For those who do not know, Baton Rouge is the site of the Pennington Biomedical Research Center, which conducts research into the causes of and cures for obesity. It is no coincidence that it's located in Louisiana, which vies with Mississippi for the coveted prize of "most obese population." Our relationship with PBRC, as we fondly call it, began a few years ago when Mike participated in a study to determine whether capsacin (the "hot" in hot peppers) could increase metabolism. He made a cool $400 for popping capsacin capsules 3 times a day over 8 weeks or so -- and a career was born! My husband, the lab rat. The next year, he earned $4500, which paid for the new windows. In January, he completed the E-Mechanic study, which only paid a measly $550 for 6 months, but provided 6 months of PBRC Fitness Center use (more on that in a minute). While he was doing that, I joined the family business and took part in the Sweet 2 study last summer, a study into the efficacy of an experimental medication for reducing appetite. It paid $400, which bought the curio cabinet which now displays my collection of open salts (and a few more open salts to go in it). That study only involved 3 visits, which lasted 14 hours each, but required than an IV line be left in place for the entire time each day, so that blood could be drawn about 15 times throughout the day. The first day, the lab tech was unable to find a vein -- no surprise there; they never are. The nurse finally managed to thread it in my right wrist, but it came out after lunch. Luckily for me, the new nurse who had come on duty really knew her stuff and had it in on the first try. I did finish the study, but was advised not to volunteer for any others that require the IV line. Oh, darn.
I then waited rather impatiently for Mike to finish E-Mechanic. The study will not permit two members of the same household to be in the study at the same time. The purpose of the study is to determine whether exercise raises the metabolism over the long term. Participants are assigned to one of three groups -- "Healthy Living," which involves monthly seminars and weekly e-mail tips on --you got it -- "healthy living," but no exercise; Recommended Dose, which is 3-4 times/week for 30-40 minutes a time; High Dose which is a jaw-dropping 5 times a week for 60-75 minutes each. Screening takes 6 weeks and involves numerous visits to the Clinic for blood tests, urine tests (they are very big on urine tests; one test involves drinking double-labeled water in the morning, then collecting 3 or 4 samples throughout the day ), an EKG, DXA scans (to determine body composition), a general physical exam (which is where the basal cell carcinoma in my outer ear was discovered, but that is a subject for another post), a "maximal treadmill exercise test" (to determine 'exercise prescription') and a food intake test. I had to wear an "accelerometer" -- which, despite its name, is not a form of jet pack -- for one week at the beginning, then again for the last two weeks of screening and record my weight over those weeks, as well. All to determine two things -- was I too physically active for the study? I should think that just looking at me would answer that. And what are my baseline metabolic numbers? The food intake test is not nearly as much fun as it sounds. Breakfast that day is 2 Nature Valley Oat and Honey Granola Bars; lunch is "all you want" in 30 minutes of cold turkey sandwiches with a slice of limp lettuce and anemic tomato on white sandwich rolls, potato chips and "chocolate" chip cookies -- I know chemical "chocolate fllavor" when I taste it! ; dinner is "all you want" in 30 minutes of a selection of primarily junk food with relatively healthy alternatives -- nacho cheese, ranch dressing, Fritos, cubed swiss and cheddar cheese, chicken nuggets, mixed nuts, M&Ms, popcorn, baked potato chips, baked tortilla chips, salsa, cubed grilled chicken, carrots, pretzels, raisins, bar-b-que sauce, honey sauce, water and some unnaturally pink drink. I realized later that I should have pigged out on the bad stuff this time, and then eaten the "good" stuff the next time. Even trying to eat the better options left me feeling somewhat bloated and unsatisfied. And, of course, I could have polished off quite a bit more if they'd given me all afternoon.
So, anyway, I passed all of the tests -- meaning I'm in moderately bad shape -- and was "randomized" last Thursday. Now, the staff in the clinic are not allowed to know which group we're in -- it's a blind study -- so don't anyone tell them, and, Angela, if you're reading this, close your eyes! A member of the fitness center staff met with me behind closed doors and opened the envelope -- and I'm in the Recommended Dose group! But she didn't let me thank the Academy or any of the little people who made it all possible.
As soon as possible after randomization -- ideally the next day, but I had a work conflict -- we spend a full 24 hours in the metabolic chamber. It will give them the absolute best measurement of metabolic rate. So, I was up and out at 6:30 this morning -- no breakfast, no caffeine or alcohol for the previous 24 hours -- and closed in here at 7:45. I will be released tomorrow at 8:45 by the clock, thanks to daylight savings time. I was instructed to "rest" -- but not sleep! Never sleep! Not until lights out tonight at 22:30 -- on the bed for an hour, so that they could get a good "baseline" and then I would be fed. So, I finished "The Scarlett Pimpernel" and waited for breakfast.
I feel as if I'm in the brig on the Millennium Falcon. The room is about 10 x 12 and completely sealed. The door is airtight, but can be opened for inside by leaning on it and pushing, so I must remember not to lean on it and push. It does have 2 windows, one of which provides a scenic view of the Pennington Conference Center and the other of -- well, I'm not sure what it is. It's some kind of external alcove, divided lengthwise by a glass or plexiglass wall. Each section has a wooden stand that looks like a bench standing on end, with some kind of electronic monitor on it. I can only see the back, so I can't tell what they are monitoring. Temperature? Humidity? Radiation? Empire communications?
