Next Tuesday I'm having my other hip replaced. Whether it's the result of genetics or too much basketball or a combination, I need it. Walking is all right, albeit a little slow, but getting up out of a chair is excrutiating and sleeping is at best painful. I hate to resort to pharmaceuticals, but for sleep I've had to use some a time or two. Come Tuesday a different sort of pain will be there, but one that I know will be going away in time. This one only promises to worsen if left untreated.
The lack of mobility has been enervating. Just simply shifting in my seat can send sharp pains through my pelvis and down my leg. Walking is slow; the limp is more protective than necessary, because I can walk just fine until...a sharp pain intercedes. When I lie in bed, turning over is a multi-step function that usually takes far longer than most people would expect.
All these limitations got me thinking about other things I used to be able to do that I'm really no longer able to do or that I simply haven't done in awhile. I was startled at some of them.
I used to be able to skip down stairs. Sideways, sometimes two stairs at a time, now I'm fearful I may stumble and fall. Similarly, I used to ascend staircases two stairs at a time. I'd be in the hospital if I tried that foolishness now.
Skipping. I was never a big skipper, but just for fun once in awhile I'd skip, whether to be silly or simply because I felt like it. I wonder if I even know how to skip anymore.
When I was in graduate school in Iowa, I'd take fifty mile rides during the summers. I didn't do them a la a Tour de France pace, but I did get around expeditiously. Then when I was in Chicago, I'd zip down the lakefront ride by Monroe Harbor. I once hit thirty-eight miles an hour on a slight down slope right by the marina. The days of me speeding around on a bicycle, or even taking long tours in the country, are probably over. I can still ride a bicycle, and I do go faster than Karen would prefer sometimes, but my bicycle cowboy days are over.
Being able to do hard manual labor was never a concern. While I was in college, I worked on street crews during the summer, helping to put in streets, sidewalks and sewers. Those were long, physical days out in the hot sun. I wonder if I could stand in the sun for an hour without doing that much strenuous labor now. Sure, I do yardwork, but how hard is it to sit on a riding lawnmower? Getting on the mower is the hard part, to be honest.
The thought of not being able to do these things saddens me, not because it means I'm getting old -- which I am -- but because I can't do these things anymore. I accept aging; I welcomed it for so many years it would be hypocritical of me to be angry about it now. But that I can't do these things even passably depresses me.
The one thing that I don't do -- which I could probably still do -- is play catch. I loved playing catch. There's just something liberating about putting on a glove and throwing a ball back and forth with someone. Perhaps the biggest challenge to doing that, besides finding someone with whom I could do that, is being able to reach for the errant throws or avoid making them myself. Bending down to catch low throws is an issue right now, but with my surgically repaired hips, I should be able to do that. I don't know that I'd be able to throw with any velocity, but if I could just play catch -- or have a catch, as it's said in some parts -- would be a thrill.
If I could do that, I'd be prepared when the Cubs called to have me throw out the first pitch at a World Series game when I'm one of the oldest surviving Cubs' fans.
Hey, they finally won the World Series, didn't they?
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Friday, May 19, 2017
Sunday, May 14, 2017
My Wife
Today is my favorite day of the year, May 12th. I've explained the weird reasons for this elsewhere, but for me, this is the best day by far on the calendar. It's only fitting, then, that on the best day of the year I introduce to readers the best person I know, the love of my life, my wife Karen.
Karen and I met under unusual circumstances. Sadly, for me, we met later in life. My life would have been so different and so much better had I met her when we were younger.
My wife is the best person I'll ever know. That's what made me fall in love with her. Yes, she's beautiful and sexy. She's smarter than most people I know who have advanced college degrees. She's fun and witty and playful and everything a man could want in a mate. But it's truly her spirit that took hold of my being and opened my eyes to what life and love could truly be.
Ours was an unorthodox meeting. I remember reading the great, crusty Chicagoan columnist Mike Royko, when writing about his recently departed wife, telling people that they'd met in second grade and that they shouldn't knock it because it could and did happen to them. Likewise, our meeting was the stuff that makes for great reading and better movies, all the more because of its unbelieveability.
If our meeting was unorthodox and unbelievable, our courtship was even moreso. We'd write a book about it but most people would think we'd made it up. When finally we came to the realization that we belonged together, the storms that hit us were incessant and buffeting. Through it all, Karen held her composure and her class and never wavered in her commitment to me or to us. Could I have done anything less?
When finally we were able to marry -- only circumstances prevented us from doing it sooner -- we had to write a letter about why we loved the other person and wanted to marry him/her. (As with many things in our shared life, despite the fact that we had to do this for the minister who was going to marry us who was going so use fragments of the letters in his service for our wedding...but forgot to read the letters and told us so during the ceremony...). When I wrote mine, I remember telling him that Karen is able to find the beauty in things that aren't popularly thought of as beautiful -- bulldogs, bonzai trees and me. She sees what others consider broken, quaint at best, and gloms on to them, knowing in her heart that intrinsically there is something, someone to be loved.
Karen is thoughtful to a fault -- we laugh that she got the thoughtful gene in her family -- and is kind. She's the best friend a person can ever have and the best enemy one could have, because in either case, the person knows exactly from where she's coming. She's passionate -- just talk politics with her for two minutes -- and nurturing. She's a little girl and she's a fiery woman. She's the world's greatest grandmother, which leads me to believe that had we had children together, she would have been the world's greatest mother as well. She probably is for her son, but I never got to experience that. Not having a full life with Karen is one of the greatest regrets of my life.
So on this Mother's Day, I'm proud to tell the world that I love my wife, Karen. She's the person around whom this family revolves. I love her with all my heart and will love her beyond the end of time. I hope everyone is as fortunate as I am to have found a special woman with whom to share his life. I just hope for younger men, you find your wife much sooner than I found mine, so you can have many more years of bliss.
Happy Mother's Day, sweetheart. I love you more than you can ever know.
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Karen and I met under unusual circumstances. Sadly, for me, we met later in life. My life would have been so different and so much better had I met her when we were younger.
My wife is the best person I'll ever know. That's what made me fall in love with her. Yes, she's beautiful and sexy. She's smarter than most people I know who have advanced college degrees. She's fun and witty and playful and everything a man could want in a mate. But it's truly her spirit that took hold of my being and opened my eyes to what life and love could truly be.
