A Momentous Loss

Yesterday, in what's a first for me, I lost a tooth while showering, but only for a short time because a moment later I found it lying on the bottom of the tub.

I'd never before heard of, or experienced first-hand, losing a tooth while scrubbing, but it can be done. Eating apples, caramels, or even lasagna has been known to loosen or remove teeth, but not soaping up one's pits.

Perhaps you're thinking the water was frightfully cold, but it wasn't.

Now, I'm the first to admit that my teeth are in horrible shape, but I hadn't realized they were this bad. The tooth, number 26, had been loose for over a year, but only mildly so. Last week I bit down on it and must have done something because it began hurting like hell and seemed, to me, to be getting worse. Not only was it hurting more, it was looser and elevated over the rest of the teeth.

And, a bit farther forward.

I left messages for my dental student, alerting him that if he didn't schedule me an appointment he might very well lose the instructive features my tooth presented if I didn't get in the chair soon. I had given the tooth an over-under of Wednesday, but thought I was being melodramatic.

As it turns out, I was right.

Curiously, while washing my hair, feet, and nether regions, I was worried about losing my ring. I don't usually shower with jewelry on, but there you have it, and when the tooth fell out the first thing I thought was that I'd lost my ring. I have no idea how the tooth came out, what I did, but I suspect it was my tongue that pushed it up and out. For the past few days what had been producing most of my discomfort was self-inflicted. I'd been careful about eating on the other sides of my mouth, but couldn't avoid playing with the damn thing.

When I wasn't busy wiggling it with my tongue, I was sucking on it, and both of those gave me much more pain than had I let it well enough alone. The shock of losing it in the shower was quickly changed to amazement when I realized there was no blood in my mouth, or anywhere else.

I have no idea how much money I've spent over the years with dentists, but my very first extraction was an undoubted success. There was no pain, there was no blood, and my mouth feels better than ever. Last night I ate without incident, and it still feels just fine.

I'm sure there's some damage going on, maybe some infection brewing, but I just might be lucky and all of that yucky internal stuff and socket-mending has already taken place, slowly over the past year. I can only hope.

What I can say is that I now have a tooth with nowhere to put it. It's about an inch long, shaped like an almond sliver, and other than some incidental staining, is in perfect shape.

I only wish the same could be said of me.

Lost Art

Years ago I undertook a challenge and spent the better part of a week trying to make pancakes. While I'd always enjoyed pancakes, I'd never thought much about making them, but after Stefania decided that the key to her happiness would be to have a world not so filled with Russells I found myself exiled to a small apartment near a supermarket I'd never before visited.

It was a Hughes Market, sort of a chain, and I always called it the Huge Market because I thought that was either funny or cute. They had everything supermarkets do, but I remember most was that they'd sharpen my kitchen knives for free and they carried a pancake mix that I loved, even though I only used it for waffles.

After dropping off some knives to sharpen, I bought some of this pancake mix that came in a simple brown paper bag. It required eggs, oil, and milk to be turned into batter, and I think it was some sort of whole wheat mix, which was new to me.

My mom occasionally made serviceable pancakes, but mostly I remembered all the ones from the pancake breakfasts that Little League, DeMolay, and the Indian Guides held. One of the kid's fathers would always spend the morning grilling pancakes while others worked sausages or hash browns, and the pancakes were always as perfect as a marketing photo.

My own attempts were quite a bit less succesful, and I was determined to do better.

At the time I had two sets of cookware: Le Crueset cookware and regular cast iron. The Le Crueset was blue, not that that matters, and the cast iron was as black and shiny as obsidian. After a week of struggles and failures and more than one bottle of maple syrup, I was able to produce very good pancakes and pretty much retired.

I thought of that earlier today when I tried, again, to make pancakes. Not only can't I find a mix I like, I've forgotten how to make pancakes. I needed something soft to eat because of my tooth, number 26, which is seriously loose and causing me much distress, but I hadn't realized that, unlike bike riding, it's entirely possible to forget how to make pancakes.

The first one refused to stay in one piece when I flipped it, and the second one did the same. I ended up with a pile of fried pancake batter that looked not unlike my early attempts at omelettes, but it served both important requirements:

1) It was filling

2) It was edible

The fact that it looked like shit hardly matters at all, but I think I'd best return to using the cookware on which I had my earlier successes. It can only be that, and not that I've forgotten how to make pancakes!

