What the Hell is Going On ?

Who said we have the best health care system in the world?  Was it Obama ?  No, who would believe him anyway?  Was it Hannity ?  Yeah, maybe it was Hannity.  Welcome to America, home of the greatest health care system in the world.  Who is he kidding ?  I happen to be sitting in the hospital with my mother.  She is, as luck would have it, a  recipient of this stellar health care that we are so privileged to enjoy.  We started at the emergency room waiting area.  I could not decide if the woman at the desk was an administrative assistant or a retired haunted house tour guide.  Loads of personality were dripping off of this one.  We enter the triage unit (aka The how are you gonna pay room).  No worries, we have loads of insurance and medicare to boot.  Hooray, we will be here until they run the gambit of known medical test.

We are now in an ER room.  Immediately, they begin IV fluids.  Why, I ask.  I was told, "that's what we do".  Here is why they do it.  If the doctor orders two bags of fluids, and the nurse sets the drip on "as freaking slow as possible", they don't have to look at you for the first three hours.  Perfect, all the rooms are now full of people getting fluids.  The real emergencies can wait until the next shift.  I'm sorry you have an ice pick in your labia.  If you will have a seat, someone will be with you on Thursday.  Our rooms are full of people with out insurance who are receiving their much needed 8 gallons of IV fluids.  Now, my mother was sent here by her doctor.  I wonder about the rest.  One guy is here for a freaking toothache.

This the front line of our wonderful system.  The term emergency is laughable.  No one is here for an emergency.  They are here for common ailments.  Most can't pay, so the patients with insurance get loads of unneeded test to cover the bill.  I am convinced of it.  We have been here for 6 hours and have yet to see a doctor.  Wait; here he comes.  I suspect he finished somewhere in the middle of class in some "island" medical school.  He is in 50's and working as a staff doc in the ER.  That alone speaks volumes about his skill level.  It will however, be nice to get some idea of what we can expect from the greatest system in the world.  Happy day, we will be here for the next 72 hours.  We will enjoy a CT scan with contrast,  an EKG, a heart Cathe, a stress test, 900 blood test for every infectious disease known to man, a little oxygen, an upper GI series, and if there is still time, a nasal gastric tube will be inserted just to be safe.  Dude, the woman had a little fall and hit her head.  Her doctor sent her here to have the knot checked out.  She is 80 for God's sake.  "Must run test".  Yeah, Yeah I know, "must run test".

I would define an emergency room as a place with a high sense of urgency.  Not so much.  The nurses, and trust me there are plenty, are piled around the desk enjoying what appears to be a birthday cake.  It has a pot leaf on top; so obviously, Doc Marley is the man of the hour.  I have been given a task.  They have dear old Mom hooked to what looks like a wiring harness from the space shuttle.  Every time she moves an alarm goes of to tell the staff that her heart has quit beating.  The nurse said the machine is too sensitive, so I should just hit the reset button when it sounds.  Now, understand, it goes off every 60 to 90 seconds.  It emits an ear splitting screech that should send the staff into a code blue.  Not here.  I just reach up and turn it off every minute or so.  This is standard operating procedure.  I can tell this, because the alarms are going off in every room.  No one blinks.  If someone goes into cardiac arrest, they are toast.  I may go to jail for turning off the machine.  God knows it would have to be better than sitting here.

I apologize for the rant, but I had to vent.  I am sure that the next 17 hours of treatment will be a lesson in the efficiency of our excellent system.  Have a good evening.

Atlanta Traffic

It is true.  The city of Atlanta has the worst traffic and drivers in the country.  I have lived in the great state of Georgia for 45 years and it never ceases to amaze me.  I have tried to disprove this unloyal statement, but I have to be honest.  The reason is multifaceted.  There is the never ending road construction, the fact that absolutely no sane person wants to live in the city, and the absolute lack of talent behind the wheel.  The delays are never clearly defined.  We wait for hours for no apparent purpose.  Try it.  Drive into Atlanta from either direction, and you will experience some sort of massive traffic jam.  I would like to share a conversation that I had with a co-worker last week.

