Letter Writer

Tam pulled Evan out of school Monday. When she walked him into the classroom that morning she found a half-dead semiwarm body called a substitute standing at the door. No hello. No smile. Just a dour face.

By noon, thinking back on what she'd seen, Tam went and collected Evan after lunch and brought him home early. Good thing. She found the classroom doing nothing but being scoulded by the old sub.

So, instead, Ev came home, did some math and then did something very few people are able to do anymore: He wrote a letter. He hand wrote a letter, hand addressed the envelope, and plastered the stamp in the top right corner. How great is that? Not only a writing lesson but instruction in a dying art, a skill few of his contemporaries will ever know, let alone use. The thing was so cute I'm going to have to ask him to write to me.

The Perils of Packaging

Open at your own risk

It starts with something so simple and turns into something so unsettling: A box of Kleenex. Being the considerate guy I am I decided I should replace the Kleenex box I had emptied in our bathroom the other morning.

Let me just tell you this: Kleenex must think there is significant danger of contamination or something. I had bought one of those six-packs of the square boxes and so, anxious to do the right thing, tried to open the package with my bare hands. By the time I had created a start in that shrink-wrap packaging I thought I would have to cancel my surgery day due to sprained fingers. Then, successfully clearing that hurdle, I had to get the plastic off the individual box. Unreal.

The bad thing in this is looking ahead to the future. As I get older, I think I may need to start wearing a fanny pack just to keep my glasses, scissors, plyers, and bandaids. Otherwise, I don't know how I'll ever get anything open. It's that or at 75 I may just have to be that old man that walks around with a handkerchief tucked up the cuff of his shirt-- slightly used but readily available.

Regulate This!

I was listening to a report on the radio the other day about health care costs, reform, and proposals to rein in the ever increasing expense. One of the suggestions was obese patients pay a premium for their care.

As I drove along I passed a gas station situated at the crossroads of here and nowhere. Out front was a large sign that read "We now serve fresh pizza!" That got me to thinking: In the interest of cost and patient health, the government regulates all manner of health services, from the safety of medication to the number of available hospital beds per capita. Cancer centers, hospitals, diagnostic centers-- it's all closely regulated in the public interest. So, how is it, a gas station in the middle of nowhere-- and yet across the street from a bowling alley that serves pizza; and less than a mile from another great little pizza place-- why is it the production of hi-fat, hi-carb, hi-sodium pizza has no regulation? How is it that, in our obese nation, a kid under the age of 18 can walk into a McDonalds and buy a Big Mac, large fries, and a Coke? Diabetics can choose to drive up and say, "Double double, large fries, and a chocolate shake. Oh! And a Diet Coke." Similarly, how is it we offer no regulation on the density of fast food joints where, in some small towns at least, they stand 3, 4, and more in a row?

I can't say I'm a huge supporter of government extending it's regulatory fingers into every single aspect of American life (not that they don't already), I'm just saying if obesity is a national tragedy, and the cost associated with treating the effects of obesity is adding significantly to the astronomical financial burden of healthcare, why do we continue to tolerate and support our unregulated fast food industry? Why can we have pizza available every 50 feet or even every 2 miles? Why do we tolerate an environment where, at least in many cities, a person really can't drive more than a full minute without seeing another fast food logo standing 50 feet in the air-- drive thru open late.

All of this is to say it's pretty hard to start pointing fingers and calling names when it comes to discerning why healthcare in America is so expensive just as much as it is to say why Americans are getting so big. Bad health choices are affordable and widely available-- from the Hamburger Helper aisle to the dollar menu meal deals spaced 50 feet apart. I'm just not at all certain charging obese people a premium (for their pre-existing condition) is a reasonable idea. Seems it's kinda like raising the cost of a gun license in hopes of eliminating gun crime. Fat chance.