Ours was an unorthodox meeting. I remember reading the great, crusty Chicagoan columnist Mike Royko, when writing about his recently departed wife, telling people that they'd met in second grade and that they shouldn't knock it because it could and did happen to them. Likewise, our meeting was the stuff that makes for great reading and better movies, all the more because of its unbelieveability.
If our meeting was unorthodox and unbelievable, our courtship was even moreso. We'd write a book about it but most people would think we'd made it up. When finally we came to the realization that we belonged together, the storms that hit us were incessant and buffeting. Through it all, Karen held her composure and her class and never wavered in her commitment to me or to us. Could I have done anything less?
When finally we were able to marry -- only circumstances prevented us from doing it sooner -- we had to write a letter about why we loved the other person and wanted to marry him/her. (As with many things in our shared life, despite the fact that we had to do this for the minister who was going to marry us who was going so use fragments of the letters in his service for our wedding...but forgot to read the letters and told us so during the ceremony...). When I wrote mine, I remember telling him that Karen is able to find the beauty in things that aren't popularly thought of as beautiful -- bulldogs, bonzai trees and me. She sees what others consider broken, quaint at best, and gloms on to them, knowing in her heart that intrinsically there is something, someone to be loved.
Karen is thoughtful to a fault -- we laugh that she got the thoughtful gene in her family -- and is kind. She's the best friend a person can ever have and the best enemy one could have, because in either case, the person knows exactly from where she's coming. She's passionate -- just talk politics with her for two minutes -- and nurturing. She's a little girl and she's a fiery woman. She's the world's greatest grandmother, which leads me to believe that had we had children together, she would have been the world's greatest mother as well. She probably is for her son, but I never got to experience that. Not having a full life with Karen is one of the greatest regrets of my life.
So on this Mother's Day, I'm proud to tell the world that I love my wife, Karen. She's the person around whom this family revolves. I love her with all my heart and will love her beyond the end of time. I hope everyone is as fortunate as I am to have found a special woman with whom to share his life. I just hope for younger men, you find your wife much sooner than I found mine, so you can have many more years of bliss.
Happy Mother's Day, sweetheart. I love you more than you can ever know.
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Bupkes
Since I've already addressed the rest of the pet family, it's only fair that I finish with the only feline in the group, Bupkes our Manx cat. When we bought this house, Karen was told that a dead mouse had been found in the basement -- since the owner, a widow, snowbirded and wasn't in the house during the winter months -- and that we, of course, would be getting a cat to keep the mouse population down. That was acceptable to Karen, who once had a cat or two, but it posed a problem for me: I'd always been allergic to cats.
I never owned one, but I've been to vets' offices and friends' houses where cats roamed free and I got all puffy-eyed and sniffly very quickly. But since this was going to be a utility, I told Karen I'd take Benadryl and gut it out.
Karen quickly located a guy in the country who was giving away cats and quickly scheduled a meeting. We drove out there and saw this little tiger of a cat, with perfect coloring and black and grey stripes and a stunted tail, and Karen said we'd take him. Having no history with cats, I quickly agreed.
We got him home and had him in the apartment where were living until the closing on our house was finished. He had the jitters of being introduced to a new environment that included two bulldogs, one of whom, Custer, was goofy as heck and liked to chase him all over the apartment. We learned early on that he'd have to be declawed in the front paws if we hoped to have any furniture left, since Bups, as we came to call him -- short for Bupkes, or nothing in Yiddish, for what we paid to get him -- loved jumping and climbing all over the place. One of his favorite things to do was dive under the sheets and blankets in a curious game of hide and seek.
It fell to me to take Bups to the vet. Try as I might, I was unable to get him in the portable kennel to drive him to the vet. Fortunately, he had no qualms about being held, and even more fortunately still, the vet wasn't that far away, so I held him as I drove him to the vet. I'm still amazed that I got us there in one piece.
When we moved into the house, Bupkes immediately took to the basement. So far, in the nearly three years we've lived there, he's brought us two mice and two starlings. Mostly, he antagonizes Custer and wrestles with me, although he's finding it's too his advantage to let me hold him and stroke his back instead.
At night, Bupkes will jump on the bed, find his way to my head and have me rub him. When he's had enough of that, he'll plop down right next to or on my face. I'm so used to it I know when to adjust so that he's not on me directly. During the winter months this is actually quite welcome.
The one thing that's proven challenging is keeping Bupper's name straight when the grandkids come over. We offered them the chance to name Bups, thinking that it wouldn't be too bad but forgetting that the offer was being made during their infatuation with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The little one, in love with Leonardo, named Bups Leo. Every time they come over we have to adjust and call him Bups. I'm not sure if it confuses him but it sure confuses me. I've been known to slip a time or two and refer to him as Bups.
My hope is to one day teach him to jump up in my arms from the floor, something I've seen done online. As it is, he'll come when he's called, so he's part dog already. I refer to him as the puppy-cat simply so he doesn't feel left out. Given his disposition, he's part bulldog as it is.
And all this time, I've never had to take one Benadryl. What a blessing.
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
I never owned one, but I've been to vets' offices and friends' houses where cats roamed free and I got all puffy-eyed and sniffly very quickly. But since this was going to be a utility, I told Karen I'd take Benadryl and gut it out.
Karen quickly located a guy in the country who was giving away cats and quickly scheduled a meeting. We drove out there and saw this little tiger of a cat, with perfect coloring and black and grey stripes and a stunted tail, and Karen said we'd take him. Having no history with cats, I quickly agreed.
We got him home and had him in the apartment where were living until the closing on our house was finished. He had the jitters of being introduced to a new environment that included two bulldogs, one of whom, Custer, was goofy as heck and liked to chase him all over the apartment. We learned early on that he'd have to be declawed in the front paws if we hoped to have any furniture left, since Bups, as we came to call him -- short for Bupkes, or nothing in Yiddish, for what we paid to get him -- loved jumping and climbing all over the place. One of his favorite things to do was dive under the sheets and blankets in a curious game of hide and seek.
