Litany Against Fear

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

Dune

If I was to risk my life to see a movie, this is possibly the only movie that I would cross that line for:

DUNE – FINAL TRAILER – Oct 7, 2021

Check out the ‘thopters, man. Finally someone gives me real ‘thopters. That alone will get me to go watch the movie, even in a time of plague.

Dune – Official Main Trailer – Jul 22, 2021

I just hope the movie has a story. A story that feels something like the story in the book. I’m not looking for the book as a movie, I’m looking to feel the same way about the story in the movie as I do about the story in the book. Fingers crossed.

Someone Else Will Do It

The doorbell rings. Again. I know who it is. There is a group home across the street. One of the new guests at the home is a tiny little woman with some kind of learning disability. Before I knew she had a learning disability I had threatened her off my property with a blunt object after she rang the doorbell seven different times in one day. Now that I know she can’t help herself, I have resigned myself to the hell of living next to a profit-making group home that doesn’t understand its obligations to it’s paying guests.

I try ignoring the doorbell, even though it grates on my nerves. The Wife says “come smell the bread. It’ll make you happy.” She’s baking bread again. It’s a good sign. We’ve just gotten back from a walk in Bartholomew park, a walk where I spent quality time and energy moving shopping carts up out of the park and onto the road shoulder where the local HEB would be able see it’s errant carts and come get them. I wasn’t able to do more than move them up to the street because I can’t leave the Wife unsupervised for long in her current drugged post-surgery state. She was looking for me as it was and was almost in tears when I got back to her.

That is me not leaving to others what I can do myself. Internalizing the work that needs doing and getting it done because someone needs to do it. This is me taking the overworked staff of the nearby HEB into account, people whose jobs I once did as well, and doing my part to help them out. One of the kids biking through the park was mystified by my behavior. “Are you working?” he asked me.

“No,” I said. “I’m doing what somebody else should have done a month ago.” The grass had grown up around some of these carts. I knew they had been there for weeks at least. Like most people these days, this child had no idea of the meaning of civic service, of maintaining public spaces for the benefit of all. Most people understand that externalized costs; in this case, leaving the carts for someone else to pick up and move, will profit them with more time and energy. They don’t understand that the costs come out of everyone’s enjoyment in using the public space, out of our pockets in increased prices at the stores that have to replace the lost carts.

There were more carts in the park than I could move, and the Wife cajoled me back into the car rather than let me wear myself out doing the work that other’s wouldn’t do. Got me back in the car to drive back home, only for us to be confronted with even more work being left undone. Work that others were actually being paid to do. Paid to do, and shirking in their paid duties. The doorbell rings twice more.

Knowing my state of mind and fearing a further tirade on my part, the Wife mercifully answered the door for me and shoed the poor woman off with encouragement to do whatever it was she felt she needed to tell us about before doing. She’s bothered neighbors up and down the street now by ringing their doorbells. She’s pestered the school across the street to near distraction with her insistence she needed to go visit the children in the school.

However, she isn’t the problem. The group home is the problem. There has been another guest over here recently, someone has been stealing water out of our front hose bib. I’ve caught him in the act more than once. It’s not that I mind the occasional bottle filling, what I do mind is these intruders leaving the valve open and letting water run out all over the yard for days, costing me hundreds of dollars in wasted water because I don’t know someone else left the tap on.

The more recent visitor has complained that the water isn’t available to the residents of the group home. I don’t know how true that is, but it would explain the visits to fill bottles before setting out on a daily meander. A daily meander that probably shouldn’t be carried on unsupervised if the individual in question is just going to wander onto private property and take things.

The management of the group home is being paid by the caretakers (family or state, whoever they are) of the residents to keep staff in residence to assist these people with their daily needs. They are being paid and then they let their charges roam freely about the neighborhood. Let them annoy neighbors with their demands which remain unsatisfied by the people who are being paid to take care of them. Externalize costs, internalize profits.

What do they care? They’re making money. So what if the lives of the neighbors are impacted by their dereliction of duty?