There is a sink and toilet in one corner, by the door, with a curtain that can be drawn for privacy -- did I mention that the room is monitored by closed-circuit? It is -- and all urine must be collected in the provided urine jug, then stored in the refrigerator; there's a note on the door "Make sure to empty your bladder before exiting the chamber" -- I told you they are big on urine here. Next to the bed is a wall-mounted shelf with the aforementioned mini-fridge below. Across from that, in the corner on the other side of the door, is a wall-mounted desk with telephone and laptop computer (which I have unplugged and am using on my lap, as God and Steve Jobs intended). The hatch through which I receive my meals (such as they are) is directly above the desk. It is not a nice, modern, cheery plexiglass affair, but instead in an anodized aluminum box with heavy metal latches. I wait for the sound of the latches being released from the other side, and bound across the bed, salivating as I listen for the clunk of the tray and then the latches being closed again. Finally I can open the hatch on my side!
And what delicacies awaited me at 9:00 this morning, after fasting since 7:00 last night? Why -- a Lenders bagel with cream cheese, half a cup of orange juice, one cup of milk, and half a cup of mixed canned tropical fruit! I felt like calling the nurses on the phone and saying, "I've eaten the snack you sent me. Now, where's breakfast?"
Lunch will be served at 13:30. They've given me a menu, but I don't want to spoil the anticipation and the surprise by reading it in advance.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Flying Transient Global Amnesia
We'd both been looking forward to this past weekend, because Mike had both Saturday and Sunday off. The plan was to spend Saturday morning working in the yard, then go antiquing on Government Street. I got up with the cats at 4:30 and let Mike sleep in until about 7:00 or so. He got up and made coffee, and went out for the paper. He reported that the temperature was quite low, and that we probably wouldn't be doing yard work. I agreed.
I shall draw a veil over the next hour or so; let's just say that we did the sort of thing that married people do on a Saturday morning when they have no demands on their time. I didn't think much about it when he said he felt "disoriented" and asked how things went (as it were). I thought he was asking for a little ego stroking.
I showered and dressed and went out to fix breakfast. He was on Facebook or something, and said he wanted something "eggy" for breakfast. Settled on poached eggs on toast. While I was cooking, the cats came tearing through the flap and dashed down the hall. I looked out to see our neighbor, Mike Hemphill, going out his back gate and walking behind our fence to our neighbor on the other side, Mike Poccarello -- and yes, they are all named Mike.
Mike came into the kitchen wearing a t-shirt and boxer shorts. I mentioned the cats' behavior, and he seemed surprised to hear that Mike H. was back, even though he had told me that the day before. He watched me with the eggs for a minute or two, then saw Mike H. head back home. Next thing I knew, he'd gone out to talk to Mike, with breakfast almost on the table. Now I realize that he'd forgotten all about breakfast, but at the time, I was irritated and decided I'd eat mine hot alone if I had to. We later confirmed that he had, indeed, gone next door in his underwear and bare feet.
He showed back up just as I was sitting down to eat, and seemed pleasantly surprised to find breakfast ready. We ate and talked about what we would do with the day. He repeated that it was too cold to work in the yard. He asked me when he was working again. I told him Monday. He looked at the calendar and said, "No, I'm working tomorrow." "No, that was last week. Today in the 11th." "Oh. I'm not working again until Monday." "Right." A minute or two later, he got up and stood in front of the calendar. "What are you doing?" "Checking to see when I'm working again." SIGH! Men never listen!!
I told him to take a shower and get dressed. He asked what we were doing. I told him that we hadn't decided, and that we would decide after he'd taken a shower and dressed. He pulled the neck of his t-shirt up around his head and paraded around the kitchen in his "new hoodie." I laughed, and then told him again to go take a shower. He went down to his bathroom, then came back and said, "Look at my new hoodie." I laughed, less loudly, and said he was funny, now go take a shower. He asked what we were doing that day. I told him we would decide after he'd taken a shower and got dressed. He wandered out of the kitchen, toward his bathroom. I continued to read the paper. He came back in, still with the t-shirt over his head, and said, "Look at me." I ignored him. He repeated, "Look at me. . . You're not looking at me and I'm doing something funny." I told him that I had looked at him, and it was time to to cut it out with the silly game . He asked "What game?" We went back and forth, with me getting more irritated by the minute and him insisting that he did not know what I was talking about. I threatened to go to my office if he didn't stop.
He finally got in the shower. When he got out, he dried off and pulled on his socks and underwear, and we discussed what we would do and decided to go for a tour of the YMCA. He called and asked if we needed an appointment, which we did not. I told him to get dressed so could go. He said, "Don't you think I should take a shower first? ", stripped, and headed for the shower. I shouted, "You already took one!" He asked, "Are you sure?" I said, "Yes. I'm sure. This is not funny." "What isn't?" Rolled eyes.
Finally headed over to the YMCA and spent a good 30-45 minutes touring the facility and getting information, then came back home. We decided to play a game of Scrabble on his Kindle Fire, then have lunch and decide what else to do. From my point of view, he pretended not to know how to use his Kindle. He asked again whether he was working that day. He kept saying that "These aren't very good letters" and then making 3 or 4 letter words. After 3 or 4 turns, he asked, "Aren't we going to do anything at all today?" I said, "You mean besides going to the YMCA?" He said, "Did we go to the YMCA? I don't remember."
"Get your shoes on. We're going." "Where?" "To Urgent Care." I suppose I should have taken him to the Emergency Room, but -- I don't know. I didn't really know what to do, and Urgent Care is just around the corner. I knew that, if he was playing some really annoying game, he wouldn't carry it that far.
We got to Urgent Care (which, coincidentally, is in YMCA Plaza, where we'd been just an hour before) and I told them that he couldn't remember anything that had happened that morning. They took him back immediately, and a physician's assistant and later the urgent care doctor both tested him for stroke symptoms. He had none, except that his blood pressure was around 183. They told me to take him to the Emergency Room, where he could be seen by a neurologist and have a CT scan. By now he was frightened. He kept saying, every 3 or 4 minutes, "I didn't expect to be here today."