It fell to me to take Bups to the vet. Try as I might, I was unable to get him in the portable kennel to drive him to the vet. Fortunately, he had no qualms about being held, and even more fortunately still, the vet wasn't that far away, so I held him as I drove him to the vet. I'm still amazed that I got us there in one piece.
When we moved into the house, Bupkes immediately took to the basement. So far, in the nearly three years we've lived there, he's brought us two mice and two starlings. Mostly, he antagonizes Custer and wrestles with me, although he's finding it's too his advantage to let me hold him and stroke his back instead.
At night, Bupkes will jump on the bed, find his way to my head and have me rub him. When he's had enough of that, he'll plop down right next to or on my face. I'm so used to it I know when to adjust so that he's not on me directly. During the winter months this is actually quite welcome.
The one thing that's proven challenging is keeping Bupper's name straight when the grandkids come over. We offered them the chance to name Bups, thinking that it wouldn't be too bad but forgetting that the offer was being made during their infatuation with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The little one, in love with Leonardo, named Bups Leo. Every time they come over we have to adjust and call him Bups. I'm not sure if it confuses him but it sure confuses me. I've been known to slip a time or two and refer to him as Bups.
My hope is to one day teach him to jump up in my arms from the floor, something I've seen done online. As it is, he'll come when he's called, so he's part dog already. I refer to him as the puppy-cat simply so he doesn't feel left out. Given his disposition, he's part bulldog as it is.
And all this time, I've never had to take one Benadryl. What a blessing.
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, May 9, 2017
Hollywood Lectures
Enough is enough.
I'm fairly educated, experienced and possessed of functioning grey matter. For the life of me, I don't understand why people who play make-believe for a living feel the need or the moral superiority to lecture me about how to live or how to vote. And I'm tired of the lecture.
First, I'll stipulate that the First Amendment applies equally to these actors and actresses; how could I not? Even though they inhabit the world of make-believe, they still have rights.
Second, I don't care if the celebrity is conservative or liberal. Lectures from others fall on my deaf ears.
But the lecturing from the Left is crescendoing, all due to fear of Donald Trump.
Whether it's Ashley Judd, Michael Moore, Bill Maher, Debra Messing or any other nattering nabob of negativism, the cries are becoming ridiculous. I can understand being upset or disappointed, but to hear these critics tell it, we're looking at the rise of fascism and the second coming of Adolf Hitler.
They descry his stance on women, his rhetoric, his lack of a presidential presence, his Tweeting -- heck, I'm sure they're ready to complain about his breathing -- virtually everything about him and his administration. Some of the criticisms are valid, others are stupid. Either way, they have the right to criticize and protest; that's the American way. Yet, there are problems with their advocacy.
To begin, the hyperbole in which some of them engage is ridiculous. It's almost as if they think they're on stage (I'm looking at you Ms. Judd) and that the greater the performance, the more understood the message. What really happens is that they look beyond ridiculous.
But beyond that, an interesting thing is being left out. Let's say for a second that every one of their criticisms has merit. Mr. Trump, under this analysis, is a misogynist, he doesn't understand politics, he's a warmonger -- you name it.
What was our alternative?
Cankles was a woman who stood by a serial adulterer and pilloried the women he abused. She took money from governments treated as if we were still in the Stone Age. Our consulate in Benghazi was hit and four Americans died while she, according to some accounts, denied the military permission to intervene. Afterwards, she lied about it, and when testifying before Congress, asked what it mattered what the cause of the attack was.
She kept a homebrew server with national security documents on it that was shared with her aid, Huma Abedin, whose husband, Anthony Weiner, somehow got them on his phone. If one has to ask why this is a problem, this discussion is over.
She's lied about being shot at while landing in Sarajevo, lied about being broke, admittedly stole items from the White House while she and her adulterous husband left it in 2001, and basically did nothing while she was a U.S. Senator and the Secretary of State.
But to the Hollywood Left, this was a better alternative????
It was an alternative. But reasonable minds were allowed to consider another alternative, albeit a flawed one, yet one would never know there was a choice in the matter. Instead, those of us who voted for Mr. Trump are to be shunned for supporting someone of such dubious character. Nevermind that Cankles lied to the American people, referred to us as deplorables and was nothing more than a career politician out to line her own pockets.
As for Ms. Messing's shunning, that's fine with me.
I don't like to play make believe.
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
I'm fairly educated, experienced and possessed of functioning grey matter. For the life of me, I don't understand why people who play make-believe for a living feel the need or the moral superiority to lecture me about how to live or how to vote. And I'm tired of the lecture.
First, I'll stipulate that the First Amendment applies equally to these actors and actresses; how could I not? Even though they inhabit the world of make-believe, they still have rights.
Second, I don't care if the celebrity is conservative or liberal. Lectures from others fall on my deaf ears.
But the lecturing from the Left is crescendoing, all due to fear of Donald Trump.
Whether it's Ashley Judd, Michael Moore, Bill Maher, Debra Messing or any other nattering nabob of negativism, the cries are becoming ridiculous. I can understand being upset or disappointed, but to hear these critics tell it, we're looking at the rise of fascism and the second coming of Adolf Hitler.
They descry his stance on women, his rhetoric, his lack of a presidential presence, his Tweeting -- heck, I'm sure they're ready to complain about his breathing -- virtually everything about him and his administration. Some of the criticisms are valid, others are stupid. Either way, they have the right to criticize and protest; that's the American way. Yet, there are problems with their advocacy.
To begin, the hyperbole in which some of them engage is ridiculous. It's almost as if they think they're on stage (I'm looking at you Ms. Judd) and that the greater the performance, the more understood the message. What really happens is that they look beyond ridiculous.
But beyond that, an interesting thing is being left out. Let's say for a second that every one of their criticisms has merit. Mr. Trump, under this analysis, is a misogynist, he doesn't understand politics, he's a warmonger -- you name it.
What was our alternative?
Cankles was a woman who stood by a serial adulterer and pilloried the women he abused. She took money from governments treated as if we were still in the Stone Age. Our consulate in Benghazi was hit and four Americans died while she, according to some accounts, denied the military permission to intervene. Afterwards, she lied about it, and when testifying before Congress, asked what it mattered what the cause of the attack was.
She kept a homebrew server with national security documents on it that was shared with her aid, Huma Abedin, whose husband, Anthony Weiner, somehow got them on his phone. If one has to ask why this is a problem, this discussion is over.