Seasonal Misgivings

About thirteen hours ago the sun crossed the celestial equator or something, and humans around the world celebrated the event not by turning a page on their calendars but by changing the name of the season. I'm not sure if day and night being of equal length was noticed before the advent of timepieces or if this event was first noticed by charting the path of good ol' Sol, but it's now fall. And, as we know, in autumn, a young man's fancy turns to ... death?

Or, is it hatred? Maybe, more correctly, apathy.

I was recently told that I'm a misogynist, and I only wish it was that simple. To be rigorously forthright, I think I'm more an embittered misanthrope, although one more concerned about others than with myself. Mine is not an enviable attitude and, in many ways, is inexcusable, but it does have the distinct advantage of not being able to blame others for my failings. That's not much, I agree, but it keeps me from embarking on rampages and shaking my fists against the sky.

Instead, I alternate between wishing I could cry or throw up, as if that would somehow purge my being and system of all that's wrong.

What's to Eat?

I suspect most people eating better than I do, by which I mean their meals aren't quite so random.

I typically come up with my meal by using one of three effective and well-practiced means. First, I often getting a craving or yen for some particular meal, and that's what I eat. I have this theory, see, that when my body needs whatever the hell it is that brocolli supplies that I'll want brocolli. So, for that reason, I take these cravings seriously.

Also, they seem to be fairly diverse, so that goes along with that moderation thing.

Unfortunately as I've gotten older my tastes have become somewhat more complex. About half the time, in spite of my cravings, I don't have the necessary ingredients to make the meal I most want. Yes, chicken soup would be good, but I don't have the requisite heel of bread to go with it. I've learned the best way to eat a big bowl of soup or stew is with a heel of bread to soak up much of the liquid and give me something to do while the meal cools down, and without the bread I can't proceed with eating.

Which brings up the next meal determiner: availability. Although I don't get yelled as often for it any more, one good way for me to choose my meal is to open the cupboards and refrigerator and stare inside, looking at what's on hand. This way has the advantage of insuring that I won't want a tasty omelette when, in fact, I have no eggs, but it doesn't always work. In fact, more often than not, I stare and either forget why I'm looking, or end up grabbing something completely unsuited for a healthy dinner, such as a jar of pickles.

That also explains all that earlier yelling.

The method I use as often as any, and the one I'm forced to use tonight, is the expiration method. No matter what I want, I have food that absolutely must be eaten today or else it will go bad. I hate throwing food away and can ill afford to do so, so tonights's dinner will have to incorporate the rest of those cute pearl tomatoes. Of course, this also brings up the "ingredients on hand" problem, since I need to come up with something that will permit me to use up the last of those tomatoes, and right now I have no idea what that will be.

Also, under the expiration method, is the sub priority of the above-mentioned cost. A ham that's threatening to become as green as my neighbor's lawn is more critical to eat than, say, those tomatoes. I'd prefer to lose the two dollar vegetables over the ten dollar ham, so I'm supposed forced to eat the most expensive thing that's going bad.

Sure, it's a system, but I'm not sure it's a good one.

Simple Rules for Survival

I write my bike much less than any dedicated rider, but that's not to say I haven't developed a few simple rules for keeping myself in one piece and breathing in and out.

There are, in fact, three simple rules:


  • Avoid tipping over

  • Try not to run into things

  • Don't let other things run into you


The first rule not only will save your skin, clothing and bike, but will prevent you looking like a fool. If you learned to ride as a kid the good news is you can ride again. That old saw about "never forgetting" is actually true, but it's not like bike riding is the way you remember it being. It's not only much harder to ride, which I blame on the extra weight, it's also much trickier. I remember riding very easily, swooping back and forth with no hands or worries, but that's not the case any more. Maybe I'll get better at it the more I do. I'd think so, since just about everything in life works that way and we get better with practice.

If you never learned to ride as a kid, fear not. I'm sure someone has some good ideas about how you can learn to balance and pedal, but that person wouldn't be me. I have no idea how to teach anyone to ride, and the very thought scares me.

The easiest way to avoid running into things is to resist the temptation to oil the rims of your wheels to make them shiny. If you do that, your breaks won't work (well, they'll go through the motions, but won't stop your bike). Yes, you should clean your bike every month or so, and bicycle fanatics are all about using Simple Green or other cleansers friendly to the earth and locally produced, but make sure that the brake pads and the rims are dry and clean before taking off.

Also, look where you're going.

The easiest way to prevent someone in a car from knocking you off your bike is to forget all that nonsense about "sharing the road." It may be legally true that you have as much of a right to be on the street as the cars, but don't believe it. Not for a moment. The roads belong to cars and if you're on one, you're at best an unwelcome guest. You should keep that attitude in mind, because any other will result in your being sent for a loop.