Today's Math Lesson: The Inverted Bell-Shaped Curve

age:fear ratio
x=age, y=fear

My brother wrote the other day to pass along a piece of family related information of interest. He was also happy to report (with a palpable sigh of relief) he had recently completed his annual check-up and received a clean bill of health.

That got me thinking about how things progress through life. Think about stairs, for instance: Stairs are nothing more than a death trap to the toddler. Big brother and big sister, mom and dad, everyone navigates the stairs up, down, and out of sight. But, for the toddler, the stairs are nothing more than the opportunity to fall and break something, or worse. If you live long enough you return to that point where stairs represent little more than another opportunity to fall and break a wrist, hip, or worse. Lord knows my house is one level for good reason.

Doctor visits are the same. At two and three and four and five, a visit to the doctor is filled with the terror of possibly getting a shot. Did mom promise a treat if you're good?  Is there the promise of something special after the visit? Fast forward 60 years. Now you worry about the doctor telling you something you don't want to hear. Will you get that call to come in to talk about test results? Did the doctor suggest you bring your spouse along for the follow-up?

Funny the inverse bell-shaped curves we navigate. High anxiety in our preschool youth almost drops out of sight for 40 or 50 years before it slowly starts to climb again. As for me, I try to always concentrate on making each day the best. I've pretty much eliminated risk-taking behaviors-- with the possible exception of buying the wrong car. I try to find a happy medium between what's good for me and what tastes best. I'm still deficient in my exercise routine but stay with it daily.

In all of it I hope to find enough pleasure and good health in life to allow me to leave my thoughts and fears of bell shaped curves far behind-- in the math and science building at Willamette University where the damn things belong!

Pizza Time

Best served with pizza.

A few weeks back Evan got invited to a birthday party at a local pizza place. It was our small town version of a Chucky Cheese's. Half the games but just as many kids. We had been successfully dodging those places up to this point: What he didn't know couldn't hurt us, right?

So much for that. The other night we returned to the scene of the crime of our own volition. It's hard to say no to Ev. (We can do it. But it's hard.) We sat down and ordered a couple of pizzas while Ev took his seat at the controls of a speed boat video game, zip-lock bag of quarters in hand.  While we sat there I had to think back to our pizza retreat as kids. A slice of pizza in the Coop at the Student Union was standard fare out on a bike ride or on the way home from touch football. But didn't that was kid stuffing, not going out for pizza.

For a real family night out there was only one destination for our family: Pizza Palace. Pizza Palace in the village was born and died before the age of the video game. It existed in the era when college students-- even rowdy dissident college students of the late 60's-- could coexist with a milquetoast suburban family with two boys in t-shirts, Levis, white socks and Jack Purcell's. The pizza? Probably just okay. The real attraction for us, just like for Evan at our local Little Caesars the other night, was the entertainment. Movies.

There, at the corner of, what?, Weyburn and Gayley?, we got pizza dinner, a tossed salad served in little wooden bowls, and movies. W.C. Fields, Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Keystone Cops, Our Gang, and probably a few other classic comedy shorts form the teens, 20's and 30's. I like to think it was an education. Certainly my fondness for early comedy was birthed there at Pizza Palace.

So now I'm left to wonder: Will the day come when Ev will be writing about where he acquired his love for driving speedboats?

It Doesn't Make Sense

The Oscar Pistorius murder charge has led to a whole round of break room "whys?" It always happens. A celebrity commits suicide or struggles unsuccessfully to overcome addiction. Murders, suicides, descent into the hell of addiction. A crazy people randomly kills innocents. We always search for the sense of it, even when it makes no sense.

When a story is written, whether for the screen or print, the observer wants to know why. The story must be reasonable. If it doesn't make sense it just doesn't work. Perhaps that's why news shows spend so much time on these tragic stories: It feeds our need to know why, to have it make sense.