She's lied about being shot at while landing in Sarajevo, lied about being broke, admittedly stole items from the White House while she and her adulterous husband left it in 2001, and basically did nothing while she was a U.S. Senator and the Secretary of State.
But to the Hollywood Left, this was a better alternative????
It was an alternative. But reasonable minds were allowed to consider another alternative, albeit a flawed one, yet one would never know there was a choice in the matter. Instead, those of us who voted for Mr. Trump are to be shunned for supporting someone of such dubious character. Nevermind that Cankles lied to the American people, referred to us as deplorables and was nothing more than a career politician out to line her own pockets.
As for Ms. Messing's shunning, that's fine with me.
I don't like to play make believe.
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Monday, May 8, 2017
Maisie
As those who read this blog know, we lost Sherman last October. It was painful, and we grieved quietly, unlike dog nuts who make their grief public. I don't know what happened to Sherman after he died, but I don't expect there was a rainbow bridge involved.
For as sad an event as it was for us, it was probably more traumatic on Custer. That sounds like hyperbole, but Cus was bereft for two months after Sherman passed. He moped, he was listless, he just wasn't the same dog. Karen and I noticed it immediately and debated what to do to snap him out of it. Fortunately, we'd anticipated Sherman's passing -- although we thought we might have another year with him -- and we'd considered our options.
Because Karen's plugged into the bulldog network, she went to work looking for dogs we could adopt. We quickly learned just how controlled the bulldog adoption world was, being stonewalled by neighboring states' adoption sites because of some weird reciprocity respect that prevents people from one state adopting bulldogs in another state.
We next turned to getting a puppy, but the timing wasn't right on a couple of different levels, not the least of which was my impending surgery. Getting a puppy is something we look forward to doing, but now wasn't the right time.
So Karen then contacted people she knew in the bulldog breeding industry and an option presented itself. A breeder in a neighboring state had a friend in Kansas whose teenaged daughter had recently died. Due to the circumstances, the Kansan has a dog that she was ready to give up. All we'd have to do is pay for her gas to meet us at the breeder's house and, if the dog and Custer got along, she'd be ours.
Yes, it was a girl.
Margo, as she was then known, had been a show dog who retired to being bred. She was done breeding and, according to the Kansan, had just the disposition for which we were looking. She was calm and quiet, got along with other dogs and was good with families. Karen and I discussed it and decided the Custer needed someone, so as long as this dog got along with him, we'd be taking her. They also offered us another dog, a boy named Lucky, but he was seven-years-old. Margo was five-years-old, and since we had our 'druthers, we preferred Margo if for no other reason that we stood less of a chance of losing both dogs around the same time.
On December 10, we make the trek to the breeder's home and met Margo. She's small -- a runt really -- and quiet. The boy, Lucky, was happy-go-lucky like Custer, but he had this weird breathing thing and was a little on the heavy side. Margo obviously watched her girlish figure.
After some back and forth, we decided to take Margo. She was understandably skittish, not sure what was going on, but otherwise all right. Custer was indifferent. We figured since he didn't get in a fight with her, it was fine.
We brought her back home and immediately realized there was a problem with Margo. First, she ran around like a cat, slinking low to the ground and fast, very fast. She would also hide behind furniture. It wasn't until later that Karen discovered that Margo suffered from kennel syndrome, or a condition that results from having been in a kennel all her life without knowing what it's like to be outside of one.
The day of my surgery I took her out to do her business and she decided it was a fine time to explore the neighborhood. Given that I was facing a hip replacement in a few hours, this wasn't an opportune time for her to do so. She played ring-around-the-rosey with the neighbor's pole barn and eventually ran into me, otherwise we might have lost her.
She's doing better now after a round of what we call crazy pills. These pills, prescribed by a veterinarian, don't alter the brain's chemistry but calm down the panic urge quite a bit. She's still a little weird, but she is sweet.
Her favorite times of day are early in the morning and right before bedtime at night. When she goes out to do her business in the morning, she runs at me after she's finished and launches herself at me like a missile. At night, same thing. Then she runs into her bed and sits upright at attention as if she's going to be called on to answer a question. She is undoubtedly sweet.
We decided to change her name from Margo to Maisie early on because Margo sounded too much like Let's go, which is the command to which she answers when we go outside, and because we got tired of calling her while she was still in her crazy stage. Unfortunately, Maisie also rhymes with hazy and crazy, so we doubt she'll ever shake that label.
Custer abides her, but just barely. He will not hesitate to bark at her for some alleged transgression, and he's still as jealous and possessive as he was with Sherman.
Maisie isn't a replacement as much as she is a place holder. She's coming into her own, and she's very sweet and loving.
I just wish she weren't so crazy...or hazy...
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
For as sad an event as it was for us, it was probably more traumatic on Custer. That sounds like hyperbole, but Cus was bereft for two months after Sherman passed. He moped, he was listless, he just wasn't the same dog. Karen and I noticed it immediately and debated what to do to snap him out of it. Fortunately, we'd anticipated Sherman's passing -- although we thought we might have another year with him -- and we'd considered our options.
Because Karen's plugged into the bulldog network, she went to work looking for dogs we could adopt. We quickly learned just how controlled the bulldog adoption world was, being stonewalled by neighboring states' adoption sites because of some weird reciprocity respect that prevents people from one state adopting bulldogs in another state.
We next turned to getting a puppy, but the timing wasn't right on a couple of different levels, not the least of which was my impending surgery. Getting a puppy is something we look forward to doing, but now wasn't the right time.
So Karen then contacted people she knew in the bulldog breeding industry and an option presented itself. A breeder in a neighboring state had a friend in Kansas whose teenaged daughter had recently died. Due to the circumstances, the Kansan has a dog that she was ready to give up. All we'd have to do is pay for her gas to meet us at the breeder's house and, if the dog and Custer got along, she'd be ours.
Yes, it was a girl.
Margo, as she was then known, had been a show dog who retired to being bred. She was done breeding and, according to the Kansan, had just the disposition for which we were looking. She was calm and quiet, got along with other dogs and was good with families. Karen and I discussed it and decided the Custer needed someone, so as long as this dog got along with him, we'd be taking her. They also offered us another dog, a boy named Lucky, but he was seven-years-old. Margo was five-years-old, and since we had our 'druthers, we preferred Margo if for no other reason that we stood less of a chance of losing both dogs around the same time.