The original owner of the house, a man I knew, had his own problems that impacted the neighborhood. He ran an automotive shop out of his garage, and this aggravated a lot of neighbors. The difference here is, if one of us wanted to talk to him, we knew where he lived and could take up our complaints with him or have the city intercede on our behalf.

After he lost/sold the house it has passed through several hands, none of them good hands. We’ve joked over the years about the quality of the neighbors gradually becoming more hellish. First it was a migrant workers home, packed full of dozens of people. Then it was a gang den, a drug dealer’s delivery center, and now it is the cannibal’s house. They should be exhuming body parts out of the backyard any day now unless the final form of derelict property owner, a flame-enshrouded pitchfork wielder, turns the property into a gateway to Hell itself and swallows it and the neighborhood whole. How I miss the days when it was just broken down cars sitting in the driveway across the street.

Now there is the weekly visit from police/EMS/HHS, lights flashing, sirens blaring at all hours of the day and night. All because the management of the group home, Grace & Mercy Supervised Living, doesn’t have a presence in the neighborhood that can be held to account for their dereliction. The owners of the venture fled with the the proceeds, the company now in arrears. Just another Trump, just another Kushner, just another slumlord profiting off the misery of others, leaving the real work for other people to do.

No wonder that child in the park couldn’t understand what I was doing. None of the people who are held up as behavioral examples for him to model would ever stoop to doing real work in public, especially if they weren’t being paid to do it.

Ear Fullness

Ear fullness is a common complaint among Meniere’s sufferers. It is one of the key indicators of Meniere’s along with a specific kind of hearing loss and vertigo attacks. What it feels like is hard to describe.

If you have ever flown in a plane or gone up in a tall building, climbed a mountain or gone down to the seashore from a high elevation, you have likely had a feeling of pressure inside your head. A pressure that is directly behind the ear canal. Frequent travelers know the feeling and what to do about it. Pulling on an earlobe, working the temporomandibular joint (TMJ) by shifting the jaw back and forth until the ear pops, chewing gum, etc. There are many ways to get the canals behind your ear, the eustachian tubes, to clear so that the pressure in the inner ear becomes equal to the pressure on the outside of your ear and the discomfort goes away.

Ear fullness is like that, but not like that. Imagine that kind of discomfort elevated to a level of pain that is very hard to ignore, and then imagine that you can’t get the pain that feels like it is right behind your eardrum to go away no matter how hard you chew gum, work your jaw, etc. This pain goes on for days, sometimes for weeks.

You can’t get the pain to go away, the pressure to equalize, because the pain doesn’t come from a pressure imbalance behind the eardrum. It comes from the fluid-filled chambers of the inner ear itself, the cochlea, and the fluid imbalance that produces all the other symptoms of Meniere’s disease.

The first time the ear fullness presented itself, I sat in the shower for an hour or more trying to make what I thought was a plugged eustachian tube clear itself. Instead I induced a multi-day vertigo spell by rupturing one of the vessels in the cochlea of my left ear. As you can probably imagine, I don’t recommend that form of treatment.

The next time ear fullness presented itself a few years later, I had to resist the temptation to gouge the ear out with a sharp implement. I understandably didn’t want to look like Vincent Van Gogh, who might very well have suffered from a similar affliction. I had access to a sauna at the time and I spent far too many hours sitting in it just hoping that the pain would ease off. Ease off just a little.

The pressure never did ease off. The sauna did do wonders for clearing my sinuses, though.

There is no known way to reduce this pressure in the ear. It is possible that early treatment with intratympanic injections of steroids can reduce the pressure and prevent hearing loss in a newly affected ear, but it is not a universally successful treatment, and it carries potential hazards that make it an undesirable treatment for routine incidents of pain. Hazards like permanent deafness and severe instances of vertigo.