If you pretend that you're not supposed to be there, you're on the right track. Such an attitude will keep you looking out for cars that will catch you trespassing, and that's only the beginning of the benefits. Sure, you can insist on your so-called rights, but if you do you'll end up arguing from a morgue or hospital.

If you wear a helmet, remember they're only rated for something like a six foot drop from a stationery position and aren't designed to keep your head intact if you get hit by a moving car, or if you're moving yourself. Yes, they'll offer protection, but don't think that you'll be invincible because you won't be.

Still, nothing beats the slower pace of a bike when you want to be invested in our beautiful world. Not only that, but you can smell things as well!

Common Scents

They say, when they're not busy saying other things, that our strongest memories are associated with the sense of smell, or maybe it's emotional reactions, and I would agree.

What's curious about that, for me, is that scents aren't memories that I can call up at will. They're more passive than that, and my memories associated with them usually only show up when triggered by something outside me. I can remember the look of someone, or a scene, I can summon the sounds and sometimes the tactile sensations of events, but I can only recall the smell generically.

It's more like emotions, I think, than anything else. Humans don't remember pain, emotional or otherwise, as a realistic event. We remember that fire burns us, but not the actual perception, and "make up" a generic pain when we recall the memory. This, of course, saves us from the trauma so it's a good thing.

I can remember feeling like shit when I've been dumped, but not precisely what it felt like. Some things I only remember because I can describe them to myself, and I think the same sort of thing goes with what I've smelled.

Maybe it's because I lack the words to describe the scent, or maybe it's because I'm male and am more visual than anything else, but when I remember the scent of my ex's hair, I remember the names "fruity" more than the actual scent.

Yet, if I catch a whiff of that scent, my memories (as they've predicted) are much stronger than if I just bring her face or carriage to mind. The association is there, and it's a strong one, but it's not one I can summon. I remember the smell of garlic in a salad, but, honestly, only recall the name garlic and invent what that smells like. I don't really recall the particular garlic unless something external triggers it. Then, I can.

I can sit here and imagine the smell of the ocean, of a crowded bar, of a pillow that someone I loved has slept on, but I know that my memory is more constructed than recalled. But, if some past scent is presented to me, I involuntarily recall an associated event, and I think that's very cool.

Remembering the Past

Today is a momentous one, one that's forcing me to remember the past. I'm speaking, of course, about my life before TiVo.

It had been acting up, getting stuck, and yesterday it died. Today I tried to watch some TV the old way, in real time, with commercials and no going back to hear what I'd missed, and the pain was so great I went online and ordered another TiVo. It should be here within a week.
As it turns out, they're giving the units away now, but the price of the subscription has increased several hundred percent. I'm not sure what justifies that increase (getting the list of upcoming programs isn't any different than it was before), but TiVo isn't doing well as a company.

As it turns out, it wasn't a bad day to avoid TV. There's evidently something magical about years divisible by five as far as human nature and ritual goes. Reporters, who ostensibly cover the news, instead decided today to be the news and inform us all about what their memories of five years ago.

Online it was no better.

A man much older than I (and one whom I considered something of a sage) once remarked to me that if I think three people give a "good goddamn" what I think, I'd best count again. Yes, humans have a need to share and it may be healthy to do so, but I have no idea why so many people are so self-centered that they need to proclaim their own rememberances when not asked to do so. No matter the subject, people are jumping online on message boards everywhere to punish us with their personal memories. It's almost as if they can only handle the immensity of the day by making it about them.

We shared an unimaginable experience five years ago. I don't know why the number five is such a momentous one, and I'm really curious when that started and why the others pale in significance.

Maybe it's hardwired into us, the same way we believe that big events are only important in how they personally affected us.

You Say Tomato, I Say Confusion

Something's happened when I was paying attention to other matters, and I'm not sure who's responsible. It could be marketing geniuses, or it might be those white lab coat guys.

The other day I was out shopping and bought a small container of very healthy looking tiny tomatoes. I like those things, they're fun to throw on salads and especially good for tossing in my favorite pasta sauce, the one that starts with olive oil, garlic, and hot dry peppers.

The thing that surprised me was about these tomatoes is that they're named pearl tomatoes, well, that and they don't look to me like pearls at all.
There was a time, when I was growing up, that tomatoes were either plum, cherry, or just plain tomatoes. Those days were easy. Then I started seeing vine-ripened tomatoes all over the place, and those were much tastier than the plain old ones and, also, had a bit of twig on them. That made them look natural and, no doubt, increased sales by a factor of ten.