On December 10, we make the trek to the breeder's home and met Margo. She's small -- a runt really -- and quiet. The boy, Lucky, was happy-go-lucky like Custer, but he had this weird breathing thing and was a little on the heavy side. Margo obviously watched her girlish figure.
After some back and forth, we decided to take Margo. She was understandably skittish, not sure what was going on, but otherwise all right. Custer was indifferent. We figured since he didn't get in a fight with her, it was fine.
We brought her back home and immediately realized there was a problem with Margo. First, she ran around like a cat, slinking low to the ground and fast, very fast. She would also hide behind furniture. It wasn't until later that Karen discovered that Margo suffered from kennel syndrome, or a condition that results from having been in a kennel all her life without knowing what it's like to be outside of one.
The day of my surgery I took her out to do her business and she decided it was a fine time to explore the neighborhood. Given that I was facing a hip replacement in a few hours, this wasn't an opportune time for her to do so. She played ring-around-the-rosey with the neighbor's pole barn and eventually ran into me, otherwise we might have lost her.
She's doing better now after a round of what we call crazy pills. These pills, prescribed by a veterinarian, don't alter the brain's chemistry but calm down the panic urge quite a bit. She's still a little weird, but she is sweet.
Her favorite times of day are early in the morning and right before bedtime at night. When she goes out to do her business in the morning, she runs at me after she's finished and launches herself at me like a missile. At night, same thing. Then she runs into her bed and sits upright at attention as if she's going to be called on to answer a question. She is undoubtedly sweet.
We decided to change her name from Margo to Maisie early on because Margo sounded too much like Let's go, which is the command to which she answers when we go outside, and because we got tired of calling her while she was still in her crazy stage. Unfortunately, Maisie also rhymes with hazy and crazy, so we doubt she'll ever shake that label.
Custer abides her, but just barely. He will not hesitate to bark at her for some alleged transgression, and he's still as jealous and possessive as he was with Sherman.
Maisie isn't a replacement as much as she is a place holder. She's coming into her own, and she's very sweet and loving.
I just wish she weren't so crazy...or hazy...
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Favorite Obscure TV Shows
When I was growing up, there weren't a lot of shows from which to choose. We got WGN, which fed us a steady diet of reruns. We got The Dick Van Dyke Show, Gilligan's Island, The Andy Griffith Show, Hogan's Heroes and other shows, ad nauseum. Then television got more daring. I remember coming home from a year abroad to discover Moonlighting, Miami Vice and The Cosby Show, shows that were fresh and innovative and, at the same time, entertaining.
With the advent of cable television, daring new approaches were taken. Not all were successful or welcome, but every once in awhile a show just grabbed one's attention. Niche topics were now in the mainstream, available for those people who had an interest. For example, I hated the show True Blood, as much as I would hate the Walking Dead, since I can't possibly suspend disbelief enough to bear watching those shows. But the success those shows enjoyed or continue to enjoy prove the worth of the idea that for virtually everyone there's something that will appeal to someone.
There are insanely popular shows -- Cheers, ER, Lost, Grey's Anatomy, M*A*S*H -- that garner the lion's share of the viewing audience. But some of the shows that I enjoy are ones that would qualify as niche shows, shows that enjoy a small but loyal audience that howls with displeasure whenever a hint of cancellation comes up. I'm not immune to this; there are a few shows that appeal to me and a small band of misfits who, for whatever reason, like these shows. These, then, are shows that I would buy for myself and watch in reruns for no artistic reason but simply because I like them and they entertain me (even if I know what's going to happen next):
Grimm: My wife has an incontrovertible argument on this one: Why would I like this one when I despise Once Upon A Time, a show that came along at the same time? Well, for one, Grimm is more innovative. It involves people, vesen, who have human form but who can morph, or vogue, into fantastic animal forms, usually with bad results for humans. There was an underlying story involving the future of humanity, and some dark force, Black Claw, that was going to take over the world. It was hokey, I suppose, but it was creative. And it was on Friday nights, when nothing else was on. It was recently cancelled, and I'll miss it.
Mantracker: This Canadian show was a hoot. A professional tracker and a local guide who knows the territory track down a pair who have to get to a point some forty kilometers away through the wilderness. Usually set in the Canadian Northwest, the tracker and his guide were on horses, while the prey were on foot. Some of the contestants were incredibly stupid, while others were quite cunning. Some that I would have thought were going to do well didn't, and others surprised me. I think the success rate of pairs making it to the final spot was around twenty percent. I'm not sure how rigged the show was, but I would have loved to have tried it.
Taboo: A new entry, this Tom Hardy show involves a guy who returns from Africa in the early 1800's to claim his inheritance and fight against the East India Company. It has some very racy themes, including slavery, incest and what have you, and the recently concluded first season has me wondering how they have a second season. The sets and the costuming was very interesting, and injection of African mysticism to a plot that already involved the War of 1812 made for an interesting backdrop.
The Amazing Race: I've loved this show from the start. Sure, it has its problems. It always seems to have one token African-American team, a gay child with a parent, and models. The competition itself is boring most seasons, although every once in awhile a good antagonist pops up to make things interesting. But the show highlights places I'll never see, or places that I never thought of seeing that now have an interest for me. And Phil Keoghan is one of the best reality show hosts in the business. His Kiwi accent is never more pronounced than when he says the word spa.
The Outsiders: This improbably show involves a backward clan in the Kentucky hills that's fighting both progress and a coal company. It was recently cancelled, and some of its plot lines were unusual, to say the least, but it was different. Unlike most of the sitcoms and dramas on network television, this show was completely original. Although its underpinnings may have been rooted in Shakespeare (isn't everything?), I found the themes at least novel in their treatment.
Mountain Men: This show focuses on men in Alaska, Montana, New Mexico, North Carolina and, improbably, Arkansas. It's a subsistence lifestyle that involves trapping, hunting and generally roughing it. My favorites are Tom Oar in Montana and the guy in New Mexico. It's interesting to see how they employ old methods for living. I wish I'd started doing this a long time ago, but I just wasn't exposed. Trying to start now would be suicidal.