Because I thought that what I was suffering from was allergies, I experimented with various allergy drugs trying to find the right balance of treatment that would produce the best effect with the least side effects. What I settled on was Pseudoephedrine and Guaifenesin which I took pretty routinely every six hours for months at a time. I took those two drugs for about twenty years or so every Spring and every Fall.

With a nod to the concerns of my cardiologist I have forgone continuing the use of Pseudoephedrine unless I simply can’t breath through my sinuses at night. However, I still take Guaifenesin when the ear fullness rears it’s ugly head. I don’t know if the soothing of the pain is placebo, or if the Guaifenesin is somehow helping the fluid in my ear to balance out. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I feel better after taking it and that is good enough for me in the end.

Brainworm

The last song you heard stays in your head just like the taste of the last cigarette you smoked. When it won’t go away, we call that a brainworm. The stale riff stays in your head till you replace it with a new riff. That one gets stale if you don’t listen to another song. Music is a habit forming drug.

One man’s brain worm is another man’s favorite song. The difference lies in the answer to the question “do I want to hear that song again?” If the answer is no, then what you’ve got is a brainworm.

spotifyNPR: Shortwave – Why music sticks in our brains – October 7, 2021

They call it an earworm in one of the ads for the episode. They don’t, however, tell you about how earworms persist or how to get rid of them. Any song that doesn’t stick in your head can serve as a brainworm killer. The Wife uses Mandy by Barry Manilow. I hate Barry Manilow, but I have developed a grudging respect for the song. Especially if you sing it with over-dramatic zeal:

…make it broader, with tons of shoulder. Remember, you’re a drag queen!

Victor/Victoria
Victor Victoria (1982)

Is Mandy a man or a woman? Does it matter? No it doesn’t. What matters is that you consciously force your mind to mingle the worm with the new lyrics and melody, in much the same way that you get rid of the hiccups by breathing and drinking water in a deliberate pattern, training the ticking muscles to adapt to the new pattern. You will it gone with a heavy bludgeon of Barry if that is what works.

spotify

Libertarian Vaccination Lunacy

I was rooting through my email today looking for spam. I don’t mean the ads for prescription drugs that you can’t buy legally; no I mean the daily if not hourly emailers that you have unwittingly asked to send you messages, and then they drown you in more information than you could possibly synthesize.

I found quite a few of those. Then, at the bottom of the barrel, I see a note from the Travis County Libertarians letting me know that they’ve moved their newsletter from the old Yahoo!Groups site to the new Google Groups site. Well bless their little hearts!

Being bored, in the middle of a task that I had put off for months if not years, I decided to see what was on the latest issue of the newsletter. Ah, the usual. Chat and chews are scheduled. I’ll be skipping those. I’d skip them anyway but I’ll definitely be skipping being face to face with the unvaccinated. The kind of people who think this ad represents any kind of deep thinking:

twitter.com

We can’t force people to get vaccinated? Tell that to the TB-tine scar on my arm. Not only can we force people to get vaccinated, we have before and we should be doing it again. That is how you get to herd immunity successfully, for fuck’s sake. That’s how we wiped out small pox and polio. We could have wiped out the measles, but antivaxxers like the ones that the Libertarian Party is appealing to in that ad have set us all back decades on that goal.

I mean, if they want to thumb their noses at Biden’s policies, Abbott has them beat:

Gov. Greg Abbott on Monday issued an executive order prohibiting any entity in Texas from mandating COVID-19 vaccinations for employees or consumers, an expansion of a prior order limited to government entities.

Abbott also asked lawmakers to tackle the issue during the current special legislative session, ensuring that “no entity in Texas can compel receipt of a COVID-19 vaccine.”

statesman.com

Why does Abbott have them beat? Because he has the office of the Governor, that’s why. Something they will never have because they will never be serious about winning races instead of grandstanding during the race. The libertarians that were serious about winning races became the Tea Party back in 2008, and they have made the Republican party the lunatic fringe that we all know and love today. They are all Trumpists, almost to a man now. The kind of people who will have to be lead to the end of the pandemic at the point of a gun, apparently.