Once on a camping trip near the Colorado River a whole group of us were out of our minds and began craving something to eat, something refreshing that would soothe our palates and counter-act the oppressive, tortuous sun. We came up with salad as what we wanted, and I began joking about a field of cherry tomatoes that lay just over the nearby hills. I almost convinced someone to go get some, but it was mostly a running joke for the duration of the trip.

Cherry tomatoes, we knew without doubt, would save us.

I haven't seen cherry tomatoes in years, but many of their cousins populate the food stores I go to. There's the above-mentioned pearl tomatoes, but I've also seen grape tomatoes, and I'm damned if I can tell the difference. Cherry tomatoes were round, but these later small fruits (vegetables?) have the plum shape. Plum, or Roma, tomatoes are usually available, and I'm grateful for their continued presence since they're excellent with fresh Mozarella, basil, a drizzling of oil, and salt and pepper. That's a summertime treat that looks like the Italian flag if you don't look too closely.

I have no idea when this tomato madness will end, what other "varieties" they'll invent, but for my money we've done enough.

Days I Don't Need

These little pretzel sticks taste pretty good and are a suitable reward for one of my meatless days (except for that ham sandwich at lunchtime). The only thing I don't like about them is that they're a little stale, but I'd forgotten about them.

My sister's dog, though quite old, isn't quite dead yet. He spent a few frantic days without the use of one of his legs, and it looked to me like his spine injury had gotten the better of him. Then, he started moving again, and his doctor said it was most likely a sprain. He's still mostly blind and very gray, but it looks as if there's still a few more miles in him.

I've decided, again, that I don't like sleeping. Losing all those hours is one thing, but I recently had an embarrassing, pathetic dream, and I don't like treating myself that way. I don't mind it so much when I frighten or scare  myself, or even when I tease myself with impossible romantic or acrobatic episodes, but this last dream went far beyond the pale and offered up one of my few secret desires. The worst part, of course, is that I was pleased during the dream and only upset when I was awake and realized what I'd done to myself and how hollow and empty I felt.
And I don't know what's going on with this new Wordpress software. It's not a big thing, but I can't tell by looking at the post if a comment's been logged. Nor am I getting any notification, but it's not like I get anything other than spam. I do get the emails that are sent me, so it's not like nothing's working.

I guess that's enough for today.

Another Prediction

In a recent entry on Cybele's Candyblog there's a comment (which I wrote) that got me to thinking...

I'm sure it's been around for awhile and I'm just learning about it, but evidently "single plantation" chocolate is now the choice of connoisseurs. The idea, obviously, is that like vintage wines, chocolate from one source can have more distinctive properties than "varietals," or combinations of chocolates from many places. The old arguments remain, mostly about consistency, but I strongly encourage this advance.

I just wonder ... what's next?

I've never thought very much about vinegar, but not that many years ago it developed a following and the market was flooded with all kinds. There arose a group of vinegar afficianados and whether or not they actually looked down their noses at us, the world of vinegar was never the same.

If I had to guess what commodity would next get this treatment, my money would be on soy sauce. Like vinegar, it's in everyday use and there are differences, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised if designer and high-end soy sauces were the next big thing.

Of course, I could be completely wrong and it's likely that true soy sauce lovers already have an devoted underground. I wouldn't know. But, if not soy sauce, logically there isn't a reason for just about every staple to develop a cultish following.

Peanut butter wouldn't be exempt from this, nor would beets. I can well imagine that in the next hundred years all sorts of things, from almonds to wheat, could become exlusive. Sure, there's still be the old varietals for the hoi polloi, but those with a discriminating palatte could enjoy limited editions. Yes, the 2067 crop of Mountain's Breeze brocolli may be a bit to acidic for many, but that's the chance you take.

But my money's on soy sauce.

Sad Day

Crikey, I just heard Steve Irwin died from a stingray ... sting?

!@(sadcroc.gif)

I know just how this guy feels. The crocodile hunter may have been a crazy guy, but he did a lot for the environment and for teaching people about nature. He also taught me a lot about wrestling.

Shareholders Abhor a Vacuum

The American Public is a fickle lot, and I say that because I picture them as being several hundred of me.

Over the past couple years two big trends have surfaced. One was the arrival of the Atkins and South Beach diets, which tore a hole in the consumption of carbohydrates, and the other has been the explosive growth in organic, natural foods.

