November 2006


I had this awesome idea (I started musing on it after my ABI tune-up in August, but haven’t gotten around to flushing it out; lack of follow-through again.  Balance. Eye. Elbow. Follow-through.  Alas, I’m only a BEE.  And the follow-through is what adds the most style to any shot.)

The idea was about riding coasters and marching with a thirty pound baritone saxophone strapped to my neck . . . strengthening brain stem? The makings of a bionic woman? (Is anyone interested in that being filled out?)  Where’s the boundary between strengthening something (building stamina, making longer term outcomes more likely) and weakening it (making longer term outcomes less likely)?  Time scales and success, how they influence causal outcomes.  Then there are those pesky intervening variables.  But I’m only going to write more about general and specific stuff if anyone’s interested (now or in the future . . . anyone reading this at some time, feel free to drop a comment).

Otherwise I’m just going with the links I already had, and going with auto pilot:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shockwave_%28Six_Flags_Great_America%29

(so that’s the story behind the delays…)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whizzer_%28roller_coaster%29
(one to be loved more with age, apparently)

Shockwave was very young when we went on it. I remember we ended up hitting it repeatedly because the park was closing and the line was finally short (apparently most people had given up on it because it was broken-down, with a long line, most of the day). By the end, my ears were ringing, I had a slight headache, and I wasn’t so sure I should’ve gone on it so many times in a row. I HAVE TO believe, now, that it all happened before I knew of any of my tumors. It may have been after I knew of my bilateral vestibular schwannomas, and being diagnosed with NF2. I know I was defiantly stubborn at first that anything in my life would change as a result of NF2, pretty much thinking it would not take me down without a fight. Anyhow, if you are genetically predisposed to developing intracranial tumors, then I do not recommend riding violent roller coasters.

I am also surprised how many spontaneous mutants have been coming to my attention, in circles that aren’t directly related to NF2.

But I’m thinking about other things. It’s easiest to write mindlessly about experiences, while my mind’s actually working on other puzzles.

(And to you, my Whizzer co-rider: I thought I saw you this weekend, and I did see paisley and side-burns that made me think of you. It is you who introduced me to the word, “anomalous,” and I hope you’re doing well, should you ever find my blog.  Locos only.)

Btw, I thought the Whizzer was, “The Wizard,” for I-don’t-know-how-long!

“Yeah, okay, let’s ride the wizard!”

Slow days, but it’s getting better all the time.  (or at least that is what I prefer to believe . . .  again, always)

“Some days have bouncers that won’t let you in.”  U2, Some Days are Better Than Others

hold the turkey.

I did it again today:

Fixed something to eat, that specifies a primary ingredient in its name, and nearly forgot to actually include that ingredient. (Previously, I’ve done this with something like a taco salad, where the main reason I’m even eating it in the form of a salad is because I’ve run out of tortilla shells, or there’s tons of lettuce that I need to use before it turns; or I’ve got crumbled chips perfect for adding (or forgetting to add.) Forgetting tomatoes or cheese has ruined some of my culinary creations, too. Thankfully, I detest the taste of olives, so I never have to worry about forgetting those. I do believe that olives taint an entire dish or pizza. They can’t just be removed and placed on the side. No, the juice infiltrates and overwhelms other, more subtle taste sensations. I do appreciate they provide me with so many opportunities to use the word, “tainted.”  Note:  olive oil and Olive Oyl are ok.  Just no olives.  It’s gotta blend, and not be too dominant.  Garlic or onions hold the oil in check, compliment it, so it’s all in the mix there.)

So back to today: I think I got a bit lost in my exuberance about remembering to include the pickles today. (And then I was going over the, “I’m a Pepper,” song in my head. Yeah, I think that totally threw me off track: I couldn’t remember exactly how it went before getting to the, “Wouldn’t you like to be a Pepper, too?!”)

Geographic proximity, formal ties, informal ties, state-of-residence allegiances, alumni status, employment ties, colors, campus, mascot, what a certain aunt-knowledgeable-in-these-sorts-of-things advises…

The question is, after heredity/what’s apparently in the genes and jeans (given that the father and mother are not consistently clear on where primary forces of collegiate fandom should be directed, because of course, their wishes should be respected), what counts most in determining the promulgation of collegiate identification?

This is a highly controversial topic with profound and far-reaching ramifications, so I’m refraining from additional editorializing and trying not to skew the discussion by weighing in off the top.

Here’s one option, aided by bubbles.

The alternative:

Note: This is before I’ve even had a chance to expose Sweet Cheeks to, “Baby Irish.”  If you happen to be my b-i-l, please do not scroll to bottom of linked page.

“I really like this. I want it for ____.” (referring to Annie Lennox’s Diva CD) [Mental note of RARE gift hint taken, and scarred on cerebral cortex…]

“I knew you would like it too. That’s why I brought this one with me. I’ve got it checked out from the library for a few weeks. You can enjoy this one first — I have several others, too. Wait! You know what? I think you might like this movie’s album even better. Do you want me to run in and get it now?”

“What movie?” (asked in a cautious, suspicious voice-that-knows-me-too-well, by a person who does eventually give into the perpetuation of things-that-strike-me-as-instantaneously-and-repeatably-funny, after decades of laborious practical training aimed at wearing down some natural –though self-defeating– defense mechanisms).

Six o’clock in the morning

[I’m} the last to hear the warning

I’m that fan yelling, with gusto:

“GO FOR IT!!!”

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