The Blog Post That May Make Me The Butt of Your Jokes.
For the last 10 days, there has been something wrong with me. I have been slightly more irritable than usual. I've been twitchy at work. I've gone through long spells when my mind appears to be in a very different place.
Today, I believe I've discovered the problem.
I may be bleeding out of my anus.
Now, this is probably not the type of thing you've come to this blog to read, and perhaps you'll be inclined to click away, to read about my mother or my experience with Kosher-approved pornographic advertising. I'll understand.
I'll admit that this diagnosis hasn't been doctor-confirmed. (1) But I'm still confident in it, partially because I can't imagine many people have spent as much time thinking about their own ass as I have.
Some kids spent their childhoods looking up at the sky and guessing what each cloud resembled. My mother has stories of me, a two-year-old who'd come out of the bathroom describing in great detail what I'd just produced.
In fourth grade, when a family friend was asked what he was thankful for, he replied, "The toilet." I just nodded in agreement.
At Hannukah, my siblings and I all hoped that mom and dad would gift us the latest edition of "Uncle John's Bathroom Reader." Dave Barry's columns, where I studied the Wall Street Journal's middle column and where I occasionally penned verse. (3)
You get the idea.
Things get murky (4) about three weeks ago, when I started to feel an odd twinge in my right shoulder. I went to the doctor. His verdict: a pinched nerve in my neck. He told me to take two-a-day of some pill that had more Xs in it than I cared for.
That night, after popping the first of the pills, I felt something where I didn't want to. Let's call it an unwanted tingle.
I blamed it on the chicken fried steak I'd eaten at lunch.
But the tingle was still there on the second day. On the third, I started to feel that something was seriously wrong. I looked, of course, to my stool. (5)
By week's end, I was really worried. I was twitchy at work. I was tingly when I didn't want to be -- and where I didn't want to be.
On day seven, I had to drop my laptop off at the store for some repairs -- a note that would seem unrelated, except that afterward, I had a sudden urge to check WebMD for advice on my condition. I went to the public library to check my email, read the terms of agreement and decided that Googling anything beginning with the word "anal" might get me banned from all city buildings for the next year.
Finally, I got the laptop back. I checked first to make sure everything was in working order with my Mac -- at least everything's okay on this end, I told myself -- and clicked toward my internal diagnostic confirmation.
Gastrointestinal problems? Check. Dermatological discomfort? Check. Special sensations? That might be one way to put it. Never had such an unspeakable tingle sounded more obscurer.
I walked over to the bathroom, where I'd left the bottle of pills on the counter. I felt up my shoulder, and I thought about my other twinge. Suddenly, the pain up top was tolerable.
The symptoms are now starting to subside, but the tingle was still there today. Also worth noting: I haven't exactly figured out a way to casually mention my temporary condition at the office. It hasn't been easy keeping my mind off of it, either.
In a chat with my boss this afternoon, I started to drift off. My boss asked if I was listening. I assured her that I was.
"I just can't tell what you're thinking about right now," she said.
I squirmed a little in my seat, and I started to assure her that I had only two things on my mind. (6)
Then I decided that I probably shouldn't think too much about any number two.
- Though, you'll admit, 'slight anal leakage' isn't exactly a tough one to figure out. ↩
- We've collected just about every one of his volumes. ↩
- Poo-etry, perhaps? ↩
- Yes, there's still time to bail on this blog post yet. ↩
- A technique, I learned, of course, via the musical episode of 'Scrubs.' ↩
- I actually meant this new Twitter project and a meeting I had later in the day. ↩
Wait, You People Still Speak to Each Other?
I haven't been home to D.C. since I left for south Texas just over seven months ago. I keep up with some home friends via phone, and I caught up with a few earlier this month out in L.A. But for a good chunk of news and gossip from home, I rely on an email listserv that circulates amongst the guys from home.
So when I found out today that someone who we all went to elementary school with was joining an American football team in Spain, it seemed implausible. At work, I run three different Twitter clients at all times. I have a cell phone, a landline, a Google Voice number, an actively updating Facebook news feed and at least three email accounts. How the hell had I not heard about this already? (1)
Usually, when anything semi-important happens involving someone at home -- say, two kids from my high school getting their Cal Tech-certified game theory paper on waiting for the bus published in the New York Times Magazine -- I know about it. But this one had eluded the listserv, apparently.
I emailed into the group to see what the word was. A response came back: "not true, i -- and i thought others -- knew about this like a week ago if not more?"
A week? Three constantly updating Twitter feeds -- and I was behind by a week?
I searched my Gmail account. No word of any Spanish football league teams. I emailed my friend back: Was there some alternate, super-secret listserv circulating?