Greg Abbott doesn’t have the power to stop Biden’s orders. Only the Republican delinquents in the Senate stand between effective governance and the anarchy that libertarians crave, and they hope like hell that the citizenry is dumb enough to keep voting Republican so that the government will finally crumble. Here’s hoping they are denied their wish, or if not, that they turn out happier with the results than the anarchists were who backed Stalin’s bid for power in Russia. They didn’t seem too pleased with being sent to the gulag for all their troubles.

Dinked

He’s right on my ass. I can’t even see his front plate. I think, “I need to get out of his way.” So I turn right and there is an appalling scraping sound from the passenger side of the car. The Wife cringes visibly.

I pull over and step out to survey the damage. Yep. It’s a dink alright. First dink on this car. Now I’m pissed. Why is it always parking lots that I can’t find my way around in? The Wife says “you need to learn to stop letting other people pressure you into doing things” and promptly motions for me to move back out into traffic. The Wife can be an iron sometimes.

This takes me all the way back. Back to the driver’s education instructor who forced me to drive at highway speeds by putting his foot on the accelerator and pressing it until we were weaving all over the road at 60 miles an hour. All he had to say was “keep it between the lines.” That was my first moment of sheer driving terror.

Then there was my first auto accident. I had my learner’s permit. I drove Mom up to Village foods and parked badly next to a nice tan Oldsmobile. Mom said “I’ll leave you here but don’t move the car without me. I’ll be right back.”

No sooner had Mom gone into the store than the woman who owned the Olds came out and surveyed my parking job. “You have to move so I can leave” she tells me.

I repeat what Mom said “I can’t move till my Mom comes back.” When she insists I have to move or she can’t leave I further explain “I only have a learner’s permit. I can’t drive without an adult in the car.” She becomes outraged at that point. Red in the face, hollerin’ and screamin’ like I had insulted her cat or something.

“You will move that car right now young man!”

So I put the car in gear, turned the wheel and promptly gouged a crease in her Olds that probably looked a lot like the one that sank the Titanic. Then she started crying and ran into the store to call the police. Mom came out at about that point and gaped at me.

“I told you not to move! I said I would be right back, and here I am! Why did you move?” and she started crying. Then I started crying. I never could stand to watch her cry.

That was the first and last time I drove on my parent’s insurance. From that point forward I paid the usurious insurance fees that the Texas State legislature allows auto insurers to charged young men under the age of 25, and I paid that rate until I turned 25.

As I’m sitting here thinking about what insurance has cost me over the subsequent forty years, I start thinking about the dollar figure attached to my driving record in the form of the number of incidents that I’ve had over the same number of years. Doing some comparative arithmetic, I’m not sure if it is the insurance companies or the accidents that are winning.

I mean, there was that first one with the Oldsmobile. The next one was in the 1970 Challenger that Dad bought for me in 1979. Me and a guy played footsie at a green light, me going straight and him turning left, neither of us sure who was going to go until we smacked into each other. My brother did a somersault in the backseat. The Challenger never had seat belts. If it did have seat belts when it came off the assembly line, the previous owner took them out when he put in the purple and white shag carpeting on the floor.

She was a beauty that Challenger. Slant six. Metallic purple paint with a white fake leather roof. White leather interior. That scoop-shaped front end that looks like it has severed heads written all over its future. She didn’t look too good after I rolled her a few months later, though. I should have got those brakes fixed before taking her on those Kansas dirt roads. Turn here, oops, into the ditch and onto her roof. I think she ended life as parts for other cars. I just know Dad was as pissed as I had ever seen him, and I had to buy the next car myself. From him.

She was also a beauty. Burnt orange 1972 Chevelle. Black leather interior. She was hot. I mean, really hot in those 110° Texas summer. You rolled the windows down before you got in the car. Someone sideswiped her and ran off a few days after I bought her. A few scratches was all that incident left. Never even told the insurance company about that one.