We drove over to Our Lady of the Lake Emergency Room. I gave them the referral and they took him right back to an exam room. His b.p. was about 177. First the emergency room doctor (I think he was probably 15 years old) performed the same tests as the urgent care doctor, and asked me for details. Mike knew his name, where he was, and what day it was, but not the date or year. At some point, they brought in a mobile x-ray machine for a chest x-ray. And, of course, did the usual blood and urine samples. They took him for the CT scan, then we had to wait for the radiologist. The scan was normal, but they were going to admit him for observation over night -- partly because they still had no idea what was wrong with him, other than that it wasn't a stroke or TIA.
So then the hospitalist came, a slightly older teenager. She performed the same tests and, again, asked me for details. Mike told her, "We went for a tour of the . . . (looks at me, "YMCA") YMCA this morning. I have absolutely no memory of that. " 5 minutes later, he told her again. She asked, "Do you remember telling me that before?" He did not.
She left to call the neurologist, then returned to say that he said it sounded like "transient global amnesia." Mike told her about going to the YMCA. She asked if he remembered telling her before, which he didn't. She left to take care of the admittance papers. Of course, various technicians, nurses, and admitting personnel were coming and going the entire time, as well as other patients.
The neurologist arrived maybe 30 minutes later. He asked Mike what happened, and he told him about the YMCA. I provided additional details. He then performed various tests and definitively diagnosed "transient global amnesia." He explained that he saw about one case every month or so ; that it clears up within 24 hours and that it is unlikely to recur. However they would do an MRI just to be safe, but that Mike was already doing better. Mike said, "Yes." I said, "No. He just doesn't realize it." Mike then told him about the YMCA again. The doctor and I looked at each other. "He doesn't remember what he doesn't remember."
During the four hours we were waiting, our conversation was, "Well, I certainly didn't expect to be here today." "No, I didn't either." Lowered voice, "I think I might have had a mini-stroke." "Maybe. Let's wait and see what the doctors say." "So, do you think I'm going into hospital?" "Yes, they said they'll be admitting you." "Oh. I don't want to go to hospital. . . Will you bring me a care package?" "Yes." "I'll need my Kindle. And the charger. And the headphones. And a change of underpants. And some pajamas. And some socks." "Ok." Silence for 3 or 4 minutes. "Well, I certainly didn't expect to be here today." etc. After the neurologist gave his diagnosis, it also included, "Thank you for flying Transient Global Amnesia, the airline that . . . er . . . uh."
Finally, around 6:00, someone came to take him down for the MRI. From there, he would be admitted, so I gathered his stuff and went with him. We passed the cafeteria on our way to the lab. After they left us in the waiting area, he told me I should go to the cafeteria and get something to eat. I did a little happy dance, because clearly his memory was returning. I think it was the aroma of french fries that brought him around.
After the MRI, we were taken up to his room on the 4th floor. He was surprised to be given a private room, and agreed that there was no need for a care package. Not only was it already almost 7:30, he would be able to watch whatever he wanted on t.v.
He was released the next morning, almost reluctantly. It's not often that he gets to lie around in bed, watch television, and ordering his meals from room service. He's also asked if there's any way we can buy a set of the leg massagers they used overnight to prevent blood clots.
It was indeed, as Bette Davis promised, a bumpy ride, but we have landed safely and all is back to normal -- meaning he forgets things, but remembers that he's forgotten, and doesn't listen to me, but knows it.
I shall draw a veil over the next hour or so; let's just say that we did the sort of thing that married people do on a Saturday morning when they have no demands on their time. I didn't think much about it when he said he felt "disoriented" and asked how things went (as it were). I thought he was asking for a little ego stroking.
I showered and dressed and went out to fix breakfast. He was on Facebook or something, and said he wanted something "eggy" for breakfast. Settled on poached eggs on toast. While I was cooking, the cats came tearing through the flap and dashed down the hall. I looked out to see our neighbor, Mike Hemphill, going out his back gate and walking behind our fence to our neighbor on the other side, Mike Poccarello -- and yes, they are all named Mike.
Mike came into the kitchen wearing a t-shirt and boxer shorts. I mentioned the cats' behavior, and he seemed surprised to hear that Mike H. was back, even though he had told me that the day before. He watched me with the eggs for a minute or two, then saw Mike H. head back home. Next thing I knew, he'd gone out to talk to Mike, with breakfast almost on the table. Now I realize that he'd forgotten all about breakfast, but at the time, I was irritated and decided I'd eat mine hot alone if I had to. We later confirmed that he had, indeed, gone next door in his underwear and bare feet.
He showed back up just as I was sitting down to eat, and seemed pleasantly surprised to find breakfast ready. We ate and talked about what we would do with the day. He repeated that it was too cold to work in the yard. He asked me when he was working again. I told him Monday. He looked at the calendar and said, "No, I'm working tomorrow." "No, that was last week. Today in the 11th." "Oh. I'm not working again until Monday." "Right." A minute or two later, he got up and stood in front of the calendar. "What are you doing?" "Checking to see when I'm working again." SIGH! Men never listen!!