I have to wonder if that isn't a fault at times, the need to have it all make sense. Maybe sometimes it really doesn't make sense or, at least, shouldn't make sense. I know we want to avoid tragedy repeating itself. I know we have a biological need to learn for our own protection. But I wonder if there aren't times when it's almost better just to accept certain behaviors, certain events, as having occurred outside the realm of human sensibility. After all, we don't need to understand the physics of electricity in order to knock a child's hand away from a light socket.

Sometimes I have to wonder if our pursuit of explanation doesn't simply feed the need to create a rational world in the face of irrational events. At the same time, I have to wonder if our attempt to make sense of the tragic acting out doesn't somehow humanize the event-- somehow soften the event-- when in fact what we really need to do is abhor the event-- step away and recognize that certain things don't make sense and shouldn't happen even though they do. Perhaps certain things don't deserve a closer look. When it comes to relationships, boundaries, trust, and fidelity I think there is a lot to look at and a lot to learn. When it comes to people pulling out guns and killing a wife, a lover, a son, or a daughter, I'm just not so sure I want or need to know all about that individual. In fact, I'm not sure it's not a fantasy to think we can.  Perhaps sometimes these are just broken people; people that I'm really becoming less and less interested in getting to know any better.

As for the break room "whys" in the above case, it's always important to remember that, first and foremost, step one belongs to the courts. Guilt or innocence.

Those Darn Food Allergies

I about fell off my chair the other evening at the dinner table. We were sitting there enjoying our kid correct meal of tacos, chips and salsa when all of a sudden 5 (and a half) year-old Evan says, "Gluten Free." "The chips are gluten free, Dad." This he says, pointing at the bag and its unique identifier for GF foods.

Such a precious moment. I remember back to when I first uttered the words "gluten free." Thinking back I must have only been, I don't know, 50?

I don't know where it all comes from but suddenly the whole world is allergic. I'm not opposed to it. I'm not refuting it. I'm just commenting. Suddenly peanuts, latex, gluten-- these allergies make lactose intolerance seem, well, downright petty.

I'm waiting for the next one though. We're just not quite there yet. I'm waiting for that breakthrough, that moment, that label on the bag, box, or carton, that identifies a product as containing the ingredient that makes men and women gain, and unable to lose, weight after the age of forty. It just simply has got to be an allergy. I'm certain it's not a habit. It's not a life choice. It's an allergy.

The Loneliness

I saw a patient the other evening for hip pain. She's in her 50's. She has breast cancer. She's been getting chemo. That scenario in itself is getting to be so common, it seems. Maybe it's just a function of my age. Maybe it's a reflection of my community. I don't know but it just seems to be all too common.

I saw her in one of our hospitals. She was down the hall, her room was dark, and she was lying in bed, hairless, half exposed, roasting with a fever, miserable with leg pain. Alone.

I saw that and I had to think, of all the miserable conditions in life, that had to be one of the worst. Alone, scared, and miserable. Needing relief when none is available. I mean, I see this stuff from time to time but I can't get over that impression. And it's not even that you can do a whole lot about it. Cancer is a part of life, part of being an animal. I'm a believer when it comes to prevention and to treatment, but a skeptic when it comes to eradication. I walk out of that room and I realize, I'm not afraid of cancer. I'm not afraid of dying. Given the choice, I'd certainly rather not endure pain and, fortunately, there are great options for treatment of pain. Frankly, like most people, I hope to just wake up dead some day.

Coming out of that room what I fear is loneliness. Sometimes I think it's loneliness that's our greatest epidemic. We treat it with distractions and we self medicate, but, at the end of the day, at the end of the hall, at the end of a life, it's loneliness that haunts us. Like many other ailments, loneliness is treatable. Like so many other ailments, too, it requires awareness, that you listen to your body and your mind. Treating loneliness requires you pay attention to who you are, what you're doing, and who's by your side. It requires you invest yourself. It's you more than others.

Successful treatment results in a life of comfort, calm, and inner peace, even when you're in a room by yourself-- and you don't have far to go.