Then there was that time a girl smoked her tires off in reverse and smashed the back of her Mom’s station wagon into the front of that Chevelle. The front bumper on the Chevelle was pointed, and it rode up into the back of her car like the prow of a ship slicing through water. I was never able to put a front plate on that car again because of that accident. The plate holder was the only thing damaged on my car. The station wagon’s back gate was trashed. Nothing a few thousand dollar wouldn’t fix.

The girl cried and cried when we pulled over. I told her not to worry. “Just go home and explain it to your Mom. It’ll be okay.” I was probably lying. She thanked me for not calling the cops. It was the first time someone begged me not to call the cops, but it wasn’t the last.

The Chevelle ended her time on the road on Halloween night, 1981. I should have snuck into the theater with my cruising buddies that night but I hate horror films and so refused to go with them. Instead I went out and skirted past an orange light about two blocks away from the theater. On the other side of the light was a guy tooling around with six people in his pickup truck, and he had just gotten plastered with water balloons, a time-honored Halloween tradition. He decided right then, as I was coming at him through the light, that he would pull a U-turn and chase the offenders back across town. He never made it.

I tried to swerve, but I was going to fast. He never saw me. Luckily there was only one injury, not counting the knees that I punched through my dashboard and never reported. Should have reported. Some girl in the passenger seat of the truck hit her head on the glovebox handle and got a concussion. They blamed the wreck on me and not the guy making an illegal U-turn because he claimed he was only going to pull into the parking loot across the street. The parking lot didn’t happen to have an opening where he was turning though. The judge ignored that fact when he made his decision.

The Chevelle was totaled and sat on the driveway of our rental house until the day we moved out. I bought a junker off of someone in the neighborhood, I think it was one of the regulars at Mom’s bar. I really can’t remember. 1970 Pontiac Executive. A four-door behemoth we called the Tank. It just needed to be painted green instead of gold and have stars painted on the side and it would have looked just like a tank.

It came to us pre-dinked, and it’s the only car up to that point that I owned that I didn’t wreck. Instead I beat the dents it already had back out with a hammer and I salvaged parts out of the junk yard next door to make the headlights point the right direction. I drove it for years before I handed it off to my sisters.

I bought a 1974 Vega next, the last car I bought from my father. It was not hot, but it was fun to drive. Fun to drive until the engine crapped out. I was on a roll. Two cars, no wrecks! Then I bought the Pinto. 1974 lime green Pinto. I got stoned one night and spray-painted it camouflage. When I mentioned this fact to strangers they’d always remember seeing that car. I guess the camouflage didn’t work. I stripped out all the interior except for the seats and then drove it that way for years. I was rear-ended twice in that Pinto. It never exploded, thank the lucky stars. It died because the U-joint in the drive train was compressed by the last rear-ender, and that caused the joint to fail.

I had met the Wife by that point. We sold that Pinto for fifty bucks to a salvage yard, and we promptly went out and ate fifty dollars worth of Chinese food. The best Pinto we ever ate.

It was at about that time that I bought my first new car. 1987 Cavalier. Gold, just like the Executive. I didn’t hold that against it. I financed that car for 5k and considered it a steal at that, even though it didn’t have air conditioning. That car ate a tree stump on the driver’s side front fender. I backed into a bollard in a convenience store parking lot once or twice. Who’s counting? I hauled the sailboat around with that poor little four-cylindered car for years. Luckily it was a pretty dinky sailboat. Fast in the water, though.

We were rear-ended by a truck when we first moved to Austin. That guy also begged us not to go to the police, and then he crawfished on paying us. We ran across his truck in a parking lot a few months later and we took pictures of the paint from our car that was all over his bumper. When we confronted him with the photos, he paid us the money right on the spot. That’s about the only time justice has been done in my presence, automotive-wise.

We got our first Saturn wagon not too long after that. Another gold car. We needed air conditioning in Austin. The first time we were caught in traffic with a baby in the backseat squalling in 100° temperatures, we knew we needed air conditioning. My father-in-law paid cash for the car. I’d never seen that before. That car didn’t live very long, either.