I told him to take a shower and get dressed. He asked what we were doing. I told him that we hadn't decided, and that we would decide after he'd taken a shower and dressed. He pulled the neck of his t-shirt up around his head and paraded around the kitchen in his "new hoodie." I laughed, and then told him again to go take a shower. He went down to his bathroom, then came back and said, "Look at my new hoodie." I laughed, less loudly, and said he was funny, now go take a shower. He asked what we were doing that day. I told him we would decide after he'd taken a shower and got dressed. He wandered out of the kitchen, toward his bathroom. I continued to read the paper. He came back in, still with the t-shirt over his head, and said, "Look at me." I ignored him. He repeated, "Look at me. . . You're not looking at me and I'm doing something funny." I told him that I had looked at him, and it was time to to cut it out with the silly game . He asked "What game?" We went back and forth, with me getting more irritated by the minute and him insisting that he did not know what I was talking about. I threatened to go to my office if he didn't stop.
He finally got in the shower. When he got out, he dried off and pulled on his socks and underwear, and we discussed what we would do and decided to go for a tour of the YMCA. He called and asked if we needed an appointment, which we did not. I told him to get dressed so could go. He said, "Don't you think I should take a shower first? ", stripped, and headed for the shower. I shouted, "You already took one!" He asked, "Are you sure?" I said, "Yes. I'm sure. This is not funny." "What isn't?" Rolled eyes.
Finally headed over to the YMCA and spent a good 30-45 minutes touring the facility and getting information, then came back home. We decided to play a game of Scrabble on his Kindle Fire, then have lunch and decide what else to do. From my point of view, he pretended not to know how to use his Kindle. He asked again whether he was working that day. He kept saying that "These aren't very good letters" and then making 3 or 4 letter words. After 3 or 4 turns, he asked, "Aren't we going to do anything at all today?" I said, "You mean besides going to the YMCA?" He said, "Did we go to the YMCA? I don't remember."
"Get your shoes on. We're going." "Where?" "To Urgent Care." I suppose I should have taken him to the Emergency Room, but -- I don't know. I didn't really know what to do, and Urgent Care is just around the corner. I knew that, if he was playing some really annoying game, he wouldn't carry it that far.
We got to Urgent Care (which, coincidentally, is in YMCA Plaza, where we'd been just an hour before) and I told them that he couldn't remember anything that had happened that morning. They took him back immediately, and a physician's assistant and later the urgent care doctor both tested him for stroke symptoms. He had none, except that his blood pressure was around 183. They told me to take him to the Emergency Room, where he could be seen by a neurologist and have a CT scan. By now he was frightened. He kept saying, every 3 or 4 minutes, "I didn't expect to be here today."
We drove over to Our Lady of the Lake Emergency Room. I gave them the referral and they took him right back to an exam room. His b.p. was about 177. First the emergency room doctor (I think he was probably 15 years old) performed the same tests as the urgent care doctor, and asked me for details. Mike knew his name, where he was, and what day it was, but not the date or year. At some point, they brought in a mobile x-ray machine for a chest x-ray. And, of course, did the usual blood and urine samples. They took him for the CT scan, then we had to wait for the radiologist. The scan was normal, but they were going to admit him for observation over night -- partly because they still had no idea what was wrong with him, other than that it wasn't a stroke or TIA.
So then the hospitalist came, a slightly older teenager. She performed the same tests and, again, asked me for details. Mike told her, "We went for a tour of the . . . (looks at me, "YMCA") YMCA this morning. I have absolutely no memory of that. " 5 minutes later, he told her again. She asked, "Do you remember telling me that before?" He did not.
She left to call the neurologist, then returned to say that he said it sounded like "transient global amnesia." Mike told her about going to the YMCA. She asked if he remembered telling her before, which he didn't. She left to take care of the admittance papers. Of course, various technicians, nurses, and admitting personnel were coming and going the entire time, as well as other patients.
The neurologist arrived maybe 30 minutes later. He asked Mike what happened, and he told him about the YMCA. I provided additional details. He then performed various tests and definitively diagnosed "transient global amnesia." He explained that he saw about one case every month or so ; that it clears up within 24 hours and that it is unlikely to recur. However they would do an MRI just to be safe, but that Mike was already doing better. Mike said, "Yes." I said, "No. He just doesn't realize it." Mike then told him about the YMCA again. The doctor and I looked at each other. "He doesn't remember what he doesn't remember."
During the four hours we were waiting, our conversation was, "Well, I certainly didn't expect to be here today." "No, I didn't either." Lowered voice, "I think I might have had a mini-stroke." "Maybe. Let's wait and see what the doctors say." "So, do you think I'm going into hospital?" "Yes, they said they'll be admitting you." "Oh. I don't want to go to hospital. . . Will you bring me a care package?" "Yes." "I'll need my Kindle. And the charger. And the headphones. And a change of underpants. And some pajamas. And some socks." "Ok." Silence for 3 or 4 minutes. "Well, I certainly didn't expect to be here today." etc. After the neurologist gave his diagnosis, it also included, "Thank you for flying Transient Global Amnesia, the airline that . . . er . . . uh."
Finally, around 6:00, someone came to take him down for the MRI. From there, he would be admitted, so I gathered his stuff and went with him. We passed the cafeteria on our way to the lab. After they left us in the waiting area, he told me I should go to the cafeteria and get something to eat. I did a little happy dance, because clearly his memory was returning. I think it was the aroma of french fries that brought him around.
After the MRI, we were taken up to his room on the 4th floor. He was surprised to be given a private room, and agreed that there was no need for a care package. Not only was it already almost 7:30, he would be able to watch whatever he wanted on t.v.
He was released the next morning, almost reluctantly. It's not often that he gets to lie around in bed, watch television, and ordering his meals from room service. He's also asked if there's any way we can buy a set of the leg massagers they used overnight to prevent blood clots.