Then the response came:
"The secret listserv you refer to is in fact the technologically archaic word-of-mouth."
Oh.
Post-script: Since this post was published, everyone from home has been piling on. "I would like to amend your latest blog update," wrote one friend. "You were behind at least a month. I knew about Carl in December at least."
Another, studying abroad: "even i knew and i am in a third world country living in a rice village."
And worst of all, from my mother: "Actually, I knew that."
- And as someone who considers himself a legitimate sports fan -- and someone who spent half of 2008 living in Spain -- how was I unaware that Spain had an American football league? ↩
The Day I Accidentally Rooted for Kansas.
I want to take it back.
I cannot un-know what I know. I cannot reverse time. I cannot deny what has happened.
But I cannot imagine going on knowing that one day, fourteen years ago, I may have accidentally rooted for Kansas.
¶¶
My dad used to do a bit of work with the D.C.-area Boys and Girls Club, which was affiliated with the D.C. police, which was the reason why dad always ended up as the policeman in my elementary school's annual Sock Hop production of the "YMCA." But it's also the reason why we ended up at a fundraiser for the Boys and Girls Club, this one put on by the Washington Redskins.
The MC that night was Chris Berman. He did a couple "back back back" jokes, the DJ played "Hail to the Redskins," and then Berman tossed it to the live auction.
One of the items was a trip to Kansas City to see the Redskins play. I do not know why -- I was only 7 at the time, and I'd never been to Missouri before -- but I asked my dad if I could bid on it. He said yes.
He thought I'd bid once or twice and get out of it.
I wanted to win.
The ballroom must've held a thousand people, maybe more, so it's understandable why the auctioneer didn't initially notice my arm shooting into the air. But around $300, my Uncle Sol caught his eye and gave him a wave in my direction.
"$300," he said, and pointed at me.
This being my first live auction, I was unfamiliar with the bidding process. I didn't notice other people taking their hands down after bidding. So even after the auctioneer pointed at me, I kept my arm up. He looked elsewhere. Someone bid $350. He looked back at me.
"$400," he said.
My arm stayed in the air.
It went on like this for a few more rounds. Dad told me to stop bidding; my hand stayed in the air. But by then, it was too late. It was down to just me and one other contender.
I bid, and the auctioneer looked at the other bidder. He was consulting with his wife. How much was too much to spend on a mid-November trip to Kansas City? he was surely asking. She gave him a look. His arm stayed by his side.
"Going once," the auctioneer said. His eyes swept the room. He caught my eye. My hand was still in the air.
"You can't bid against yourself," he said. The entire room laughed.
When the room quieted, he asked for a second time, and then a third, but the other bidder didn't match.
¶¶
When you're seven, it's only the weird things that stick out. Going to Kansas City, I remember we flew Midwest Express out of the old terminal at National Airport, and I remember that the stewardesses gave us real silverware to eat our in-flight meal with. I remember that we stopped in Milwaukee, and that dad wanted to buy me a Green Bay Packers cheese head. (I wasn't interested.) I remember going to a barbecue place in Kansas City, where they used paint brushes to slather sauce on their brisket sandwiches, and where the food was wrapped in the Sunday edition of the Kansas City Star. (The barbecue place turned out to be the legendary Arthur Bryant's.) I remember the omelete bar at the hotel, and I remember regretting having gone through six or seven eggs at breakfast before the flight back to D.C.
The game itself was less memorable. We had seats in the upper deck behind one of the benches. It was cold. The Redskins lost, and I remember Brian Mitchell dropping a pass in the end zone on a 4th down. The box score doesn't provide much help: the Redskins ran through Gus Frerotte and Heath Shuler at QB that day. It didn't matter. They lost, 24-3.
But it's this other memory that's started to bother me.
¶¶
Not having anything to do on a Saturday in Kansas City, my dad and I decided to drive out to Lawrence, Kan., to see a football game.
I'd long since forgotten the opponent, but I was thinking about the game yesterday, and I checked in with Google to see if it could offer any answers. I tracked down the date of the Redskins-Chiefs game, and then cross-checked it with the KU football schedule.
The day was Nov. 4, 1995, and I watched as the Kansas Jayhawks beat the Missouri Tigers, 42-23. That's what the box score says, but I don't remember it. My memories from that day are hollow: a long, flat stretch of highway out to Lawrence; a half-empty stadium; and something about a giant drum. I can't know for sure, but I'd guess that my dad and I cheered for Kansas that day.
What I didn't know is that a decade later, I'd be enrolling at the University of Missouri.
¶¶
It's weird, now, but I feel almost wronged by the memory. There is the Chase Daniel cover of Sports Illustrated hanging next to my bed. There is a Brad Smith jersey hanging in the closet. There is a copy of the Mizzou alumni magazine on the coffee table.