The Last Alaskans: In the remote northeast part of Alaska is the Alaskan refuge, a national park. In 1980, the government banned habitation of the preserve, but it grandfathered in those families already living there. Their permits expire upon the death of their last child. These people live a truly subsistence lifestyle, and it's about as accurate a reality show as there can be. It's well done, without any added or conjured drama. I absolutely love this show.
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
With the advent of cable television, daring new approaches were taken. Not all were successful or welcome, but every once in awhile a show just grabbed one's attention. Niche topics were now in the mainstream, available for those people who had an interest. For example, I hated the show True Blood, as much as I would hate the Walking Dead, since I can't possibly suspend disbelief enough to bear watching those shows. But the success those shows enjoyed or continue to enjoy prove the worth of the idea that for virtually everyone there's something that will appeal to someone.
There are insanely popular shows -- Cheers, ER, Lost, Grey's Anatomy, M*A*S*H -- that garner the lion's share of the viewing audience. But some of the shows that I enjoy are ones that would qualify as niche shows, shows that enjoy a small but loyal audience that howls with displeasure whenever a hint of cancellation comes up. I'm not immune to this; there are a few shows that appeal to me and a small band of misfits who, for whatever reason, like these shows. These, then, are shows that I would buy for myself and watch in reruns for no artistic reason but simply because I like them and they entertain me (even if I know what's going to happen next):
Grimm: My wife has an incontrovertible argument on this one: Why would I like this one when I despise Once Upon A Time, a show that came along at the same time? Well, for one, Grimm is more innovative. It involves people, vesen, who have human form but who can morph, or vogue, into fantastic animal forms, usually with bad results for humans. There was an underlying story involving the future of humanity, and some dark force, Black Claw, that was going to take over the world. It was hokey, I suppose, but it was creative. And it was on Friday nights, when nothing else was on. It was recently cancelled, and I'll miss it.
Mantracker: This Canadian show was a hoot. A professional tracker and a local guide who knows the territory track down a pair who have to get to a point some forty kilometers away through the wilderness. Usually set in the Canadian Northwest, the tracker and his guide were on horses, while the prey were on foot. Some of the contestants were incredibly stupid, while others were quite cunning. Some that I would have thought were going to do well didn't, and others surprised me. I think the success rate of pairs making it to the final spot was around twenty percent. I'm not sure how rigged the show was, but I would have loved to have tried it.
Taboo: A new entry, this Tom Hardy show involves a guy who returns from Africa in the early 1800's to claim his inheritance and fight against the East India Company. It has some very racy themes, including slavery, incest and what have you, and the recently concluded first season has me wondering how they have a second season. The sets and the costuming was very interesting, and injection of African mysticism to a plot that already involved the War of 1812 made for an interesting backdrop.
The Amazing Race: I've loved this show from the start. Sure, it has its problems. It always seems to have one token African-American team, a gay child with a parent, and models. The competition itself is boring most seasons, although every once in awhile a good antagonist pops up to make things interesting. But the show highlights places I'll never see, or places that I never thought of seeing that now have an interest for me. And Phil Keoghan is one of the best reality show hosts in the business. His Kiwi accent is never more pronounced than when he says the word spa.
The Outsiders: This improbably show involves a backward clan in the Kentucky hills that's fighting both progress and a coal company. It was recently cancelled, and some of its plot lines were unusual, to say the least, but it was different. Unlike most of the sitcoms and dramas on network television, this show was completely original. Although its underpinnings may have been rooted in Shakespeare (isn't everything?), I found the themes at least novel in their treatment.
Mountain Men: This show focuses on men in Alaska, Montana, New Mexico, North Carolina and, improbably, Arkansas. It's a subsistence lifestyle that involves trapping, hunting and generally roughing it. My favorites are Tom Oar in Montana and the guy in New Mexico. It's interesting to see how they employ old methods for living. I wish I'd started doing this a long time ago, but I just wasn't exposed. Trying to start now would be suicidal.
The Last Alaskans: In the remote northeast part of Alaska is the Alaskan refuge, a national park. In 1980, the government banned habitation of the preserve, but it grandfathered in those families already living there. Their permits expire upon the death of their last child. These people live a truly subsistence lifestyle, and it's about as accurate a reality show as there can be. It's well done, without any added or conjured drama. I absolutely love this show.
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Friday, May 5, 2017
Liberals and Profanity
I swear. Karen hates it. But I usually do it when I'm angry with myself or, more typically, at inanimate objects that refuse to cooperate with me. Rare is it that I swear at someone, although if provoked sufficiently, I have been known to unleash a torrent of invectives that would make a sailor blush. I can even swear in two languages, three if you count the scant Irish swearwords I know.
Use of profanity is frowned upon in polite society, and I do my best to keep a lid on it when in mixed company or when I'm in a place for which its usage is ill-suited. Church, school, court -- those are safe zones as far as I'm concerned. On the other hand, I see nothing wrong with letting a few choice words fly in a locker room or a garage. So long as the faint of heart aren't around, or ladies, I see nothing wrong with the expressiveness and the color of blue language.
That being said, what's passing for political commentary on the Left is atrocious. A few years ago, Martin Bashir, on the eminent network MSNBC, criticized Sarah Palin (perhaps legitimately, I don't know; I didn't hear any of her comments, but she's not exactly a founder of Mensa) for having said some things about slavery that he considered ham-fisted. Assuming for the sake of argument that Bashir was correct about Ms. Palin's comments, he veered, nevertheless, into the tawdry by referencing a particularly sadistic slaveholder's diaries that described what he called Darby's Dose, which involved a punishment of one slave exacted by having another slave defecate in the first slave's mouth. Not satisfied with the reference, Bashir suggested that perhaps someone should give her a Darby's Dose for, inferentially, being a world-class idiot.
Even assuming, for the moment, that Ms. Palin was out of line -- and I'm not agreeing or disagreeing with the premise -- that Bashir felt it was not only fitting but appropriate to say that to a national television audience. When the expected outcry ensued, Bashir took a leave of absence for a couple of weeks before resigning, but MSNBC remained curiously silent, as if to bless what Bashir did and said.