It was indeed, as Bette Davis promised, a bumpy ride, but we have landed safely and all is back to normal -- meaning he forgets things, but remembers that he's forgotten, and doesn't listen to me, but knows it.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Return to Dark Shadows
So, this week, I discovered that Netflix is offering the 3 seasons of the original "Dark Shadows" on streaming video. Finally, the chance to return to the very beginning and learn the entire history of Barnabas and Quentin and Daphne! The first mystery, however, is who is Victoria Winters and why is she introducing every episode? Turns out that what Netflix is offering on streaming is the 1967 season, when Barnabas is introduced.. The first season (209 episodes) is only available on DVD, as are the remaining 3 seasons. They've cleverly split each season up into "collections" of 40 episodes each, making it appear that there are 4 seasons available for streaming. The six discs of season one have been added to the queue, although I may continue watching online until they start arriving.
The second mystery is not why it lasted 5 seasons, but why it lasted 5 episodes -- and I say this as someone who has been watching the second season, when presumably the bugs had been worked out. Were our standards really that much lower 45 years ago? Only about half of the 21 minutes of each episode actually advance the plot. The rest is repetition of the last few minutes of the previous episode and tedious detail that is nothing more than padding intended to stretch the story over the week's five episodes. I remember that I learned as a teen that watching it on Friday really was sufficient. That's pretty much par for the course with soaps, I think.
The shadows are indeed dark, as is the rest of the set. To say nothing of cramped and claustrophobic, and all too obviously a studio set -- a very small studio set. I laughed out loud when characters searching a cemetery have to shine a flashlight to see a body on the ground no more than 10 feet away from them. They cover the distance in two or three steps.
Someone forgets their lines in every episode, even those troopers Joan Bennett and Dennis Patrick. Barnabas Collins claims to have been born and raised in England, but has an American (or is it Canadian?) accent and no one notices, let alone questions it. Sam Evans works for hours on his portrait of Barnabas Collins, yet accomplishes nothing. It looks exactly the same as it did when he arrived. On the other hand, it completes itself before his next visit, so perhaps Sam is literally a "magical" painter.
And now you're asking, if it's so bad, why have I added the first season to our queue, and why will I continue to watch it online? Nostalgia, certainly. I rushed home from junior high school to watch it (and Star Trek, of course) every day, and Dori gave me a glow-in-the-dark Barnabas Collins figure kit (that was as much action as we got from figures in those days); I have no idea what happened to it. I'll bet it would be worth a tidy sum on eBay today. Curiosity about all of the episodes that I did not see as a teen. As I recall, I came into it somewhere in the 5th season with the Daphne story, which might have been Kate Jackson's first television role and was also the inspiration for my hair style of those days -- and the reason that I watched "Charlie's Angels." It's wonderfully, naturally campy.
And where else can you find vampires, ghosts, werewolves, zombies, monsters,witches, time travel and a parallel universe, all taking place in a small town on the coast of Maine? Who knew that the New Englanders were such an active bunch, when not farming or hosting clam bakes on the beach?
The second mystery is not why it lasted 5 seasons, but why it lasted 5 episodes -- and I say this as someone who has been watching the second season, when presumably the bugs had been worked out. Were our standards really that much lower 45 years ago? Only about half of the 21 minutes of each episode actually advance the plot. The rest is repetition of the last few minutes of the previous episode and tedious detail that is nothing more than padding intended to stretch the story over the week's five episodes. I remember that I learned as a teen that watching it on Friday really was sufficient. That's pretty much par for the course with soaps, I think.
The shadows are indeed dark, as is the rest of the set. To say nothing of cramped and claustrophobic, and all too obviously a studio set -- a very small studio set. I laughed out loud when characters searching a cemetery have to shine a flashlight to see a body on the ground no more than 10 feet away from them. They cover the distance in two or three steps.
Someone forgets their lines in every episode, even those troopers Joan Bennett and Dennis Patrick. Barnabas Collins claims to have been born and raised in England, but has an American (or is it Canadian?) accent and no one notices, let alone questions it. Sam Evans works for hours on his portrait of Barnabas Collins, yet accomplishes nothing. It looks exactly the same as it did when he arrived. On the other hand, it completes itself before his next visit, so perhaps Sam is literally a "magical" painter.
And now you're asking, if it's so bad, why have I added the first season to our queue, and why will I continue to watch it online? Nostalgia, certainly. I rushed home from junior high school to watch it (and Star Trek, of course) every day, and Dori gave me a glow-in-the-dark Barnabas Collins figure kit (that was as much action as we got from figures in those days); I have no idea what happened to it. I'll bet it would be worth a tidy sum on eBay today. Curiosity about all of the episodes that I did not see as a teen. As I recall, I came into it somewhere in the 5th season with the Daphne story, which might have been Kate Jackson's first television role and was also the inspiration for my hair style of those days -- and the reason that I watched "Charlie's Angels." It's wonderfully, naturally campy.
And where else can you find vampires, ghosts, werewolves, zombies, monsters,witches, time travel and a parallel universe, all taking place in a small town on the coast of Maine? Who knew that the New Englanders were such an active bunch, when not farming or hosting clam bakes on the beach?
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Succumbing to the lure
Last night, Mike wanted a steak, so we visited our local Texas Roadhouse, where we succumbed to the lure of the Baby Blossom. We liked it so much that we adopted it and brought it home with us. According to the menu, it serves two, and it truly could easily have served as our main dish! So now 2/3s of it resides in our refrigerator to be heated in the oven and polished off later today, maybe tonight while we're watching re-runs of "Lost in Space" and "Star Trek" on METV. A situation I always find somewhat ironic, as they were on rival networks back in the late 60s when they first aired (and first aired in re-runs) and were on at the same time. My brother was a "Lost in Space" fan -- I found it stupid then and stupid now; Dr. Smith is more annoying now, as impossible as that seems, and the robot is no longer particularly funny -- and I was a true believer in "Star Trek." My mother's "compromise solution" was for us to watch the first half of "Lost in Space" and then switch channels to watch the last half of "Star Trek." The result is that, even though I know that it's an hour-long show, I still think of "Lost in Space" as lasting only half an hour, and, despite having watched them numerous times over the years, don't always recognize "Star Trek" episodes from the intros. The second half of "Lost in Space" is no better than the first, either.