Valentine

I was at a function the other night. It was a formal affair, kind of prom for grown-ups in a small town in Michigan. I'm happy to report I was able to dance (like an old white man) for hours and report no subsequent aches or pains. (I'm not too proud to admit, however, that ever since "When Harry Met Sally" I cannot dance without, at some point, having to catch myself doing the "white man's overbite.")

While there I saw at least a couple of guys my age. Guys I know. Single guys. Divorced. Grown kids.  Pretty well off. And they were there with dates. Also women I knew, also with grown kids and ex-spouses. They all appeared to be having a reasonably good time. Good for them. But they all had that look of, well, dating. Looking over at my "date," I realized I'm one lucky dog.

Looks matter to some degree, for sure. But it's really about companionship, confidence, trust, caring, friendship, and humor. It's about happy to end the day next to you and happier still to start the next one in that same spot. It's not about a moment, an event, a date. It's about a life: The up, down, right, left, sometimes sideways path of life. It's an incredible gift to spend that life, even a part of that life, with a partner who is as happy to see you as you are to see them, a partner who is happy to be with you no matter the circumstance, who indulges you and also keeps watch. Anyone willing to give such an amazing and complex gift is a Valentine worth treasuring for all time.

I asked several people in the OR the other day what they'll be getting their spouses for Valentine's Day. Most said they just have their kids give the mom or dad a card or flowers or candy. Their kids, not them. Cute, but kind of disappointing.

I hope you'll be getting your Valentine something today-- if you're lucky enough to have one. Maybe just one of those little candy hearts that says, "Be Mine." That, and a note that says, "Lucky me."

Will Wright's Ice Cream Parlor

It's Valentine's week and I've been thinking about dates: while the first real, "I'll pick you up and we'll drive to..." date was to the Pixie Kitchen at the Oregon coast, there was a sort-of date before that. It was the nervous, never kissed a girl, is it okay if we hold hands?, kind of date.

I was 15 and living in LA. Just about a mile away in Westwood Village was Will Wright's Ice Cream Parlor. It was a classic from that era-- actually, the tail end of that era--  where a couple, or a family, actually chose to stop off for an ice cream as a destination in itself. At any rate, I was totally taken with a girl named Marla Miller and somehow thought Will Wright's would be an appropriately suave destination for a couple of 9th graders on foot. How I swung the financing on that deal I can't be sure. I wasn't working and any money I found burning a hole in my pocket usually went into a cigarette machine at the UCLA bowling alley, a bag of really crappy pot, or pizza and french fries in the Coop. She must have mattered, though, as we walked the 10 minutes down to Will Wright's and had ice cream as scripted. Not to be repeated, it wasn't too long after that my family moved away.

I saw Marla at a 20 year reunion in LA way back in '95. She remembered me enough to say hi but there was certainly nothing fondly nostalgic or sentimental in that. Nonetheless, like so many other things, I am  fortunate and grateful to have grown up in a place and time when a young kid's first time out with a girl could still be on foot, to an ice cream parlor, and leave a happy memory-- even if only with a ghost from the past.

Pixie Kitchen

A friend of mine posted this photo on Facebook a couple of days ago. Funny story, this.

The Pixie Kitchen was kitschy but authentic. It opened in 1953, served seafood that I cannot remember, had an outdoor "Pixieland" for kids that I never saw functioning, and was one of those restaurants that everyone had to visit at least once but only to say you had done so. I do remember at least one trip as a kid with my parents. I remember this because somehow someone saw fit to let me buy a souvenir from the jam-packed gift shop. My memorable choice? A baby octopus in a jar of formaldehyde. You could probably go to jail if you were found with one of those in your possession these days.

The very first "real date" I went on was to the Oregon coast and included a stop at this restaurant. I borrowed the parent's car and we drove down to the beach on a typically rainy Sunday, I believe it was. It wasn't Valentine's Day but the girl did subsequently become my Valentine.