 Is it a wreck ?  No.  Is it construction ?  Ummm no.  What is it ?  It appears to be 50,000 people stopped for no apparent reason.  Are you kidding me ?  I wish I were.  I can see it breaking up a couple of miles ahead, but I cannot tell you why that half of the states population is going .003 miles per hour.  Maybe there is a real good billboard up ahead that takes a minute to completely capture.  Maybe they are having a naming ceremony for a bridge or something.  Let me guess, Maynard Jackson or Dr. King.  Are we close to Hudson Bridge Road?  The people on the east side of Atlanta can't get out of their driveway without hitting everything but the daily double, and we gave them a highway of their own (I-675).  The fact that they can't use it without a daily fatality is comical at best.  Wait; I think it is breaking up.  I have nothing.  There is no wreck and no construction.  Just a minute, there is a guy leaning on a shovel.  He has three lanes shut down.  There is no sign giving notice.  It is rush hour, and this real man of genius is leaning on a garden utensil holding up the world.  That's it; I'm whipping his ass.  No no, stay in the car.  He has to work for the county in some fashion, and they hire the retarded.  Not by policy.  We elect the retarded, and they enjoy being around their peers.  Do they really hire the retarded ?  They don't start out that way.  They end up that way.  Maybe that guy with shovel is just standing there for the hell of it.  It is possible ?  He could be like those guys in town who wash windows or give directions for a dollar.  Are those folks homeless ?  No, they work for Fulton County.  They actually have a union.  You are full of shit.  They may as well have a union.  No one will do anything about it.  We are forced to be considerate of the chemically dependant.  The guy with the shovel could shut down I-75 just to beg for change, and there would be a reason why it isn't his fault.  This conversation has gotten awful political.  I thought we were talking about traffic.  We were, but it is all tied together.  The city and county goverments suck.  The city is the home of one of the greatest engineering schools in the country, and they can't figure out how to move traffic in and out.  Again, no one is staying. We drive into work, and spend all day wanting to get the hell out.  Put an exit at the Airport, Turner Field, Ga Tech, Phillips arena, and the capital. Then, close the rest.  Put 10 lanes north and 10 lanes south.  Set the speed limit at 85, and let it ride.  Let an outside contractor do the work.  This will eliminate the need for retarded people to take pay offs under the table.  Hopefully the project will be finished by the time the olympics come back to town.  It is bad.  Slow down; it is stopping again.  You have got to be freakin kidding me.  Nope, here we go again.  I would rather take an ass beating than to put up with this everyday.  I know what you mean.  Oh my God.  It is that same guy with the shovel.  No way.  I'm not shitting you; that's him.  It can't be.  Are you sayin that all retarded people look alike.  No, I'm just saying that....nevermind.  We have got to get off; I have to piss.  You just pissed 3 miles back.  I know, but that was two hours ago.  Don't remind me.  please don't remind me.

School Pride Runs Deep

Sorry about the extended hiatus.  The much spoken of lump of excrement hit the fan at approximately 331 miles per hour this summer.  Work turned into a 24/7 commitment.  It has not changed, but I am determined to recover a portion of my normal existence even if it places me in the unemployment line.

I recently set aside a little time and attended the state championship basketball play offs for the Georgia Independent Schools Association.  My experience was mixed.  It was a complete study in both the parental dedication and the social awareness of adults in my community.

My son attends a private school in Macon Georgia.  I am biased.  Most of my negative observations were derived from the "opposing team".  However, the truth must be presented.  In short, that's the way it was.  If the experience were any different, trust me, I would let the readers know.  It wasn't.

To understand the atmosphere, I must first provide a little history about the schools in Macon, Georgia.  The public school system serves approximately 25,000 students.  However, I would estimate that approximately 6000 students attend private schools or home schools.  There are many reasons for the large number of private schools in our community.  I will not begin to discuss all.  Two reasons remain evident.  Half of these schools were founded during integration, and practically all have religious based curriculum.   That is not to say that these reasons still exist.  The schools have been around so long that they now exist on their own merits.  I don't believe that parents place their children in private schools based on racial or religious prejudice.  Each school has it's own community that includes students, faculty, parents, family, and alumni. The rivalries are real.  The ties are strong.  The schools are proud and the parents support all aspects of the institution.  That is the reason for their existence.  Think about the pride one feels for the college they attended.  That is the same emotion we feel for our high schools.  Some of the old pains are still evident.  It is unfortunate, but it is true.  I still say that parents make the financial sacrifice, because of the overall experience and the closeness that one feels at these schools.  That is enough history. Now on to the game.