And then there is this memory, of a chilly fall day, of a horseshoe stadium, of a rivalry game that I didn't fully understand.
A decade later, I'd fall in love with one of those teams. I'd plan my Saturdays around their Saturdays, and their glory would become my glory.
But on Nov. 4, 1995, I'm afraid that I rooted for the wrong one.
I wish I'd known then. I wish I didn't know now.
More Proof That I Am, in Fact, an Idiot.
I am an idiot.
I'm 22 years old and blissfully unaware of the world around me. Blissfully unaware, I'd venture, is one step closer to bliss than most people ever get.
But it's that bliss that, today, reminded me of how big an idiot I really am.
I had to go to Target this afternoon because there was a hot yoga class in town that I wanted to try, and to take the class, I needed to first purchase an official yoga mat. Such a mat is the consistency of an oversized Shamwow, except that it costs $20 and does nothing that a $3 towel wouldn't do when it's 95 degrees inside a yoga studio and your palms are too sweaty to grip much of anything. (1)
There was traffic on the way to Target, so I called a friend while I waited in traffic. I kept talking as I got to the store, parked the car, grabbed a hand cart and found the oversized Shamwow that would be my platform for future yoga futility. I started walking back toward the checkout line.
Somewhere during the walk, the idiot in me took over.
For the most part, I try not to be an asshole in public, and generally, I look upon other assholes with scorn. At the top of the list of assholes in public are People Who Talk On Their Cell Phones While Urinating. Just below that, on the list of assholes worthy of title case, are People Who Talk on Their Cell Phones in the Checkout Aisle.
I decided, mid-walk, that I did not want to enter that second category.
But instead of doing the rational thing -- explaining the situation to my friend, hanging up and calling back a few minutes later -- I just kept walking and talking.
I walked and talked over to the toiletries aisle and picked up some paper towels. I found the grocery aisle and eyed a pint of ice cream, though I eventually passed on any. I looped through to home furnishings and grabbed two scented candles, then back to sporting goods, and over to menswear. At some point, I found myself back in the grocery aisle and decided upon a single can of minestrone soup. My handcart was getting progressively heavier. My left arm was starting to sag. I kept talking.
During my fifth or sixth loop of menswear, I looked down the aisle toward the store's entrance and noticed that it was getting dark. I told my friend that I had to go and hung up. I saw the counter flashing on my phone. I'd been walking and talking for nearly 40 minutes, it said.
I walked over to the checkout aisles and found an empty lane. I put my things on the belt, and in a conscientious effort not to be one of those aforementioned assholes, I smiled at the cashier and said hello. She said nothing. She put my items in a bag and told me the price of my goods. A trip for a cheap yoga mat had turned into a full-on shopping spree, all in an effort to be polite to this cashier. I thanked her and wished her a nice day, and I actually kind of meant it. She didn't respond.
I grabbed my bags, and my left arm sagged again. I didn't feel like an asshole, which was a thought with about as much comfort as my $20 yoga mat. I only felt like an idiot.
Which is, to say, I only felt like myself.
- I also must report that my yoga class consisted of what I must assume were the five most flexible people in all of South Texas. The yoga teacher herself may have been born without joints, bones or the ability to sense the unstoppable pain in my lower back. I don't think she was a contortionist; I think she was a human balloon animal. ↩
The Little Things You Notice While Blogging.
Yesterday, in the process of writing about relativity, I went looking for a photo to lead off my blog post. So I opened up Apture -- the program that allows you to click on a link like this without leaving the page -- and searched the word "big" to see what came up.
Here's what I got:
In particular, I'd note the "Yahoo! Image Search results:
Yahoo!, indeed.
From the Archives
Via @danoshinsky
- Today's Mizzou first round loss was total karmic revenge for last year's upset-a-palooza Big 12 Tourney first round. Oy.
- I cannot believe that @allisonbennett saw a game at MSG before I did. My level of basketball-related jealously is uncontrollable.
- San Antonians are outraged about @JohnTEdge's NYT article suggesting that Austin is the home of breakfast tacos http://nyti.ms/9L8yKY
- WGN Radio's *alleged* new list of words you cannot say on air http://bit.ly/bolFSR
- The first of what should be many spectacular World Cup soccer ads http://bit.ly/bIlQyn
Recently on danoshinsky.com
- What Journalists Can Learn From Abraham Lincoln.
- A Porker’s Last Goodbye.
- The Blog Post That May Make Me The Butt of Your Jokes.
- When Voicemail Accidentally Serves as a Time Capsule.
- Wait, You People Still Speak to Each Other?
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