Besides the fact that girl remains a treasured friend of mine to this day, the thing I remember most is sitting down to lunch and suddenly thinking, "Crap! Do I have enough money for this?" I honestly don't remember if I did or not or whether we split the check. At any rate, we had enough of a good time to remain close to this day, thirty-some years later.

The Pixie Kitchen closed in 1985. The octopus is long gone. But that feeling, that realization that you might not be able to cover the check, that's the souvenir I'll keep forever from my visit to the Pixie Kitchen. That, and the girl who posted the photo.

Spellcheck

My friend Carol, the Short Jewish Gal, posted a funny piece about Spellcheck some time ago. Looking for the above illustration it led me back to her original entry. Check it out, it's funny. Then check this out, it's funny, too:

I had a bizarre vision of the future the other day. I was sitting down to write out a grocery list. That in itself is probably a task without much of a future. Nonetheless, as I sat there using a pencil to write out my list I started to pause on potatoes. Is it  potato or potatoe? potatos or potatoes? I'm actually a pretty good speller and find features like autocorrect to be more of a nuisance than a help. But it led me to this bizarre vision of the future:

In my vision I see a kid turning in a paper, a social studies paper or some such writing assignment. It's written long hand on lined paper. Upon getting the paper back the student is absolutely dumbfounded as to how the paper got marked down owing to spelling errors. After all, he had checked: Not one word was underlined in red after finishing and prior to his turning it in!

I also am left to wonder if we will see a gradual contracture of our language. The word contracture is a word my Mac doesn't like. But it is a real word and it's the word I want to use, so I'll just ignore the ominous underline in red. I'll continue to make an effort to find words that say what I mean even if they're uncommon and unrecognized by Word. Working to build your vocabulary is good for your brain as well as it keeps our language rich and colorful.

For now, I'll continue to write my grocery list long hand. After all, I may be among one of the last generations to commonly utilize paper based, hand-written communication.

Farewell, Movie Star

I was a young kid when my parents moved my brother and me to Los Angeles. We moved to Westwood and, being in the third grade and having just turned 9, I had expectations of seeing movie stars. After all, “The Beverly Hillbillies” was a Saturday night staple. When I discovered my classmate Mike’s father was a real live movie star, I was impressed in a manner fitting a young kid from Oregon. Even though he was not a big name, he had been in a couple big movies and, more importantly, he was a frequent guest on shows I liked to watch, like “Flipper.”

Within a couple years of meeting John Kerr he decided to go back to school. Several times every week I would pass him either coming or going on his walk up to UCLA Law School. The thing is, he was a friendly unassuming man who always said hello. He singlehandedly debunked the mystique of “movie stardom” because he demonstrated so completely that he was a really nice man, a human being, a regular guy. I was a kid and I’m sure a lot of people knew him better than I, but that was my lasting impression.

My friend Larry contacted me the other day with the news that John Kerr had passed on. From the obituary it sounds as if he had a long and enjoyable life. For me I will always be grateful to the man who was a “movie star,” kind to an awkward little kid from Oregon, and who demonstrated so clearly that the most important role in life is that of a being a friendly human being.

Snow Day

Out the kitchen window.

This has been a "mild winter." That means not too many days in the teens and single digits. Not too many snow storms. It means even fewer days when schools closed due to snow or severe arctic cold. Today, finally, we have a real snow day.

Out here a snow day starts the day before. The conversations are all about "thumbs up" or "thumbs down" to snowstorms. The supermarkets get real busy after work-- apparently there are still quite a few people who remember what it means to be snowbound for a few days: I've never seen that in all my years here, but, quite a few people must still remember because they're at the stores buying food, water, and all the other necessities for possibly being without access or power for days.

I'm among the "thumbs up." I love going to bed the night before, wondering if we'll wake up to a foot of snow-- or will it just be a dusting? The real thrill, though, is for the kids who tuck in, hoping their Friday will be spent at home, watching movies or playing outside in the snow.