The Robinson family would be the subject of many an Internet campaign if the show were aired for the first time today. Horribly, horribly irresponsible parents who allow a known terrorist to openly consort with their children. The lack of oxygen during the flight clearly has damaged the brains of all of the so-called adults, except Don, of course. His good looks spared him. Why isn't Dr. Smith locked up? Why is he allowed to interact with the children without supervision? How many times will he sabotage their food, water, propulsion units, etc., with impunity? But, honestly, are we expected to believe that he is so incredibly stupid that he does not realize that if he takes a bath in all of their drinking water, he, too, will be left parched and dessicated on the desert floor?
Give me Captain Kirk and the intrepid crew of the Enterprise, even in their most vile third-season episode! Speaking of which, how utterly cool is it to be one of only 865,458 fans of George Takei's Facebook page, with no degrees of separation, and receive daily posts? Who knew he had such a wonderfully low sense of humor?
The Robinson family would be the subject of many an Internet campaign if the show were aired for the first time today. Horribly, horribly irresponsible parents who allow a known terrorist to openly consort with their children. The lack of oxygen during the flight clearly has damaged the brains of all of the so-called adults, except Don, of course. His good looks spared him. Why isn't Dr. Smith locked up? Why is he allowed to interact with the children without supervision? How many times will he sabotage their food, water, propulsion units, etc., with impunity? But, honestly, are we expected to believe that he is so incredibly stupid that he does not realize that if he takes a bath in all of their drinking water, he, too, will be left parched and dessicated on the desert floor?
Give me Captain Kirk and the intrepid crew of the Enterprise, even in their most vile third-season episode! Speaking of which, how utterly cool is it to be one of only 865,458 fans of George Takei's Facebook page, with no degrees of separation, and receive daily posts? Who knew he had such a wonderfully low sense of humor?
Thursday, April 21, 2011
On GPS devices and not killing us both at the PCA conference
I first attended a PCA/ACA national conference two years ago when it was in New Orleans primarily because it was in New Orleans, I had a paper that I could tweak to fit the Library, Archives, and Museums group, and I needed another conference presentation for my c.v. Karen Gracy was also presenting, so I could also relive my single, student days.
It turned out to be an academic fan convention! Sci-fi, fantasy, comic book, film, television, popular fiction of all ages . . . I swore I would attend again.
And here I am, but only by the grace of God and other drivers. The drive out here was completely uneventful, until we reached San Antonio. By then, I'd been driving for 8 hours, it was rush hour, and the idiot GPS began giving asinine directions. First, she tells me to take the ramp toward some street "South." Ok, it splits into a South and North. She says South, I get in that lane. Then she says, "Take ramp for Street South and stay Right." Well, hell, that's Street North, not Street South. I veer over to that triangular bit between the two, that's striped with yellow lines, turn on my signal, quickly check the traffic, and see that I can just get in. I do -- but the unmentionable thing driving the silver luxury car behind me decides to prove that no one can pull in front of her, so speeds by us on the rapidly disappearing shoulder. Mike starts to panic.
Then next exit, then she tells me to "Take the ramp to I35" or whatever. I manage to squeeze into the line of cars stopped at the light, head up onto the ramp as I hear her say, "Take the ramp to I35 then turn right on . . ." I realize too late that I should probably have turned right at the light, not taken the ramp.
This is where it gets really fun. Darlene is screaming at me in point something miles to take the exit on the left. I'm frantically trying to cross literally 4 lanes of traffic to get to that exit -- I can see it, so it's not far! I don't know how I wasn't hit, except that the other drivers managed not to hit me. They are still cursing that idiot driver from Louisiana who had no clue where she was going or what she was doing.
This is why I prefer maps. I study a map. I get the route in my head. I know that, when I exit, I stay right and then turn right at the light.
Mike wonders if we should use the GPS when we leave. I'll use her -- but I'll check Mapquest first.
It turned out to be an academic fan convention! Sci-fi, fantasy, comic book, film, television, popular fiction of all ages . . . I swore I would attend again.
And here I am, but only by the grace of God and other drivers. The drive out here was completely uneventful, until we reached San Antonio. By then, I'd been driving for 8 hours, it was rush hour, and the idiot GPS began giving asinine directions. First, she tells me to take the ramp toward some street "South." Ok, it splits into a South and North. She says South, I get in that lane. Then she says, "Take ramp for Street South and stay Right." Well, hell, that's Street North, not Street South. I veer over to that triangular bit between the two, that's striped with yellow lines, turn on my signal, quickly check the traffic, and see that I can just get in. I do -- but the unmentionable thing driving the silver luxury car behind me decides to prove that no one can pull in front of her, so speeds by us on the rapidly disappearing shoulder. Mike starts to panic.
Then next exit, then she tells me to "Take the ramp to I35" or whatever. I manage to squeeze into the line of cars stopped at the light, head up onto the ramp as I hear her say, "Take the ramp to I35 then turn right on . . ." I realize too late that I should probably have turned right at the light, not taken the ramp.