Now we have Stephen Colbert, the darling of self-proclaimed liberals everywhere. The other night, in response to Donald Trump abruptly ending his interview with the closet propagandist John Dickerson of CBS News, ranted about Mr. Trump being some sort of sexual toy of Vladimir Putin. Whether one believes that a covert relationship existed and continues to exist between Mr. Trump and Putin, the comment was in bad taste at best. Especially since, when given the opportunity to recant his statements, Colbert stood by them. And as with MSNBC, CBS has done and said nothing in opposition to Colbert's crude comments.
If we play Sharyl Attkisson's replacement game and put a conservative celebrity in Bashir and Colbert's shoes, and make Sarah Palin Elizabeth Warren and Donald Trump Barack Obama, the outrage and indignation would swamp the airwaves. Instead, there are mostly yawns when people aren't defending Colbert's First Amendment rights to say whatever he wants. And in this case, I agree: He can say whatever he wants. But let's not forget: The First Amendment only applies to government infringement of speech. Both MSNBC and CBS can take whatever action they want because they are private institutions. But neither network would dare silence or in any way punish a liberal pundit taking on a conservative politician, although it wouldn't wait to punish a conservative pundit taking on a liberal politician. If that sounds unbelievable, think about some people who have lost their jobs or positions because of their actions: Curt Shilling and Sage Steele come to mind.
So in this age of faux enlightenment, don't just listen to the offensive language spewed by the liberal talking heads. Listen for the reactions not from the aggrieved conservatives but the relative silence from the liberal supporters. Then imagine how it would play out if the roles were reversed.
It's not hard to imagine how different things would be.
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Use of profanity is frowned upon in polite society, and I do my best to keep a lid on it when in mixed company or when I'm in a place for which its usage is ill-suited. Church, school, court -- those are safe zones as far as I'm concerned. On the other hand, I see nothing wrong with letting a few choice words fly in a locker room or a garage. So long as the faint of heart aren't around, or ladies, I see nothing wrong with the expressiveness and the color of blue language.
That being said, what's passing for political commentary on the Left is atrocious. A few years ago, Martin Bashir, on the eminent network MSNBC, criticized Sarah Palin (perhaps legitimately, I don't know; I didn't hear any of her comments, but she's not exactly a founder of Mensa) for having said some things about slavery that he considered ham-fisted. Assuming for the sake of argument that Bashir was correct about Ms. Palin's comments, he veered, nevertheless, into the tawdry by referencing a particularly sadistic slaveholder's diaries that described what he called Darby's Dose, which involved a punishment of one slave exacted by having another slave defecate in the first slave's mouth. Not satisfied with the reference, Bashir suggested that perhaps someone should give her a Darby's Dose for, inferentially, being a world-class idiot.
Even assuming, for the moment, that Ms. Palin was out of line -- and I'm not agreeing or disagreeing with the premise -- that Bashir felt it was not only fitting but appropriate to say that to a national television audience. When the expected outcry ensued, Bashir took a leave of absence for a couple of weeks before resigning, but MSNBC remained curiously silent, as if to bless what Bashir did and said.
Now we have Stephen Colbert, the darling of self-proclaimed liberals everywhere. The other night, in response to Donald Trump abruptly ending his interview with the closet propagandist John Dickerson of CBS News, ranted about Mr. Trump being some sort of sexual toy of Vladimir Putin. Whether one believes that a covert relationship existed and continues to exist between Mr. Trump and Putin, the comment was in bad taste at best. Especially since, when given the opportunity to recant his statements, Colbert stood by them. And as with MSNBC, CBS has done and said nothing in opposition to Colbert's crude comments.
If we play Sharyl Attkisson's replacement game and put a conservative celebrity in Bashir and Colbert's shoes, and make Sarah Palin Elizabeth Warren and Donald Trump Barack Obama, the outrage and indignation would swamp the airwaves. Instead, there are mostly yawns when people aren't defending Colbert's First Amendment rights to say whatever he wants. And in this case, I agree: He can say whatever he wants. But let's not forget: The First Amendment only applies to government infringement of speech. Both MSNBC and CBS can take whatever action they want because they are private institutions. But neither network would dare silence or in any way punish a liberal pundit taking on a conservative politician, although it wouldn't wait to punish a conservative pundit taking on a liberal politician. If that sounds unbelievable, think about some people who have lost their jobs or positions because of their actions: Curt Shilling and Sage Steele come to mind.
So in this age of faux enlightenment, don't just listen to the offensive language spewed by the liberal talking heads. Listen for the reactions not from the aggrieved conservatives but the relative silence from the liberal supporters. Then imagine how it would play out if the roles were reversed.
It's not hard to imagine how different things would be.
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Monday, May 1, 2017
It's Vocabulary Time Again
And away we go...:
Anfractuous: This one means circuitous or sinuous. Frankly, I'd stick with circuitous and call it good. I don't want to be mistaken for William F. Buckley
Meach: This means to slink or skulk, to move in a furtive or cringing manner. Now that I know that, I can see it. It's one of those onomatopoeic words. But be careful: The Urban Dictionary has meanings that are quite different, apparently.
Chilblains: These are small, itchy swellings of the skin that result from exposure to the cold. I always wondered, given how many times I've read this in books. I just don't understand the -blains portion.
Listing: The listing to which I'm referring is that which occurs when a ship teeters to one side. Apparently, the origin of this usage dates back to the early 1600's, but no one's quite sure what made it mean this.
Guile: I included this because I like the word. Apparently, it means sly or cunning intelligence. I hope that doesn't mean it's only appropriate to use when referring to criminals.
Koan: It's a story, dialogue, question, or statement, which is used in Zen practice to provoke the "great doubt" and test a student's progress in Zen practice. In other words, a paradoxical riddle or anecdote. I don't remember where I read it but I like this one.
Quant: This has various meanings, and I'm not sure which it was used to mean when I first read it. It could be an apocopation for quantity or quantitative, which is just nothing more than the moronic trend that reduces family to fam and vacation to vacay. It can also refer to a pole that's used to move a canoe or other small water vessel.
Deseudtude: Another Buckley-esque term, it simply means a state of disuse. Yawn...
Weir: This is a horizontal barrier across a river that alters the flow. That makes sense, somehow.