There was a couple from Denver who were touring the sites off of route 29 in the Hill Country. They were stopped at a stop sign. The husband, who had his hands on the wheel, wanted to turn left. So he started to turn left. His wife, side-seat driving, insisted he go right. So they stopped in front of oncoming traffic to argue about which direction they should go. They never got to finish that argument.

It is a handy rule of thumb to remember that the car goes where the person with the wheel in their hand steers it. It doesn’t go where the passenger wants it to go, and it doesn’t go where those in the peanut gallery behind the driver want it to go. It goes where the driver tells it to go. Maybe agree on a route before you start driving? There’s a thought.

When he stopped in front of me, I couldn’t believe it. There was an eighteen wheeler beside me on the inside lane and cars behind me. There was no way any of us were going to miss that guy’s car. I remember his eyes as he saw us coming. Whites all around. I couldn’t miss him, but I could try not to kill him, so I swerved towards the back of his car and impacted on the rear axle and not center-punch his door at sixty-five miles an hour. Small mercies.

He spun around from the force of the impact on the rear of his car, and the other vehicles managed to avoid him. We hit the center median of the side road he left, and then flew over the lanes he should have been in if he wanted to argue safely, impacting and bouncing over the three foot embankment on the far side of the crossroad. That’s where we left the front bumper of our car. Planted on that dirt embankment. At some point between the first impact and the last, the Wife asks in a plaintive voice “can we please stop hitting things?” I was too busy to answer.

When we were finally able to move, after the powdery fog from the expanded air bags had finally started to settle, we both managed to get out of the car to survey the wreckage. Much more than a dink, this accident. The two plastic front fenders were sticking out a ridiculous distance past what was now the front of the car. Our poor new Saturn wouldn’t be going anywhere aside from the wrecking yard after that.

The Wife got out her laptop that she had carefully packaged against just such an eventuality as the one we had just gone through, and started taking down insurance information from the people whose lives we had just spared. She turned to me after a few minutes and asked me “should I be able to feel my fingers right now?” We put her in the ambulance a few minutes later.

The one time you will ever be happy to see a cop will be the time he shows up to pick up the pieces of a wreck like this one. I could have hugged the guy when I saw him. He drove me to the regional hospital where they had taken the Wife, and we hitched a ride back to town with friends from our fan group who lived out that way.

That was the worst wreck I’d been in up to that point, and it was pretty much the last one, too. I gave up driving as the bad idea I had always thought it was, and I let the Mario Andretti wannabe that I married drive instead. She’s better at it anyway. She’s only wrecked one car, and that one was entirely not her fault. It’s also another story. She can tell it if she likes some other time.

I gave up driving until this summer. Nearly twenty years accident-free, and now I’m back to driving. I’m back to driving because the doctor’s won’t let you drive if you’ve recently had open-heart surgery. The Andretti-ette has been dragged from the car against her will because her chest might collapse in the event of an accident. I think she’d be safer if she was driving. Now I’ve got to go find some rubbing compound and some touch-up paint and see if I can make the new dink in our car appear to go away.

I hate driving. It’s taken me years to realize this fact. I’ve always hated driving. I love cars but I hate driving. The cars have always been worth ten times what I would be comfortable risking on any given day, and risk is what every single outing in a car is all about. Every single long-distance trip in a car was a test of nerve, a right of passage, a moment of transition. Before each trip, I would lovingly bath the car inside and out and anoint it with oils so that the gods of the roadway would bless the venture out into unknown danger. Nearly every long distance trip has gone by without a hitch. Every one except that one with our first Saturn.

It’s the little stuff that gets you. Parking lots. Entering and exiting your own driveway. You know them too well, you aren’t on your guard; and whack, another dink to polish out. It’s the way the car crumples, I guess.

Pain God

Someone that I was chatting with used the phrase pain god to describe the supreme deity that dealt out his pain to him. I was not sure whether to laugh or cry at the phrase pain god. That god? That God you can prove exists, unlike all the other gods people talk about and believe in.