Sports rivalries in the south are and continue to be a religious experience.  Not so much at the professional level (with the exception of the Atlanta Braves), but primarily at the high school and college level.  Today, I am addressing High School Sports.  The emotions are not only based on the team, but also on the fact that the players are our children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, neighbors and friends.  It runs deep, and we mean business.  We talk about local teens like they were professional athletes.  We recruit in early grades.  We have youth leagues that display the talents of 5,6,and 7 year old children.  We focus on the talent.  It is not a politically correct process.  We are not here to make sure everyone gets equal playing time.  We are here to win, period.  Winning isn't everything, it is the only thing.  This passion is not built totally around the desire to be the winner,  A large portion is based around the desire to destroy the opponent.  We take as much pride in the fact that you lost as we do in picking up a win.  I know that sounds bad, seeing that I am discussing high school sports, but I have to look you in the eye and say, so what !  I can't explain it.  That is just the way it is. 

My recent attendance at the basketball finals exposed this unreasonable desire to win.  As expected, the players always want to win; I am discussing the desire of the parents and fans.  I witnessed verbal assaults on opposing players.  Profanity used on every bad play.  Understand, it was not a public spectacle.  Here is an example; the parent yells "come on catch the ball".  He then leans over to a buddy and whispers "that son of a bitch couldn't catch the bird flu in a Chinese bath house".  The feral anger that was directed at the game officials was not so discreet.  If the call was close to being questionable, the pitch forks and shovels were raised.  If the game is close. parents close their eyes as if they were in a horror movie.  I will often go to the restroom and listen to the crowd to determine the results of the game.  I get to anxious.  I always remained reserved.  If someone observed me, they would not know that I was pulling for either team.  That exponentially increases my inner emotions.  I am big on demeanor.  Always be respectful.  I must say; it is all an act.  We want our children to be successful and, we want our team to be successful for one reason.  If they are successful, then so are we.  Our efforts and sacrifices are justified.  We stand a little taller.  We walk a little prouder.  That spirit sticker in our car window not only shows school pride, it reminds the driver behind you that we kicked your ass last night. 

I have many close friends that attend rival schools.  When we arrive at the game, we are cordial.  We shakes hands, and hug each others wives.  We ask about the kids and family.  We talk about scheduling a golf game or possibly a hand of poker.  "How is work"?  "Did y'all catch any fish last week end ?  In a matter of minutes, the preliminaries are over.  The game is about to begin, and I want your kid to fail and fail miserably.  I want them to miss every shot, strike out, fumble the ball, get pinned in record time, throw an interception, and generally play the worst game of their life.  I will pat them on the back afterwards and take him out for a big o' pizza.  But make no mistake about it; I wouldn't have it any other way.  I can't explain it. It's not personal.  It is communal.  We all understand it.  The feeling is mutual.  Everyone has their own camp, and to each his own. 

The girls state championship is tonight; so let's prepare.  The battle will ensue.  All logical rational will cease to exist and for a few minutes we will focus on our personal desire to conquer.  The game will end; the smoke will clear and all will smile and nod.  "Good game he said."  "Damn right it was a good game."  "We put a foot in your rear end."  "We'll get you next time."  "Yeah right, if our team bus flies over a cliff on the way to the game, you might have a chance."  Do you want to have lunch on Monday?" "Absolutely"

To coin an old Georgia phrase, it is good clean hate.  But understand; it is healthy.  It builds pride, character, and respect among the students, and it allows us grown ups to hang onto those glory days that we so miss.  It also creates a sense of community that will help keep the schools successful for years to come.  O well back to the game; wait a damn minute...."foul !  what do you mean foul ?  You blind SOB, get it the game for God's sake.  You suck!!  Man, I love this stuff.

and the road goes on forever........

THE EVENT WAS A NIGHT TO REMEMBER. The Allman Brothers Band recently paid a visit to their home town of Macon, Georgia. The original members of the band hosted a ribbon cutting ceremony at their former home (now a museum)"The Big House". The night was reserved for music.

You would have to be from Macon to understand the emotional tie this city has for the music of the Brothers. It has been with us since the late 60's. Not all Maconites feel the depth of dedication to which I refer. Many do.

This band, like no other in my humble opinion, provides the listener with a comparable range of emotions. The tunes are alive. Those of us who are part of the family can equate our entire lives with the music. It is our soundtrack.

The recent show in Macon was a religious experience. The time and place were right. The band felt it, and the crowd responded. As the music swelled, something was happening on a biological level. We were one. I know it sounds hokey and cliched, but it is a plain fact.

I used to travel a lot and people would frequently ask about the band, equating them with my home town. I would always react with pride. Our love of the Allman Brothers is something we cherish. We will share it with everyone. You will not turn on VH1 and see Gregg and the boys stuck between Kanye and Lady Gaga. They are in all the appropriate halls of fame, however, the band has never received it's deserved exposure on a mainstream level. I feel that this is part of their mystique. Videos are fine, but their level of creative expression needs to be experienced live.