The forecast was for a Duesey. We got a Chevy. Nonetheless, a fresh fallen 4 inches of snow was enough to call the whole thing off. Work goes on as scheduled but, like Christmas and Fourth of July, this is a day for the kids. It's a snow day!

Stamping Out Debt

The current U.S. Postmaster General, Patrick R. Donahoe announced he plans to eliminate Saturday delivery of the mail in order to save about 2 billion dollars a year. This, in a service that lost 16 billion the year before.

I personally don't use the mail much anymore. A few bills still go out by mail. And, as I've said before, if you really want to write a letter to someone, nothing holds your love or caring as well as an envelope. Holding a personal letter in your hand and sitting down to read is a special private luxury that I hope can always be available in some manner.

In all of this the fascinating part is the push back, especially from some members of congress. Congressional members who can't raise their voices loudly enough in the call to cut waste and reduce expenses seem to be pretty quick to decry the loss of Saturday mail. Personally, I'm thinking it must have something to do with distributing newsletters and campaign material that never get read more so than any detrimental impact on the U.S. economy. I have to say, I am somewhat shocked the response from the elected members of congress hasn't been to say it's not enough.  With stiff competition for the package business from private carriers, a severely contracted volume of personal mail, and a swelling volume of junk, I would think the case could be made for Monday, Wednesday, Friday delivery as a starting point to get control of costs.

With Valentine's Day just a week away, maybe we should take this opportunity to use the services of the good ol' U.S. Postal Service one more time. Buy a card, write a note, send a letter to someone you love. Who knows how many more times you'll have the opportunity to write, S.W.A.K. on the back of an envelope.

On Compassion

We have entered an era of evidence based medicine. So much so you can Google the phrase. So much so you get paid for doing it. So much so, soon a doc will be financially penalized for not doing it.

It's odd how we seem to have drifted into a model from industry that acknowledges and rewards production, objective results, measurable outcomes. And it's not just in medicine. It's really invaded the schools and is suddenly being used to justify school closings, charter school proliferation, and the purging of "ineffective" teachers. Not that there isn't some merit in all of this. Education and medicine have too long suffered from do littles and do nothings. (I wonder if priests and rabbis will be next? What will be the yardstick? Lives saved? Durable marriages? Congregational growth?)

In all of this the risk is the loss of compassion. Compassion takes time in a medical practice-- often unreimbursed unless you consider "patient satisfaction" as one of the tenets of pay for performance. But, then, compassion is often needed in circumstances when a patient won't be able to subsequently answer a phone call or fill out a survey. Likewise, compassion doesn't likely show up on state standardized tests that purport to assess both student knowledge and teacher competence. Compassion is not objective. The outcome of compassion is often very real but seldom measurable. Compassion may be the difference between dying at peace and dying in fear. Compassion may be the difference between trying to stay in school and dropping out entirely. But, perhaps unfortunately, compassion is usually doled out on a case by case basis and the outcome may not be measurable owing to the small "sample size."

In my work I don't save lives, fight cancer, or replace defective hearts. Even so, I try to always spend as much time with a patient as they need in order for them to leave with an understanding, with their questions answered, with an awareness of what's next, comfortable with the decisions being made, the choices offered. But I don't get paid for that. At least not enough to compensate for the volume I lose. Even so, I don't care. I think it's important and I sleep well at night.

In the not so distant future will compassion be quantified, objectified, measurable? Will it still be someone sitting and listening and touching and talking? When I read about all the change coming in healthcare and education I have to wonder-- will we still find genuine heartfelt compassion in the years ahead? I hope I'm wrong but I'm starting to think we'll be lucky if we do.

Vacation Lag

Vacation is another three!

Okay, so it's day two back from a trip to sunny Florida. We thought we were being so smart staying in our own time zone for a change. Arizona and California are great escapes but, one a three day, the time change tends to hit a person pretty hard for a few days. Shorter flight, no time change, how great is that? Sunshine State, here we come!