This is where it gets really fun. Darlene is screaming at me in point something miles to take the exit on the left. I'm frantically trying to cross literally 4 lanes of traffic to get to that exit -- I can see it, so it's not far! I don't know how I wasn't hit, except that the other drivers managed not to hit me. They are still cursing that idiot driver from Louisiana who had no clue where she was going or what she was doing.
This is why I prefer maps. I study a map. I get the route in my head. I know that, when I exit, I stay right and then turn right at the light.
Mike wonders if we should use the GPS when we leave. I'll use her -- but I'll check Mapquest first.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
And so we say farewell
to the little car that was my near-constant companion for 15 years. Oh, the places we went! Places that a Mazda Protege wasn't meant to go -- which is probably why I had to replace both front axles at various times. But, after 15 years, the transmission failed in its mission. Suddenly, with no warning. Well -- not much of a warning, anyway. A little sluggish to shift first thing in the morning, when it was cold. Not more than that, though.
Irritatingly, I had taken the car in for an oil change just three days before, and ended up spending $450 to fix an oil leak. They told me I could bring it back -- no rush -- but nooooooo, I had to say, "We might as well take car of it while we're here." In classic "life in the middle fashion," I am still trying to figure out away to go back in time and stop myself from making that bad decision. I blame it on Charlie Sheen. The television in the repair shop was on Fox, as always, and they were broadcasting non-stop coverage of Sheen's breakdown, and I was infected by it. That's got to be the reason.
Or perhaps go back and tell myself that I might as well wait until I got back from the conference in Lafayette. That was the next week. But, nope, I gave the go ahead on Tuesday, and Friday morning, no more shifting. Revving up to 6,000 RPM, but no shifting. Had it towed into the shop on Monday, got the call a few hours later. Bit the bullet. Sold it to a salvage yard for $100. Hey -- it was 15 years old. No one cares what kind of shape the engine and body and interior are in -- the transmission repair was more than twice what it was worth. No one was going to buy it or take it in trade, if I could get it there. The salvage yard picked it up at the repair shop.
I called the credit union and got approved for a loan, and started reading through Consumer Reports. The April issue had arrived maybe the week before. Made a list of possible models and years.
Headed off to Lafayette on Wednesday with LaToya, returned on Friday afternoon. She kindly took me to the salvage yard on the way home to give them the title. They were astounded at the condition of the body and interior. The kid they sent out to get the registration from the glove box started it up; when he finally got back, he commented on the state of the engine. We both saw the gleam in the kid's eye and wonder how long it will be before he has rebuilt the transmission and has it back on the road. I'd like to think that it will have another life rather than be stripped of parts . . . must not anthropomorphize!!
Mike and our neighbor Mike (it's the only male name allowed in Louisiana) had spent the day cruising around in his Mustang convertible looking at used cars at Toyota and Honda dealers. We were thinking Prius and 54 mpg. Price LeBlanc had a 2011 RAV4 with 2958 miles on it. It was the dealer loaner, just on the lot that day.
We were there Saturday morning at 8:30. Drove it. Bought it. Just like that. And they threw in 2 packs of country smoked sausage. Probably shouldn't have bought the extended warranty, but -- 7 years bumper-to-bumper was hard to resist when you're looking at a $20000+ loan for 5 years. They know it, of course. They know that the little imp is whispering in your ear, "At least you'll be under warranty until it's paid for." It's whispering more loudly than the one that says, "It's a new Toyota! It had better be good for more than 5 years!! And if they didn't make money off of that warranty, they wouldn't sell it." What I wish I'd done was tell him to drop the selling price by $1,000 and I'd buy the warranty. Next time, I will.
But, really, a new car for a used car price?! How often does that happen?
I'm getting used to it now, after a month. I no longer feel as if I'm driving someone else's car, but part of me still sees myself as a green 1995 Mazda Protege.
Irritatingly, I had taken the car in for an oil change just three days before, and ended up spending $450 to fix an oil leak. They told me I could bring it back -- no rush -- but nooooooo, I had to say, "We might as well take car of it while we're here." In classic "life in the middle fashion," I am still trying to figure out away to go back in time and stop myself from making that bad decision. I blame it on Charlie Sheen. The television in the repair shop was on Fox, as always, and they were broadcasting non-stop coverage of Sheen's breakdown, and I was infected by it. That's got to be the reason.
Or perhaps go back and tell myself that I might as well wait until I got back from the conference in Lafayette. That was the next week. But, nope, I gave the go ahead on Tuesday, and Friday morning, no more shifting. Revving up to 6,000 RPM, but no shifting. Had it towed into the shop on Monday, got the call a few hours later. Bit the bullet. Sold it to a salvage yard for $100. Hey -- it was 15 years old. No one cares what kind of shape the engine and body and interior are in -- the transmission repair was more than twice what it was worth. No one was going to buy it or take it in trade, if I could get it there. The salvage yard picked it up at the repair shop.
I called the credit union and got approved for a loan, and started reading through Consumer Reports. The April issue had arrived maybe the week before. Made a list of possible models and years.
Headed off to Lafayette on Wednesday with LaToya, returned on Friday afternoon. She kindly took me to the salvage yard on the way home to give them the title. They were astounded at the condition of the body and interior. The kid they sent out to get the registration from the glove box started it up; when he finally got back, he commented on the state of the engine. We both saw the gleam in the kid's eye and wonder how long it will be before he has rebuilt the transmission and has it back on the road. I'd like to think that it will have another life rather than be stripped of parts . . . must not anthropomorphize!!
Mike and our neighbor Mike (it's the only male name allowed in Louisiana) had spent the day cruising around in his Mustang convertible looking at used cars at Toyota and Honda dealers. We were thinking Prius and 54 mpg. Price LeBlanc had a 2011 RAV4 with 2958 miles on it. It was the dealer loaner, just on the lot that day.
