw in this scene.

On death

Yesterday as I was leaving work at 5PM, ready to start the Memorial Day weekend, and to finally get a few days off, I heard a code blue called to the ICU. Now that is an instant dilemma: do I just ignore someone else's emergency and hope I don't get paged back once I get home? Or do I go scope out the situation, to see if I can be of help (and avoid the call back)? I opted for the pre-emptive strike and headed to the unit. I was the 1st doctor on the scene and they were doing CPR on a post-surgical patient. Apparently a pretty big abdominal bleed. In these situations, I dont have much to offer other than direct the action, get the heart back to rhythm, and order some drugs. These types of things need an intervention to staunch the bleeding. I handed the patient off to the surgeon when he arrived, offered any other help, and headed home, assuming that the patient didn't survive. It looked pretty dire. I was amazed to hear this morning the patient was still alive (in a cardiac sort of way). He won't make it however. It did make me pause to consider all the modes of death. It's not like they show in the movies. On a future post I'll explore some of my thoughts.

Females & slips

I don't even know if women wear slips anymore. What with see-able thong undies, or no undies at all, (but still see-able), I think that slips have probably gone the way of a good shoe shine. In fact, I think slips are quite sexy, another layer of clothes to delay the inevitable show to come. But, disrobing is not what this post is about. Nor is it about underwear. Let me explain.
I've been trying for 6 months to rent a boat slip at our local marina. My goal is to have a small boat available for me to jump on right after work. Since home is just around the corner from the lake, I see it as a no-brainer. I've never really had a jones to own a boat, but the stars have aligned just right for this to make sense to me. Leave work at 5PM, be on the boat by 530 with drink in hand and a book to read, home by 7. It's perfect.
Now enter the women part of this story. Her name is Meri. She's getting divorced. ( I wondered if she wears a slip, or thongs, but I digress). She owns/runs the marina. It's for sale for $1.4 mil. I presume that going thru a divorce keeps her from answering her voicemail messages for the past 6 months about slip rentals (the boat type, not the lingerie). But, this weekend I found her at the restaurant. I told her how I'd been trying to contact her. She told me that I was indeed on a waiting list (thanks Tera), but it would probably be a year. We discussed the sale of the marina, and I acted half-interested, and walked out to the dock to look around. Inexplicably she tracked me down about 15 minutes later and told me that slip 42A was available (for some reason bra size comes to mind here). I checked it out, and here it is in the picture. Another person was there, overheard the conversation, and said they wanted it too!
Enter female #2. The alpha-female. Who hasn't worn a slip in 20 years, and doesn't own a thong pantie as far as I know. She says that it's either b-school, or a boat. Make a choice. More about b-school in another post.
I have some work to do sway #2 that a slip can be a good thing.

Yosemite was good preparation

Last summer I backpacked Yosemite with a guided group. Weak I know, but it had a purpose. I've been wanting to go out on my own, and I did it last nite, on a very simple level. Four minutes from my home is a very beautiful state park, with a nice primitive campground. I foresook a phatty work party to test out my meager survival skills. Planning took 2 weeks, and I had it just about nailed. Menu prep is very important, and my hamburger/potato goulash hit the spot, as did the morning pancakes (from a bottle). I fretted over how to make coffee, but settled on Folgers coffee bags, and that was perfect. Armed with a new tent, new air mattress, a 2-burner stove, 2 bottles of wine (only one was needed), "men's" reading material, and not nearly enough dry clothes I persevered. The rain came in a deluge, again & again. But I was high & dry in the tent. The things I learned on my REI trip to Yosemite served me well, and I now feel that I can take on just about any mid-level trip. In fact, I recently talked with Cameron about climbing Mt Whitney, and told him of a guided-trip that was available to us in the summer. He said "dad, SEALS don't use guides". Point taken. He & I can do that trip. I'll even fix pancakes. Enjoy the pictures, limited as they may be because of the torrents.

26 Things....Obtuse

We've had 7 straight days of rain. Today (Saturday) more landscaping. Debbie brought this from Louisville. It fits in a funky sort of way. As before, I take pictures to try to learn something new. This picture had no inherent educational purpose before I took it, but I learned a lesson after the fact. I learned that a flash is hard to hide.
To update, other letters used so far: A,B,E,F,H,K,L,Q,S

Spring Flowers

AS a neophyte gardener just imagining planting something made me nervous. But as usual Debbie had sage advice, "Vaughn, they're just flowers, you can't hurt them and if you do just dig them up". Armed with that professional & technical botanical wisdom I planned my whole weekend around the project, now presented because it gave me a good excuse to take more flower pictures. 
The answer to the last 26 Things was "L", for lake.

26 Things.

We will get through the alphabet, I promise. My intention all along has been to use my photos to learn something on each post. On this one, I just learned that something spur of the moment is often as good as planned. This was taken with my cell phone. The hint is in my last post. Very easy, don't think too hard.

Time to get out of house

Spring beckons and time passes on. We've been busy. The family and friends (all 23 of us) cruised the bahamas. I'd go back to Nassau, but I'd choose to fly. The kids had fun, and Debbie & I had a wonderful meal at Cafe Matisse. My business school plans are coming together. I've interviewed and been accepted at Auburn & Ohio State. This week I fly to Michigan to look at Ross School. In the meantime I'm studying for the Sleep Boards, which I take in November. Friday I was doing a stress test on a patient at 5PM, and by 5:30 we were on a boat on the lake. That was dreamy. Thanks Ronnie & Sandy for the invite. We will do that more this summer. Here are a few pics randomly.