So here I am on day two post getaway, still draggin' tail. Yesterday, first day back, was good until about 2PM. By the time I was home at 2:30 I was heading for the couch. And the alarm going off this morning sure seemed for all the world to be going off on Pacific Standard Time.

I'm pretty sure I'm just suffering the ill-effects of vacation. I warn people about this. Vacations don't rest and reinvigorate real working people. Not at all. They simply tease a person with a taste of what is not. Getting up every day and heading out to the beach/pool/slopes is just a rotten little distraction, a trick. Within days you're back home again. At work. Looking at the same faces. Playing catch-up for everything you pretended didn't exist for the last few days or weeks.

Tam always gives me heck about not taking time off in blocks of one or two weeks at a time. And to that I say, why? It's just more work when I get back. Now that I'm beginning to think the change in time zone doesn't really matter either, perhaps for my next vacation I'll just check into the nearest Motel 6, draw the heavy curtains, and stay in bed for a couple days. Better yet, maybe I'll just stay in my own cozy bed for a couple of days and shut the bedroom door.

Old Grudges

My innocent  little traitor 

I remember moving to L.A. as a kid and thinking  about the immediate access I'd have to Disneyland. I'd been to Disneyland as a visitor from Oregon a time or two before that but, when I moved there, it became just one more stripe on my sleeve of pride. I also remember when Walt's brother Roy had the bright idea to finalize the plans and open Disney World in '71. In Florida. A bigger Disneyland in Florida??? Blaspheme!!

I must have more of a competitive streak than I know because I've always been a "better than" kid. Oregon is better than Washington. Portland is better than Seattle. LA is better than San Francisco. California is better than Florida. Disneyland is better than Disney World.  Weird but at least as an adult I can admit to this defect of character.

Fast forward 40 years. So here we are in the depths of winter looking for a getaway. Wouldn't you know it, Disney offers a ridiculously well priced all inclusive for 3 nights and 3 days of fun in……..in Florida! Hey. It's winter. We're frozen. It's cheap.

We spent only part of one day in The Magic Kingdom, the Disney World equivalent of the original Disneyland. That visit really leaves me with just two things to say: First, as much as I initially felt like a traitor walking down Mainstreet USA in Florida, I quickly realized I could care less. Disney is for kids (and those adults who still like to see themselves wearing mouse ears and Disney Character clothing). Secondly, when it's 21 degrees in Michigan, it's nice to be anywhere in these United States where it's sunny and 71 degrees.

All things being equal, though, I'll still take California. It's just better than Florida.

Here Comes Trouble

I've never been a fan of scary movies. I especially hated those scenes where you knew something was about to go terribly wrong like, "Wait here. I'll go ahead." The suspense was just not my cup of tea. And I've never been one for the blood and guts. Chain saws belong in the woods, buzzing into tree trunks. This weekend though, it seems I'm living the drama.

I got up Friday morning and gave Evan a shower. As I got out I thought, "Gee. That's weird. A twinge in my neck." An hour later I had a full blown left-sided stiff neck. It made watching Cirque do Soleil really fun. Looking up at the trapeze act. Turning around to watch the clowns and performers walk in. Always a great show but different when it's miserable to look up, left, or right. Then, at 2 AM I wake up with heartburn. Da-dun, da-dun….

I know this script. These are the plot points that lead up to the scene where I get sick. The stiff neck is the scene where the viral aliens land and begin plotting their work. The heartburn is the usually the scene where the first viral zombies arrive, establish camp, and prepare to launch their attack within 24 hours.

The movie doesn't have to end with my getting slaughtered with a pre-spring cold, but it usually does. I think audiences find it just too unbelievable if I strike back at this point and send the enemy into a sound retreat, wooden stakes driven through their tiny viral chest walls. No, the audience expects screams and terror.

I'm going to try my best to turn this one into a comedy well before any body parts get hacked and bloodied. Regardless of how it goes, take my advice:  Change the channel.