We were there Saturday morning at 8:30. Drove it. Bought it. Just like that. And they threw in 2 packs of country smoked sausage. Probably shouldn't have bought the extended warranty, but -- 7 years bumper-to-bumper was hard to resist when you're looking at a $20000+ loan for 5 years. They know it, of course. They know that the little imp is whispering in your ear, "At least you'll be under warranty until it's paid for." It's whispering more loudly than the one that says, "It's a new Toyota! It had better be good for more than 5 years!! And if they didn't make money off of that warranty, they wouldn't sell it." What I wish I'd done was tell him to drop the selling price by $1,000 and I'd buy the warranty. Next time, I will.
But, really, a new car for a used car price?! How often does that happen?
I'm getting used to it now, after a month. I no longer feel as if I'm driving someone else's car, but part of me still sees myself as a green 1995 Mazda Protege.
Monday, January 10, 2011
2010 in Review
In January, Mike became an unconditional permanent resident of the United States. Next step – citizenship, just as soon as he can memorize the words to all four verses of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
April found us in Las Vegas for Spring Break. Although Vegas continues to reinvent itself, and many of the old Rat Pack stomping grounds have been demolished, we were able to toast them in Caesar’s Palace and visit the Bugsy Siegel memorial at the current incarnation of the Flamingo – and we rode the monorail to get there! As I say, Vegas keeps changing. We made also brief forays to Red Rock Canyon and Valley of Fire, which have not changed.
Over the summer, Mike continued his career as a lab rat for the Pennington Biomedical Research Institute here, with a stint as a research subject in a 14-week study testing a new weight loss drug (indications are that he got the placebo). It included a 2 and ½ week stay at the Institute and a later one of 3 days, during which he was not allowed to do anything but read, watch t.v. or movies, eat, and sleep (it’s a cat’s life!), and weekly visits. No alcohol or caffeine from the week before the study through to the end. He endured it like a trooper, and was rewarded with $4500. He got the HD video camera he’s been coveting, and the house got sorely needed new windows – and we’ll get a tax credit.
We played host to two lovely women from Australia in August. Denise and Nivette, friends of Mike’s sister, Judy, were on a month-long driving tour of the U.S. They rented a car in Los Angeles, and drove to Memphis and Graceland, then dropped down to Baton Rouge for a few days, then to New Orleans and back to L.A. via Las Vegas.
They were so enthusiastic on their return to Australia that Judy decided to see what all the fuss was about. She arrived in Baton Rouge just in time for Halloween and Mike’s birthday, and stayed through Thanksgiving. We thoroughly enjoyed her visit, and hope that she felt the same.
In October, I began my apprenticeship as a volunteer open hearth cook at the Rural Life Museum’s Harvest Days and continued with a Rural Life Christmas in December. I also told ghost stories at the Museum’s Haints, Haunts & Halloween celebration. The best part is that I get to do it dressed in 19th century working-class garb, including mob cap and apron!
We ended the year with a long-planned train trip to the Big Bend National Park and area in Texas. Film buffs that we are, we stayed a night at the Hotel Paisano in Marfa, location for the movie “Giant,” then a night in the ghost town of Terlingua, and 3 days and 2 nights in Big Bend itself, and were home again on New Year’s Eve. Find photos, videos, and more detail on our blog, S & M on the Road.
April found us in Las Vegas for Spring Break. Although Vegas continues to reinvent itself, and many of the old Rat Pack stomping grounds have been demolished, we were able to toast them in Caesar’s Palace and visit the Bugsy Siegel memorial at the current incarnation of the Flamingo – and we rode the monorail to get there! As I say, Vegas keeps changing. We made also brief forays to Red Rock Canyon and Valley of Fire, which have not changed.
Over the summer, Mike continued his career as a lab rat for the Pennington Biomedical Research Institute here, with a stint as a research subject in a 14-week study testing a new weight loss drug (indications are that he got the placebo). It included a 2 and ½ week stay at the Institute and a later one of 3 days, during which he was not allowed to do anything but read, watch t.v. or movies, eat, and sleep (it’s a cat’s life!), and weekly visits. No alcohol or caffeine from the week before the study through to the end. He endured it like a trooper, and was rewarded with $4500. He got the HD video camera he’s been coveting, and the house got sorely needed new windows – and we’ll get a tax credit.
We played host to two lovely women from Australia in August. Denise and Nivette, friends of Mike’s sister, Judy, were on a month-long driving tour of the U.S. They rented a car in Los Angeles, and drove to Memphis and Graceland, then dropped down to Baton Rouge for a few days, then to New Orleans and back to L.A. via Las Vegas.
They were so enthusiastic on their return to Australia that Judy decided to see what all the fuss was about. She arrived in Baton Rouge just in time for Halloween and Mike’s birthday, and stayed through Thanksgiving. We thoroughly enjoyed her visit, and hope that she felt the same.
In October, I began my apprenticeship as a volunteer open hearth cook at the Rural Life Museum’s Harvest Days and continued with a Rural Life Christmas in December. I also told ghost stories at the Museum’s Haints, Haunts & Halloween celebration. The best part is that I get to do it dressed in 19th century working-class garb, including mob cap and apron!
We ended the year with a long-planned train trip to the Big Bend National Park and area in Texas. Film buffs that we are, we stayed a night at the Hotel Paisano in Marfa, location for the movie “Giant,” then a night in the ghost town of Terlingua, and 3 days and 2 nights in Big Bend itself, and were home again on New Year’s Eve. Find photos, videos, and more detail on our blog, S & M on the Road.
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