That's all I have for today. I've been collecting these for months and just let 'em sit. It was time they saw the light of day, although now that I review them, I doubt I'll use many of them at all...
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Anfractuous: This one means circuitous or sinuous. Frankly, I'd stick with circuitous and call it good. I don't want to be mistaken for William F. Buckley
Meach: This means to slink or skulk, to move in a furtive or cringing manner. Now that I know that, I can see it. It's one of those onomatopoeic words. But be careful: The Urban Dictionary has meanings that are quite different, apparently.
Chilblains: These are small, itchy swellings of the skin that result from exposure to the cold. I always wondered, given how many times I've read this in books. I just don't understand the -blains portion.
Listing: The listing to which I'm referring is that which occurs when a ship teeters to one side. Apparently, the origin of this usage dates back to the early 1600's, but no one's quite sure what made it mean this.
Guile: I included this because I like the word. Apparently, it means sly or cunning intelligence. I hope that doesn't mean it's only appropriate to use when referring to criminals.
Koan: It's a story, dialogue, question, or statement, which is used in Zen practice to provoke the "great doubt" and test a student's progress in Zen practice. In other words, a paradoxical riddle or anecdote. I don't remember where I read it but I like this one.
Quant: This has various meanings, and I'm not sure which it was used to mean when I first read it. It could be an apocopation for quantity or quantitative, which is just nothing more than the moronic trend that reduces family to fam and vacation to vacay. It can also refer to a pole that's used to move a canoe or other small water vessel.
Deseudtude: Another Buckley-esque term, it simply means a state of disuse. Yawn...
Weir: This is a horizontal barrier across a river that alters the flow. That makes sense, somehow.
That's all I have for today. I've been collecting these for months and just let 'em sit. It was time they saw the light of day, although now that I review them, I doubt I'll use many of them at all...
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
The U.N.
As many people know, the United Nations was born out of the failure of the League of Nations and the Second World War, which came but twenty years after the Great War, which was supposed to be the war to end all wars. One of the stated purposes of the League of Nations, besides the maintenance of world peace, was to protect the smaller countries against the larger, more industrialized countries. Ask Ireland how well that worked.
In the euphoria and relief leading up to the end of World War II, the world leaders convened in San Francisco (of all places) in April of 1945. I suppose they were hopeful, because although Nazi Germany was on its last legs, the Japanese were fighting as if the war was still in doubt. The battle for Okinawa still raged, with kamikaze pilots doing their best to ring up a ten to one ratio of dead Americans to Japanese. With all the death and devastation the world had experienced since 1933, it's not surprising that the United Nations was a beacon of hope that peace and tranquility might be restored and, more importantly, maintained.
That hope was shattered nearly five years later with communist North Korea invaded capitalist South Korea. Although many countries came to the defense of the South under the auspices of the U.N., nothing was ever resolved; a state of war still exists between the North and South, with the North rattling its sabers recently. It has intervened in several conflicts, remained on the sidelines in others, but basically been nothing more than a Greek chorus chiming in with ineffective platitudes.
In short, what FIFA is to sport, the UN is to world politics.
The UN makes ridiculous decisions, such as putting the likes of Saudi Arabia and Iran on the Human Rights committees, denouncing Israel and not Iran, and calling the United States on the carpet for various and sundry (imagined) human rights violations. That the UN is headquartered in New York and the US pays roughly 22% of the annual operating budget is neither here nor there, but it is galling to have the United States put on the same level as Iran or North Korea.
The UN really has outlived its purpose. It isn't effective at maintaining the peace, it's corrupt and has biases that make it the subject of world-wide ridicule.
For the U.S., there really isn't any reason to remain in the UN, or if it remains, to pay a disproportionate share of the organization's budget. There are nearly two hundred countries in the UN, yet we pay nearly a quarter of its budget. For this, we are maligned, burdened with unreasonable commitments and disrespected by despotic regimes that murder our citizens. And for this we get what, exactly?
I'm all for living in peace and harmony with our neighbors, but there are good neighbors and there are bad neighbors. The UN has proven to have too many of the latter, thereby proving the maxim about one bad apple. The UN, like its predecessor the League of Nations, was a noble idea that has gone awry.
Enough is enough.
Defund the UN.
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
In the euphoria and relief leading up to the end of World War II, the world leaders convened in San Francisco (of all places) in April of 1945. I suppose they were hopeful, because although Nazi Germany was on its last legs, the Japanese were fighting as if the war was still in doubt. The battle for Okinawa still raged, with kamikaze pilots doing their best to ring up a ten to one ratio of dead Americans to Japanese. With all the death and devastation the world had experienced since 1933, it's not surprising that the United Nations was a beacon of hope that peace and tranquility might be restored and, more importantly, maintained.
That hope was shattered nearly five years later with communist North Korea invaded capitalist South Korea. Although many countries came to the defense of the South under the auspices of the U.N., nothing was ever resolved; a state of war still exists between the North and South, with the North rattling its sabers recently. It has intervened in several conflicts, remained on the sidelines in others, but basically been nothing more than a Greek chorus chiming in with ineffective platitudes.
In short, what FIFA is to sport, the UN is to world politics.
The UN makes ridiculous decisions, such as putting the likes of Saudi Arabia and Iran on the Human Rights committees, denouncing Israel and not Iran, and calling the United States on the carpet for various and sundry (imagined) human rights violations. That the UN is headquartered in New York and the US pays roughly 22% of the annual operating budget is neither here nor there, but it is galling to have the United States put on the same level as Iran or North Korea.
The UN really has outlived its purpose. It isn't effective at maintaining the peace, it's corrupt and has biases that make it the subject of world-wide ridicule.
For the U.S., there really isn't any reason to remain in the UN, or if it remains, to pay a disproportionate share of the organization's budget. There are nearly two hundred countries in the UN, yet we pay nearly a quarter of its budget. For this, we are maligned, burdened with unreasonable commitments and disrespected by despotic regimes that murder our citizens. And for this we get what, exactly?
I'm all for living in peace and harmony with our neighbors, but there are good neighbors and there are bad neighbors. The UN has proven to have too many of the latter, thereby proving the maxim about one bad apple. The UN, like its predecessor the League of Nations, was a noble idea that has gone awry.
Enough is enough.
Defund the UN.
(c) 2017 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)