Whether or not such foods are healthier or tastier isn't my point. What has happened is Whole Foods and similar markets are taking the marketplace by storm, and this has not gone unnoticed by Wall Street.

Somewhere, in some pitiable cubicle, many people are slaving away checking numbers, and they've discovered this stuff sells. Not only does it sell, but it sells almost exclusively to the higher class of consumers, the ones not very affected by the rising price of gas.

About a year ago, when gasoline prices first hit $3.00, the first markets to notice a slowdown were places like those dollar stores and WalMart. Nordstroms, Tiffany, Gelsons, Coach didn't notice a thing. People who can afford the higher-priced goods may very well complain about gas prices, but it doesn't much matter to their pocketbook. An extra twenty or thirty dollars a week for gas isn't much felt when you can drop $100 - $200 shoes on a whim.

When not  outfitting themselves with nice looking things, many of these people have caught onto better, pricier groceries. And, if they're willing to spend the money, one after another of the large corporations are more than happy to grab a slice of that pie.

There's nothing intrinsically wrong, I guess, with corporations making money, but it bothers me no end that that is all they do. While they're now going after the health-conscious consumer, they could just as easily have gone after those who developed a sudden fad for, say, purple foodstuffs. If that had been the case, the corporations and the market would have reacted precisely the same, with tons of purple goods all over the place and marketed up the whazoo.

What corporations are doing for food is the same as the auto manufacturers are doing with the hybrid car. Now, I love the Prius as an auto, both theoretically and in practice, but I don't understand its cult status. Toyota isn't making them because they're good for the environment, they're making them because there's a market for them. If Toyota made only hybrid cars I could honor the company,  but for them it's merely another cash line. They'd be as quick to jump on any other possible source of income and market the hell out of it, and they've done that in the past.

Same for Honda, GM, and the rest. They're not so much innovating and hoping to change the world as they are hoping to wrest every cent they can from what the public wants.

Or, can be convinced is desirable.

Another Day

This site has a whole new look, but only if you're me or another person with administrative rights.

I've been ignoring the notices about the update for the past few months, but today I updated the Wordpress software I use to post these entries. I guess it works all right, but I haven't tested all my plugins or even checked to see if everything works. This isn't a commercial site, and in spite of the claimed numbers, I'm not even sure more than a handful of people even know it exists.

The update was easy, though took more time than I expected. I blame that on my host, who doesn't seem to accept uploads very quickly at all. Some times it's fine, but Saturday morning doesn't seem to be one of those.

The new software gives me bluish-teal highlights for the admin screens, a change from the gray. Also, and this is just fancier than hell, my categories are now in a drop-down menu instead of displayed.

This is progress, but does nothing for the functionality.

The only reason I changed is I was being deluged with notification from my spam catching add-on. No, I haven't looked to see if there are updates for that, but I was getting the caught spam digest about once an hour instead of once a week, and enough is enough. Maybe that's because I've been getting more spam entries.

Anyway, it looks as if it works, and both of my blogs are now up to date with version 2.0.4

State of the Russell

Today is my birthday, and most people celebrate it by taking some time off work and shoving their white shoes to the back of the closet. Some even begin the celebration early by taking a half day off, like my sister did.

So, what is the state of the Russell? Well, the good news is I may have caught a difficulty with my fingers just in time and can continue to lie. A few months ago I noticed that I couldn't spread or wiggle my toes and had no idea when I last could. All my life I'd been able to pick things up with my feet, to adjust the spigots in my bath, and to repeatedly crack my "index" toe by forcing it under the great toe.

I could amuse myself for hours doing that.

I don't pay close enough attention to my body to notice when things like my vision start deteriorating, but eventually I'll find out that something no longer works. I sat in my chair for ten or fifteen minutes trying to move my toes, but other than the littlest toe moving slightly outward, it may as well have been a statue at the end of my ankle.

Yes, I can curl my toes, a little, but I can't spread them or move them individually. If they were little piggies they'd be a herd and no one could go to the market or enjoy roast beef without the others being right alongside.

Then, last week, I discovered I can't cross my fingers to tell a lie. The longest finger no longer slipped over the index one, but I could force it to do so by using my other hand. I've been remembering to do that for the past week, and I'm proud to say I can once again cross those two fingers.

I used to be able to make four pairs of crossed fingers at the same time, but I'm not sure I can retrain the pinky and ring fingers. I have no idea why this is happening, but I sincerely doubt it's because of anything advancement I've made.

But, while I can once again cross my fingers and lie, I have no need or desire to be anything other than forthright and honest. And, to be honest, I miss being able to play with my toes.