There was this time I was arrested:

I was out late, it was a busy night, the inspection sticker was a year out of date and the cop thought I was giving him sass when he flagged me down. It was two Austin bicycle cops in their ridiculous spandex outfits talking to two or three other cops that they’d just quelled a riot with, just standing on the side of the road. It’s dark, it’s just after midnight on a Friday in downtown Austin.

The Austin Film Festival is going on all over the city. These police were hyped up on adrenaline because of the riot they just broke up and the massive traffic snarls from the city-wide event. One cop spots the out of date sticker as he is scanning vehicles, joking about breaking heads with his buddies. He pulls out his flashlight, walks over to were I’m sitting in traffic and proceeds to harass me about the sticker.

It’s a rural Texas tradition to ignore your state inspection sticker. Who cares? Only the state cares, and rural Texas sneers at Austin and state government in general. Texas government has to enforce the safety laws they enact, and they did this by creating an inspection sticker that you had to jump through separate hoops to get in addition to the hoops you jump through to get your state tags.

When you are driving around on your own ranch or in the small towns that dot the wide expanse of Texas, you never see state actors that can give you crap about the sticker on your windshield. You just see local cops that you probably know by name, and they give you a warning and you go get your stupid sticker that doesn’t take into account the quality of the roads (or lack of roads) that you drive on in your daily life.

Then you move to the big city and suddenly being a scofflaw like everyone else out in the countryside is a problem that could cost you your life. The harassing police officer and three of his buddies pulled me out of the car and proceeded to sit on my back while they cuffed my hands. Then they arrested me and hauled me off to the drunk tank to spend some quality time negotiating with my Pain God.

Piriformis Syndrome causes me to be in constant pain while sitting; and being yanked out of my car and sat on aggravated that little problem. Have you ever seen a drunk tank at a city or county lockup? The one in Austin has concrete floors and baby-blue colored foam benches facing a TV covered in mesh that obscures the screen. The volume is so low on the TV that it is an annoying almost-audible whisper, not unlike the whispering among your fellow prisoners in the drunk tank.

You have to sit there until they process you and you can be released. Sometimes the sitting lasts for days. Sitting, not standing, not moving around at all. Without moving except to go in to the provided toilet room, also painted baby blue like the other walls in the tank. A baby blue that was probably calming some twenty or so years ago when the walls were painted, long before the accumulated puke and other bodily fluids mottled the color into something approaching a childhood nightmare. The toilet was a room that you’d rather not go into in the first place.

So I sat there. I sat unmoving in that one place for about 14 hours, in excruciating pain the entire time I was there. No one in authority was even the slightest bit interested in my pain or helping me with it. In extremis, I decided to take a crash course on meditating. I would meditate on the qualia of my pain all through those long hours of torture.

Staring at the floor through my tented fingers, elbows braced on knees, I contemplated the pain. I didn’t drink anything, didn’t use the restroom. I couldn’t have used the restroom even if I had needed to go desperately. It would have taken a catheter to get any body fluids out of me, I was that paranoid of being ambushed. Of being watched. I just sat and focused on the pain. I traced it up my leg to my lower back and then I became one with the agony. I inflicted my pain and endured my pain and I was my pain.

When The Wife figured out I had been arrested… As I mention in the linked article, I was where I was with a car in the state that one was in because I needed to pick her up and would never have been downtown in the first place without her need to be rescued. She was never rescued because the police decided she didn’t need rescuing. It was more important to punish the scofflaw for his out of date inspection sticker.

That one phone call thing? It’s complete bullshit in most of Texas. You can call if you’re calling a landline. If you’re calling a cellphone you have to give the private contractor that provides phone service to the jail a credit card number to charge for the call, and you better have that number memorized because you don’t have your wallet in jail to get access to the card itself. If you’ve done that homework ahead of time, you can call. If you haven’t done that homework you don’t get to make your one phone call.