I would like to thank the band for what they have meant to me for the last 40 years. I would like to thank them for a memorable evening at home. I would also encourage all to find a show and go. You can enjoy any band. There are very few out today that you can truly experience. So join the family. We always need a few more brothers and sisters.

Facebook People

I remain undecided on the current state of social networking.  Once, when I was between jobs, I built a facebook page, and yes it was rather amusing for a few months.  A different blast from the past would hit the old inbox about every other day.  I made the all so common mistake of conversing with  an old girlfriend or two.  My wife quickly informed me how pathetic and inappropriate that idea was.  Old friends are important.  Old aquaintances are not, and most should remain deeply rooted in the past.  But hey, if a bad choice shows back up, you can always drop them back into the unknown by cutting them from your list of accepted contacts.  I wish that were possible in everyday life.  I don't like you and I never want to see, smell, hear, or even consider your mere existence again (Click).  Aaaaaaah, that's better.
In short, there are pros and cons to the whole set up.  My wonder lies with those that spend half of their day posting pictures, discussing shit that happened in 1983, posting everyday  BS that doesn't matter, and generally assuming that everyone gives a flying monkey turd about their every move.  As a point of reference, here are a few recent post from my "friends" :
1. Going to the store, I need butter and some Salem lights.
2. Loving life at the beach, I am having some great seafood. (post picture of their plate)
3. I'm Smiling
4. Went to the doctor for stomach problems, I still don't know what's wrong.
5. Go Dawgs (there is no UGA team competing at any level on June the 9th)   Maybe tennis or golf, but trust me, this post came from a person that could not put together another organized thought.

What the hell is going on?  Are you lonely?   Is this some type of exhibition fetish.  Do you want someone knowing every detail of your day?  Because look here, we don't give a damn about who won the little league game, or how much you enjoyed your last bowel movement.  If you want to sit and post, fine, but, give us something worth reading.  Tell us something about yourself that noone would know.  Better yet, throw a little fiction on top of the story.  Spice it up.  Tell us who you screwed last night and how you hid it from your husband.  These are things that are not important, but they do carry a little entertainment value.  I enjoy communicating and creating, however, I would never just go online to let everyone know what I am cooking for supper. 

I know the lack of personal presence results in feelings of confidence ,when communicating with others online.  I have one word of advice.  Use that confidence.  Say some shit that you would never say over the dinner table.  Make it fun, not weird.  Those of you who are guilty of posting worthless info know who you are.  Please be aware that all of your friends are talking behind your back.  We all think you have deep rooted mental problems and should seek professional help.  Please, quit.  It makes everyone feel awkward and uncomfortable.

P.S.  I am currently feeding the dog.  He is a very good boy.

Nuthin on

My memory of my childhood is extremely detailed.  I am accused of lying in some circles.  My brother in-law feels that no one could accurately remember their childhood in the manner of which I am accustomed.  This same individual believed the weapons of mass destruction story as well,  I mention his opinion for reference only, not to achieve any validity for my prose.  One of the memories that I often ponder is my past love of television.  Different shows mark different stages of my youth.  Of course there were only four channels to choose from.  There was ABC, NBC, CBS and the Superstation, channel 17.  The Superstation was the original product of a good Georgia boy who made it big, Ted Turner.  I am not sure which parts of this great country received TBS in the beginning.  If you did not, I will not apologize.  You should have lived in Georgia like normal people.  Regardless of the limited choices, the programming was spectacular.  There was always something to watch.  My formidable TV years range from 1968 to 1979, so the shows I mention will reflect this long gone era of superior entertainment.  Here are a few of my favorites: Gunsmoke, All in the Family, The Partridge Family, Gilligan's Island, Hogan's Heroes, Mash, Happy Days, Good Times, Leave it to Beaver, The Rockford Files, Mannix, The Streets of San Francisco, Night Gallery, Star Trek,  Perry Mason, Maude, The Bob Newhart Show, Mary Hartman Mary Hartman, The Jefferson's, Soap, Charlie's Angels, Laverne and Shirley, Love American Style, Grizzly Adams, Laugh In,  The Walton's, The Love Boat, Bonanza, Truth or Consequences, The Tonight Show (with Carson), The Gong Show, Match Game, Fantasy Island, Don Kirshner's Rock Concert, American Bandstand, The Banana Splits, Loony Toons, etc.  I could keep going, but I think you get the picture. I'm talking about good TV, back in the days when rasslin' was real!  Even the shows that were in syndication at that point were better than today's programs.  There were no recording devices.  We were required to adjust our lives.  Hurry home so we can see what JR did this week !  There was anticipation from week to week.  Watching reruns was like eating a box of chocolates (You know the rest). There was a total absence of reality TV shows.  Who needs reality ?  There are enough freaks in my daily existence to cover that void.  We watch to escape reality.