So when The Wife finally got home and found I wasn’t there, when she figured out that my cellphone still working meant I probably wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere. When she remembered that there had been a riot downtown that night and wondered if I had been caught up in that, she came down to the jail and rescued me before I died of renal failure. That is, she came to rescue me after she had gotten a ride back downtown to get her car the next day, there being no way to get anywhere or do anything until morning the next day.

I think I was probably more glad to see her that morning than I had ever been before or since. So yeah. I’ve met the Pain God. I was him for a day. I would prefer not to be him again.

if you are not worthy of trust as police, as leaders, as the press, then you must be held to account by those whose confidence you have betrayed.

Stonekettle

Warning Signs of Vertigo?

Doc diagnosed me with cervical vertigo

I had to look up Cervical Vertigo. I didn’t find an article I liked until I went looking on the VeDA website. I like the tone of that article. In all my time of suffering, even with my long history of vehicular accidents, no one even mentioned that neck posture could be a cause of my symptoms.

I was surprised by this finding. More surprised than you might be reading this here. I tend to think I have everything that I read about. The Wife says this makes me a hypochondriac, I think this means that I’m an empathetic person. I’m going to stick with my assessment of the situation.

The questioner went on to ask about warning signs of oncoming vertigo. That is an interesting question, in and of itself. There aren’t always warning signs. Sometimes you turn your head the wrong way to fast. Sometimes you look out the side window of the car and the sympathetic parts of your brain wiring turn that motion into rotational vertigo. Sometimes watching a movie can set it off:

Sometimes there are warning signs. Visual migraines, or a change in perception of the light around me is one I’ve started noticing lately. A change in tinnitus pitch or intensity almost always signals something more severe is in the wings. I almost always take something when I notice this. Being proactive in treatment is how you avoid a full-blown attack. Historically I would notice a taste in the mouth. A metallic or saccharine flavor. If I noticed that I would also take something, generally something more dramatic than the Guaifenesin that I would take for changes in my tinnitus. Something like Xanax, which I try not to take too often. It is too habit forming to indulge in needlessly.

In the end, paying attention to what your body is telling you is the only way to be on top of your symptoms and preventing the worst of them. I wish all of you luck in your own treatment regimens.

reddit

Why Worry?

Baby, when I get down I turn to you
And you make sense of what I do
And though it isn’t hard to say

But baby, just when this world seems mean and cold
Our love comes shining red and gold
And all the rest is by the way

Why worry
There should be laughter after pain
There should be sunshine after rain
These things have always been the same
So why worry now
Why worry now

Dire Straits
spotify

One of my favorite songs from one of my favorite albums. It’s nice to be able to hear these songs again. This is all thanks to Aftershokz headphones. I have several pairs now. It’s been a musical desert for me until just recently. I was a serious audiophile once. Now nothing sounds right if it isn’t coming to me through these headphones.

Meniere’s Severity?

Someone over on Reddit/Meniere’s asked the question:

Does severity increase over time?

Since people are getting a diagnosis earlier these days, the symptoms will continue to manifest in greater severity until you reach whatever plateau your symptoms will top out at; unless you find a treatment that sends Meniere’s into remission. Makes it seem to disappear, like a cancer sometimes does.

Had I been diagnosed back in the 1980’s when my symptoms first appeared, I would have had a diagnosis for a disease that slowly got worse over the next twenty years until it turned me into a couch dweller that suffered vertigo near-constantly, for years. So, yes, the severity can increase over time. That doesn’t mean that it will increase.

As it is, I kick myself for not being honest with the doctors and demanding some kind of a diagnosis sooner. Had I started betahistine back in the eighties (the treatment that seems to work for me now) I might have been able to continue working far longer. The symptoms probably wouldn’t have been as severe. The plateau could have been much lower.

With remission, the symptoms disappear for years at a time. The people lucky enough to experience that bliss would tell you Meniere’s doesn’t get more severe. I would have liked to have had their experience, rather than mine. Newly diagnosed people may well have that experience. I hope that they do.