The Present number of channels is mind numbing.  A show's season only runs 8 to 10 weeks.  Even at that rate they still take a few weeks off.  The news we hear is all according to what channel we watch.  I miss Cronkite.  We need people who report the news, not people who make it.  The present shows can be fit into one of five basic scripts.  You figure that one out.  For example, go watch a few old episodes of CSI.  It is not hard to find them.  I think there are approximately 9 channels that run the show 24/7.  If you watch close, it will be apparent that they are simply changing the names and in what manner the victims die.  A monkey could write this show, but it remains number one.  I spend hours trying to find quality.  I flip through the 266 channels that are provided, and without intention, I always end up back on TBS or TV Land.  Ted left a legacy, the programmers still understand that the goods have past us by.  Why write and produce new shows, when you can better the competition by running the same old reruns. I do appreciate some of todays shows, but I could not start a list.  Please Hollywood, help us out.  Get creative.  Make the writers work.  Reality TV is mindless.  Really, it sucks !   Oh screw it; I'm going to watch some Barney Miller reruns.

Bad Neighbors

We have all had them.  You know the kind.  They are always bitching and complaining about something.  The noise is to loud.  The car is on my grass.  Your leaves are blowing in my yard.  Your dog shit, and I can smell it in my living room.  That's right, I am speaking of the ever present "bad Neighbor".  There are a few common denominators that apply to these individuals.  Mine meets most if not all of the needed criteria.  She is old, lonely, prone to drink, and a widow.  I heard her husband died (I can only assume by his own hand) about 5 years ago.  She like many before her has dedicated her existence to spreading bitterness around our planet.  For rhetorical purposes, I will refer to her as Medusa.  Down south, people with proper raisin' avoid screaming and yelling in the street.  Instead we lob innuendos across the street while leaning on the business end of a rake and sipping a beer.  From a distance one would think we were being cordial.  Nothing could be farther from the truth. Just recently, I had my scheduled spring run in with Medusa.  It always involves a particular plant at the corner of my yard.  It is one of those grassy cat tails that requires either the home owner or a contracted Latin agency to perform a day of trimming.  Unfortunately, a few of the trimmings inevitability  blow into Medusa's yard.  Today, she came out of the door with her nose in the air.  She was sniffing the wind like a wolf trying to locate his prey.  She must of gotten a whiff of my Jovan Sex Appeal cologne.  Her demeanor changed immediately; she knew I had been in the yard.  Then, she saw the plant.  It had been neatly trimmed.  She began pacing her yard looking for evidence that would justify her planned attack.  I watched from my window as Medusa stormed across the street with one long blade of Pompous Grass in her hand.  For a brief moment, I thought she may have been recognizing Palm Sunday in her own psychotic way.  I was wrong.  I immediate abandoned my inherited social restraint and met her half way.  She is originally from up north, and despite her extended stay, she still maintains her Yankee accent.  I on the other hand am a true son of the south and find both solace and pride in my "Suthan' Drawl."  We face off like Grant and Lee, but this day would not end with another Northern victory.  This would be my Fredericksburg.  My bayonet was fixed and I met the enemy head on.  I called her a lonely old drunk.  I recommended that she take her Ass back across the street, where she belonged.  I sympathized openly with her dead husband and reminded her that her bastard children never darkened her door.  I informed her that the members of the neighborhood association referred to her as the "Village Idiot".  It was brutal.  After the dust and pollen cleared, she had retreated back to her dreary home.  Her pride and arrogance had been purged.  The proverbial hat was in her hand.  I am sipping a beer at this very moment and watching out of my window as Medusa stealthy places a letter in my mail box.  No, it is not what you think.  Remember, we are in the south.  I am confident that it is a brief letter of apology, written on stationary that was acquired while visiting the Master's golf tournament in 1989.  I have received several in the past.  We will return to our cordial daily head nods as we pass on the street, but the war is not over.  Another storm is approaching.  I can almost smell the rain. Ready the horses !!!